Soul Music

being because some god cut off some other god’s wedding tackle and made the universe out of it,” said Ridcully. “Always seemed straightforward to me. I mean, it’s the kind of thing you can imagine happenin’.”
    “Well—”
    “Now you’re telling me someone blew a big hooter and here we are?”
    “I don’t know about someone ,” said Ponder.
    “Noises don’t just make themselves, that I do know,” said Ridcully. He relaxed a bit, certain in his own mind that reason had prevailed, and patted Ponder on the back.
    “It needs some work, lad,” he said. “Old Riktor was a bit…unsound, y’know. He thought everything came down to numbers.”
    “Mind you,” said Ponder, “the universe does have a rhythm. Day and night, light and dark, life and death—”
    “Chicken soup and croutons,” said Ridcully.
    “Well, not every metaphor bears close examination.”
    There was a knock on the door. Tez the Terrible entered, carrying a tray. He was followed by Mrs. Whitlow, the housekeeper.
    Ridcully’s jaw dropped.
    Mrs. Whitlow curtsied.
    “Good morning, Hyour Grace,” she said.
    Her ponytail bobbed. There was a rustle of starched petticoats.
    Ridcully’s jaw rose again, but only so that he could say: “What have you done to your—”
    “Excuse me, Mrs. Whitlow,” said Ponder quickly, “but have you served breakfast to any of the faculty this morning?”
    “That’s right, Mister Stibbons,” said Mrs. Whitlow. Her ample and mysterious bosom shifted under its sweater. “None of the gentlemen came down, so I got trays taken up to them all. Daddio.”
    Ridcully’s gaze continued downward. He’d never thought of Mrs. Whitlow as having legs before. Of course, in theory the woman needed something to move around on, but…well…
    But there were two pudgy knees protruding from the huge mushroom of skirts. Farther down there were white socks.
    “Your hair—” he began, hoarsely.
    “Is there something wrong?” said Mrs. Whitlow.
    “Nothing, nothing,” said Ponder. “Thank you very much.”
    The door closed behind her.
    “She was snapping her fingers as she went out, just like you said,” said Ponder.
    “Wasn’t the only thing that’s snapped,” said Ridcully, still shuddering.
    “Did you look at her shoes?”
    “I think my eyes shut themselves protectively about there.”
    “If it’s really alive,” said Ponder, “then it’s very contagious.”

    This scene took place in Crash’s father’s coach house, but it was an echo of a scene evolving all around the city.
    Crash hadn’t been christened Crash. He was the son of a rich dealer in hay and feedstuffs, but he despised his father for being dead from the neck up, totally concerned with material things, unimaginative, and also for paying him a ridiculous three dollars a week allowance.
    Crash’s father had left his horses in the coach house. At the moment they were both trying to squeeze into one corner, having tried fruitlessly to kick a hole in the walls.
    “I reckon I nearly had it that time,” said Crash, as hay dust poured down from the roof and woodworm hurried off to find a better home.
    “It isn’t—I mean, it ain’t like the sound we heard in the Drum,” said Jimbo critically. “It’s a bit like it, but it isn—it ain’t it.”
    Jimbo was Crash’s best friend and wished he was one of the people.
    “It’s good enough to start with,” said Crash. “So you and Noddy, you two get guitars. And Scum, you…you can play the drums.”
    “Dunno how,” said Scum. It was actually his name.
    “ No one knows how to play the drums,” said Crash patiently. “There’s nothing to know . You just hit them with the sticks.”
    “Yeah, but what if I sort of miss?”
    “Sit closer. Right,” said Crash, sitting back. “Now…the important thing, the really important thing is…what’re we going to call ourselves?”

    Cliff looked around.
    “Well, I reckon we look at every house and I’m damned if I see der name Dibbler anywhere,” he growled.
    Buddy nodded. Most of Sator Square was the frontage of the University, but there was room for a few other buildings. They were the sort that have a dozen brass plates by the door. The sort that hinted that even wiping your feet on the doormat was going to cost you dear.
    “Hello, boys.”
    They turned. Dibbler beamed at them over a tray of possibly sausages and buns. There were a couple of sacks beside him.
    “Sorry we’re late,” said Glod, “but we couldn’t