The Last Continent - Terry Pratchett [50]
“Ah, Bursar!” said the Dean heartily. “How would you like a brief trip around the lagoon?”
The Bursar looked at the soaking log and sought for words. Sometimes, when he really needed to, it was possible to get Mr. Brain and Mr. Mouth all lined up together.
“I had a boat once,” he said.
“Well done! And here’s another one, just for—”
“It was green.”
“Really? Well, we can—”
“I’ve found another green boat,” said the Bursar. “It’s floating in the water.”
“Yes, yes, I’m sure you have,” said Ridcully kindly. “A big boat with lots of sails, I expect. Now then, Dean—”
“Just one sail,” said the Bursar. “And a bare naked lady on the front.”
Hovering immanently, the god cursed. He’d never intended the figurehead. Sometimes, he really wanted to just break down and cry.
“Bare naked lady?” said the Dean.
“Settle down, Dean,” said the Senior Wrangler. “He’s probably just had too many dried frog pills.”
“It’s going up and down in the water,” said the Bursar. “Up and down, up and down.”
The Dean looked at their own creation. Contrary to all expectations, it did not go up and down in the water. It stayed exactly where it was and the water went up and down over it.
“This is an island,” he said. “I suppose someone could have sailed here, couldn’t they? What kind of bare naked lady? A dusky one?”
“Really, Dean!”
“Spirit of enquiry, Senior Wrangler. Important bio-geographical information.”
The Bursar waited until his brain came around again. “Green,” he volunteered.
“That is not a natural color for a human being, clothed or not,” said the Senior Wrangler.
“She might be seasick,” said the Dean. There was only the vaguest of wistful longings in his head, but he did not want to let go of it.
“Going up and down,” said the Bursar.
“I suppose we could have a look,” said the Dean.
“What about Mrs. Whitlow? She hasn’t been out of her hut yet.”
“She can come too if she likes,” said the Dean.
“I don’t think we can expect Mrs. Whitlow to go looking at a bare naked lady, even if this one is green,” said the Senior Wrangler.
“Why not? She must have seen at least one. Not green, of course.”
The Senior Wrangler drew himself up. “There’s no call for that sort of imputation,” he said.
“What? Well, obviously she—”
The Dean stopped. The big leaves on Mrs. Whitlow’s hut were pushed aside, and she emerged.
It was probably the flower in her hair. That was certainly the crowning glory. But she’d also done things to her dress.
There was, for a start, less of it.
Since the word is derived from an island that did not exist on the Discworld, the wizards had never heard of a bikini. In any case, what Mrs. Whitlow had sewn together out of her dress was a lot more substantial than a bikini. It was more a newzealand—two quite large respectable halves separated by a narrow channel. She’d also tied some of the spare cloth around her waist, sarong style.
In short, it was a very proper item of clothing. But it looked as if it wasn’t. It was as if Mrs. Whitlow was wearing a figleaf six feet square. It was still just a figleaf.
“Ai thought this might be a leetle more suitable for the heat,” she said. “Of course, Ai wouldn’t dream of wearing it in the University, but since we appear to be here for a little while Ai remembered a picture Ai saw of Queen Zazumba of Sumtri. Is there anywhere Ai could have a bath, do you think?”
“Mwaaa,” said the Senior Wrangler.
The Dean coughed. “There’s a little pool in the jungle.”
“With waterlilies in it,” said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. “Pink ones.”
“Mwaaa,” said the Senior Wrangler.
“And there’s a waterfall,” said the Dean.
“Mwaaa.”
“And a soap bush, as a matter of fact.”
They watched her walk away.
“Up and down, up and down,” said the Bursar.
“A fine figure of a woman,”