Hogfather

was going to be one of those huge bottomless misunderstandings that always occurred whenever anyone tried to explain anything to the Archchancellor. Words like “surf,” and probably “ice cream” and “sand” were just…
    “It’s all done by magic, Archchancellor,” he said, giving up.
    “Ah. Right,” said Ridcully. He sounded a little disappointed. “None of that complicated business with springs and cogwheels and tubes and stuff, then.”
    “That’s right, sir,” said Ponder. “Just magic. Sufficiently advanced magic.”
    “Fair enough. What’s it do?”
    “Hex can hear what you say.”
    “Interesting. Saves all that punching holes in bits of cards and hitting keys you lads are forever doing, then—”
    “Watch this, sir,” said Ponder. “All right, Adrian, initialize the GBL.”
    “How do you do that, then?” said Ridcully, behind him.
    “It…it means pull the great big lever,” Ponder said, reluctantly.
    “Ah. Takes less time to say.”
    Ponder sighed. “Yes, that’s right, Archchancellor.”
    He nodded to one of the students, who pulled a large red lever marked “Do Not Pull.” Gears spun, somewhere inside Hex. Little trapdoors opened in the ant farms and millions of ants began to scurry along the networks of glass tubing. Ponder tapped at the huge wooden keyboard.
    “Beats me how you fellows remember how to do all this stuff,” said Ridcully, still watching him with what Ponder considered to be amused interest.
    “Oh, it’s largely intuitive, Archchancellor,” said Ponder. “Obviously you have to spend a lot of time learning it first, though. Now, then, Bursar,” he added. “If you’d just like to say something…”
    “He says, SAY SOMETHING, BURSAAAR!” yelled Ridcully helpfully, into the Bursar’s ear.
    “Corkscrew? It’s a tickler, that’s what Nanny says,” said the Bursar.
    Things started to spin inside Hex. At the back of the room a huge converted waterwheel covered with sheep skulls began to turn, ponderously.
    And the quill pen in its network of springs and guiding arms started to write:
    +++ Why Do You Think You Are A Tickler? +++
    For a moment the Bursar hesitated. Then he said, “I’ve got a spoon of my own, you know.”
    +++ Tell Me About Your Spoon +++
    “Er…it’s a little spoon…”
    +++ Does Your Spoon Worry You? +++
    The Bursar frowned. Then he seemed to rally. “Whoops, here comes Mr. Jelly,” he said, but he didn’t sound as though his heart was in it.
    +++ How Long Have You Been Mr. Jelly? +++
    The Bursar glared. “Are you making fun of me?” he said.
    “Amazin’!” said Ridcully. “It’s got him stumped! ’s better than dried frog pills! How did you work it out?”
    “Er…” said Ponder. “It sort of just happened…”
    “Amazin’,” said Ridcully. He knocked the ashes out of his pipe on Hex’s “Anthill Inside” sticker, causing Ponder to wince. “This thing’s a kind of big artificial brain, then?”
    “You could think of it like that,” said Ponder, carefully. “Of course, Hex doesn’t actually think. Not as such. It just appears to be thinking.”
    “Ah. Like the Dean,” said Ridcully. “Any chance of fitting a brain like this into the Dean’s head?”
    “It does weigh ten tons, Archchancellor.”
    “Ah. Really? Oh. Quite a large crowbar would be in order, then.” He paused, and then reached into his pocket. “I knew I’d come here for something,” he added. “This here chappie is the Verruca Gnome—”
    “Hello,” said the Verruca Gnome shyly.
    “—who seems to have popped into existence to be with us here tonight. And, you know, I thought: this is a bit odd. Of course, there’s always something a bit unreal about Hogswatchnight,” said Ridcully. “Last night of the year and so on. The Hogfather whizzin’ around and so forth. Time of the darkest shadows and so on. All the old year’s occult rubbish pilin’ up. Anythin’ could happen. I just thought you fellows might check up on this. Probably nothing to worry about.”
    “A Verruca Gnome?” said Ponder.
    The gnome clutched his sack protectively.
    “Makes about as much sense as a lot of things, I suppose,” said Ridcully. “After all, there’s a Tooth Fairy, ain’ there? You might as well wonder why we have a God of Wine and not a God of Hangovers—”
    He stopped.
    “Anyone else hear that noise just then?” he said.
    “Sorry, Archchancellor?”
    “Sort of glingleglingleglingle ? Like little tinkly