The Last Continent - Terry Pratchett [72]
“The only thing I think I don’t quite understand,” he said, “is why any creature would want to spend time on all this…” he peered at his notes, “this sex, when they could be enjoying themselves…Oh dear, your associate seems to be choking this time, I’m afraid…”
“Dean!” shouted Ridcully.
“I can’t help noticing,” said the god, “that when sex is being discussed your faces redden and you tend to shift uneasily from one foot to the other. Is this some sort of signal?”
“Erm…”
“If you could just tell me how it all works…”
Embarrassment filled the air, huge and pink. If it were rock, you could have carved great hidden rose-red cities in it.
Ridcully smiled a petrified smile. “Excuse us,” he said. “Faculty meeting, gentlemen?”
Ponder watched the wizards go into a huddle. He could hear a few phrases above the susurration.
“…my father said, but of course I didn’t believe…never raised its ugly head…Dean, will you shut up? We can’t very well…cold showers, really…”
Ridcully turned back and flashed the stony smile again. “Sex is, er, not something we talk about,” he said.
“Much,” said the Dean.
“Oh, I see,” said the god. “Well, a practical demonstration would be so much more comprehendible.”
“Er, we weren’t, er…planning a…”
“Coo-eee! There you are, gentlemen!”
Mrs. Whitlow entered the cave. The wizards went suddenly quiet, sensing in their wizardly minds that the introduction of Mrs. Whitlow at this point was an electric fire in the swimming pool of life.
“Oh, another one of you,” said the god brightly. He focused. “Or a different species, perhaps?”
Ponder felt that he had to say something. Mrs. Whitlow was giving him a Look.
“Mrs., er, Whitlow is, er, a lady,” he said.
“Ah, I shall make a note of it,” said the god. “And what sort of thing do they do?”
“They’re, um, the same species as, er, us,” said Ponder, miserably. Um…the…um…”
“Weaker sex,” Ridcully supplied.
“Sorry, you’ve lost me there,” said the god.
“Er…she’s, um, er, a…of the female persuasion,” said Ponder.
The god smiled happily. “Oh, how very convenient,” he said.
“Excuse me” said Mrs. Whitlow, in as sharp a tone as she cared to use around the wizards, “but will someone introduce this gentleman to me?”
“Oh, yes, of course,” said Ridcully. “Do excuse me. God, this is Mrs. Whitlow. Mrs. Whitlow, this is God. A god. God of this island, in fact. Uh…”
“Charmed, Ai’m sure,” said Mrs. Whitlow. In Mrs. Whitlow’s book, gods were socially very acceptable, at least if they had proper human heads and wore clothes; they rated above High Priests and occupied the same level as Dukes.
“Should Ai kneel?” she said.
“Mwaaa,” whimpered the Senior Wrangler.
“Genuflection of any sort is not required,” said the god.
“He means no,” said Ponder.
“Oh, as you wish,” said Mrs. Whitlow. She extended a hand.
The god grasped it and waggled her thumb backwards and forward.
“Very practical,” he said. “Opposable, I see. I think I should make a note of this. Do you brachiate? Are you bipedal by habit? Oh, I notice your eyebrows go up, too. Is this a signal of some sort? I also note that you are a different shape from the others and don’t have a beard. I assume that means you are less wise?”
Ponder saw Mrs. Whitlow’s eyes narrow and her nostrils flare.
“Is there some sort of problem, sirs?” she said. “Ai followed your footprints to that funny boat, and this was the only other path, so—”
“We were discussing sex,” said the god enthusiastically. “It sounds very exciting, don’t you think?”
The wizards held their breath. This was going to make the Dean’s sheets look very minor.
“It’s not a subject on which Ai would venture an opinion,” said Mrs. Whitlow carefully.
“Mwaa,” squeaked the Senior Wrangler.
“No one seems to want to tell me,” said the god irritably. A spark leapt from his fingers and blew a very small crater in the floor, and that seemed to shock him as much