Soul Music

faculty was as crazy as loons, whatever a loon was. “Not enough fresh air,” he’d say. “Too much sittin’ around indoors. Rots the brain.” More often, he’d say “Duck!”
    None of them, apart from Ridcully and the Librarian, were early risers. Breakfast, if it happened at all, happened around midmorning. Wizards lined the buffet, lifting the big silver lids of the tureens and wincing at every clang. Ridcully liked big, greasy breakfasts, especially if it included those slightly translucent sausages with the green flecks that you can only hope is a herb of some sort. Since it was the Archchancellor’s prerogative to choose the menu, many of the more squeamish wizards had stopped eating breakfast altogether and got through the day just on lunch, tea, dinner, and supper and the occasional snack.
    So there weren’t too many in the Great Hall this morning. Besides, it was a bit drafty. Workmen were busy somewhere up in the roof.
    Ridcully put down his fork.
    “All right, who’s doing it?” he said. “Own up, that man.”
    “Doing what, Archchancellor?” said the Senior Wrangler.
    “Someone’s tappin’ his foot.”
    The wizard looked along the table. The Dean was staring happily into space.
    “Dean?” said the Senior Wrangler.
    The Dean’s left hand was held not far from his mouth. The other was making rhythmic stroking motions somewhere in the region of his kidneys.
    “I don’t know what he thinks he’s doin’,” said Ridcully. “But it looks unhygienic to me.”
    “I think he’s playing an invisible banjo, Archchancellor,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes.
    “Well, it’s quiet, at least,” said Ridcully. He looked at the hole in the roof, which was letting unaccustomed daylight into the hall. “Anyone seen the Librarian?”

    The orang-utan was busy.
    He had holed up in one of the library cellars, which he currently used as a general workshop and book hospital. There were various presses and guillotines, a bench full of tins of nasty substances where he made his own binding glue and all the other tedious cosmetics of the Muse of literature.
    He’d brought a book down with him. It had taken even him several hours to find it.
    The Library didn’t only contain magical books, the ones which are chained to their shelves and are very dangerous. It also contained perfectly ordinary books, printed on commonplace paper in mundane ink. It would be a mistake to think that they weren’t also dangerous, just because reading them didn’t make fireworks go off in the sky. Reading them sometimes did the more dangerous trick of making fireworks go off in the privacy of the reader’s brain.
    For example, the big volume open in front of him contained some of the collected drawings of Leonard of Quirm, skilled artist and certified genius, with a mind that wandered so much it came back with souvenirs.
    Leonard’s books were full of sketches—of kittens, of the way water flows, of the wives of influential Ankh-Morporkian merchants whose portraits had provided his means of making a living. But Leonard had been a genius and was deeply sensitive to the wonders of the world, so the margins were full of detailed doodles of whatever was on his mind at that moment—vast waterpowered engines for bringing down city walls on the heads of the enemy, new types of siege guns for pumping flaming oil over the enemy, gunpowder rockets that showered the enemy with burning phosphorus, and other manufactures of the Age of Reason.
    And there had been something else. The Librarian had noticed it in passing once before, and had been slightly puzzled by it. It seemed out of place. *
    His hairy hand thumbed through the pages. Ah…here it was…
    Yes . Oh, YES .
    …It spoke to him in the language of the Beat…

    The Archchancellor made himself comfortable at his snooker table.
    He’d long ago got rid of the official desk. A snooker table was much to be preferred. Things didn’t fall off the edge, there were a number of handy pockets to keep sweets and things in, and when he was bored he could shovel the paperwork off and set up trick shots. ** He never bothered to shovel the paperwork back on afterward. In his experience, anything really important never got written down, because by then people were too busy shouting.
    He picked up his pen and started to write.
    He was composing his memoirs. He’d got as far as the title: Along the Ankh with Bow, Rod, and Staff with a Knob on the End .
    “Not many people