The Last Continent - Terry Pratchett [76]
Ridcully let a little more space come between him and the Chair of Indefinite Studies.
“I fail to see how it could be utilized for the purpose of procreation,” he said carefully. “Recreation, yes, I’ll grant you that. But not procreation. I mean, how would it work?”
“He’s the god,” sniffed the Chair of Indefinite Studies. “He’s supposed to sort out the details, isn’t he?”
“But you think women would really decide to spend their life with a man just because he can swing a big mallet?” said the Dean.
“I suppose, when you come to think about it, that’s no more ridic—” Ridcully began, and then stopped. “I think we should leave this subject,” he said.
“I played croquet with him only last week,” hissed the Dean to Ridcully, as the Chair wandered off. “I shan’t be happy now until I’ve had a good bath!”
“We’ll lock up his mallets when we get back, depend upon it,” Ridcully whispered.
“He’s got books and books about croquet in his room, did you know that? Some of them have got colored illustrations!”
“What of?”
“Famous croquet strokes,” said the Dean. “I think we ought to take his mallet away.”
“Close to what I was thinking, Dean. Close,” said Ridcully.
Once a moderately jolly wizard camped by a dried-up waterhole under the shade of a tree that he was completely unable to identify. And he swore as he hacked and hacked at a can of beer, saying, “What kind of idiots put beer in tins?”
By the time he managed to make a hole with a sharp stone the beer came out as high-speed froth, but he fielded as much as he could.
Apart from the beer, though, things were looking up. He’d checked the trees for drop-bears and, best of all, there was no sign of Scrappy.
He managed to pierce another tin, more carefully this time, and sucked thoughtfully at the contents.
What a country! Nothing was exactly what it turned out to be, even the sparrows talked, or at least tried to say, “Who’s a pretty boy, then?” and it never ever rained. And all the water hid underground, so they had to pump it out with windmills.
He’d passed another one as he left the canyon country. This one was still managing a trickle of water, but it had dried up to an occasional drip even as he watched it.
Damn! He should’ve picked up some water to take away while he was there.
He looked at the food in the sack. There was a loaf of bread the size and weight of a cannonball, and some vegetables. But at least they were recognizable vegetables. There was even a potato.
He held it up against the sunset.
Rincewind had eaten in many countries on the Disc, and sometimes he’d been able to complete an entire meal before having to run away. And they’d always lacked something. Oh, people did great things with spices and olives and yams and rice and whatnot, but what he’d come to crave was the humble potato.
Time was when a plate of mash or chips would have been his for the asking. All he’d needed to do was wander down to the kitchens and ask. Food was always available for the asking at Unseen University, you could say that for the place, even if you said it with your mouth full. And, ridiculous though it sounded now, he’d hardly ever done that. The dish of potatoes’d come past at mealtimes and he’d probably have a spoonful but, sometimes, he wouldn’t! He’d…let…the…dish…go…by. He’d have rice instead. Rice! All very nutritious in its way, but basically only grown where potatoes would’ve floated to the surface.
He’d remember those times, sometimes, usually in his sleep, and wake up shouting, “Will you pass the potatoes, please!”
Sometimes he remembered the melted butter. Those were the bad days.
He placed the potato reverentially on the ground and tipped out the rest of the bag. There was an onion and some carrots. A tin of…tea, by the smell of it, and a little box of salt.
A flash of inspiration struck him with all the force and brilliance that ideas have when they’re traveling through beer.
Soup! Nutritious and simple! You just boiled everything up! And, yes, he could use one of