Pyramids

intellectual development was to have nothing much to do and nothing to do it with.
    He reached the crest of the dune, gazed with approval over the rolling sands ahead of him, and began to think in logarithms.
    “What’s Ephebe like?” said Ptraci.
    “I’ve never been there. Apparently it’s ruled by a Tyrant.”
    “I hope we don’t meet him, then.”
    Teppic shook his head. “It’s not like that,” he said. “They have a new Tyrant every five years and they do something to him first.” He hesitated. “I think they ee-lect him.”
    “Is that something like they do to tomcats and bulls and things?”
    “Er.”
    “You know. To make them stop fighting and be more peaceful.”
    Teppic winced. “To be honest, I’m not sure,” he said. “But I don’t think so. They’ve got something they do it with, I think it’s called a mocracy, and it means everyone in the whole country can say who the new Tyrant is. One man, one—” He paused. The political history lesson seemed a very long while ago, and had introduced concepts never heard of in Djelibeybi or in Ankh-Morpork, for that matter. He had a stab at it, anyway. “One man, one vet.”
    “That’s for the eelecting, then?”
    He shrugged. It might be, for all he knew. “The point is, though, that everyone can do it. They’re very proud of it. Everyone has—” he hesitated again, certain now that things were amiss—“the vet. Except for women, of course. And children. And criminals. And slaves. And stupid people. And people of foreign extraction. And people disapproved of for, er, various reasons. And lots of other people. But everyone apart from them. It’s a very enlightened civilization.”
    Ptraci gave this some consideration.
    “And that’s a mocracy, is it?”
    “They invented it in Ephebe, you know,” said Teppic, feeling obscurely that he ought to defend it.
    “I bet they had trouble exporting it,” said Ptraci firmly.

    The sun wasn’t just a ball of flaming dung pushed across the sky by a giant beetle. It was also a boat. It depended on how you looked at it.
    The light was wrong. It had a flat quality, like water left in a glass for weeks. There was no joy to it. It illuminated, but without life; like bright moonlight rather than the light of day.
    But Ptaclusp was more worried about his son.
    “Do you know what’s wrong with him?” he said.
    His other son bit his stylus miserably. His hand was hurting. He’d tried to touch his brother, and the crackling shock had taken the skin off his ringers.
    “I might,” he ventured.
    “Can you cure it?”
    “I don’t think so.”
    “What is it, then?”
    “Well, dad. When we were up on the pyramid…well, when it couldn’t flare…you see, I’m sure it twisted around…time, you see, is just another dimension…um.”
    Ptaclusp rolled his eyes. “None of that architect’s talk, boy,” he said. “What’s wrong with him?”
    “I think he’s dimensionally maladjusted, dad. Time and space has got a bit mixed up for him. That’s why he’s moving sideways all the time.”
    Ptaclusp IIb gave his father a brave little smile.
    “He always used to move sideways,” said Ptaclusp.
    His son sighed. “Yes, dad,” he said. “But that was just normal. All accountants move like that. Now he’s moving sideways because that’s like, well, it’s like Time to him.”
    Ptaclusp frowned. Drifting gently sideways wasn’t IIa’s only problem. He was also flat. Not flat like a card, with a front, back and edge—but flat from any direction.
    “Puts me exactly in mind of them people in the frescoes,” he said. “Where’s his depth, or whatever you call it?”
    “I think that’s in Time,” said IIb, helplessly. “Ours, not his.”
    Ptaclusp walked around his son, noting how the flatness followed him. He scratched his chin.
    “So he can walk in Time, can he?” he said slowly.
    “That may be possible, yes.”
    “Do you think we could persuade him to stroll back a few months and tell us not to build that bloody pyramid?”
    “He can’t communicate, dad.”
    “Not much change there , then.” Ptaclusp sat down on the rubble, his head in his hands. It had come to this. One son normal and stupid, one flat as a shadow. And what sort of life could the poor flat kid have? He’d go through life being used to open locks, clean the ice off windscreens, and sleeping cheaply in trouser-presses in hotel bedrooms. * Being able to get under doors and read books without opening them