The Last Continent

of the shoes clattered against the wall.
    “And the dress. What would those nice ladies think if they saw you dressing up like this?”
    The Luggage shrugged off the few sequined tatters that remained.
    “Turn around, I want to see your handles. No, I said turn around. Turn around properly , please. Ah, I thought so…I said turn around . Those earrings…they don’t do anything for you at all, you know.” He leaned closer. “Is that a stud? Have you had your lid pierced?”
    The Luggage backed away. Its manner indicated very clearly that while it might give in on the shoes, the dress and even the earrings, the battle over the stud would go to the finish.
    “Well…all right. Now give me my clean underwear, you could make shelves out of the stuff I’m wearing.”
    The Luggage opened its lid.
    “Good, now I—Is that my underwear? Would I be seen dead in something like that? Yes, as a matter of fact I suspect I would. My underwear, please. It’s got my name inside, although I must admit I can’t quite remember why I thought that was necessary.”
    The lid shut. The lid opened.
    “Thank you.”
    It was no use wondering how it was done, or for that matter why the laundry returned freshly ironed.
    The watchmen were still very wisely remaining unconscious, but out of habit Rincewind went behind a stack of old boxes to change. He was the sort of person who’d go behind a tree to change if he was on a desert island all alone.
    “You noticed something odd about this alley?” he said, over the top of the boxes. “There’re no drainpipes. There’re no gutters. They’ve never heard of rain here. I suppose you are the Luggage, aren’t you, and not some kangaroo in disguise? Why am I asking? Ye gods, these feel good. Right, let’s go—”
    The Luggage opened its lid again, and a young woman looked up at Rincewind.
    “Who are—? Oh, you’re the blind man,” she said.
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “Sorry…Darleen said you must be blind. Well, actually she said you must be bloody blind. Can you give me a hand out?”
    It dawned on Rincewind that the girl clambering out of the Luggage was Neilette, the third member of Letitia’s crew and the one who’d seemed quite plain compared to the others and certainly a lot less…well, noisy wasn’t quite the word. Probably the word was “expansive.” They filled the space around them to capacity. Take Darleen, a lady he’d last seen holding a man daintily by the collar so that she could punch him in the face. When she walked into a room, there’d be no one in it unaware that she had done so.
    Neilette was just…ordinary. She brushed some dirt off her dress, and sighed.
    “I could see there was going to be another fight so I hid in Trunkie,” she said.
    “Trunkie, eh?” said Rincewind. The Luggage had the decency to look embarrassed.
    “Sooner or later there’s always a fight where Darleen goes,” said Neilette. “You’d be amazed the things she can do with a stiletto heel.”
    “I think I’ve seen one of them,” said Rincewind. “Don’t tell me the others. Um, can I help you? Only me and Trunkie here”—he gave the Luggage a kick—“were heading off, weren’t we, Trunkie ?”
    “Oh, don’t kick her, she’s been so useful,” said Neilette.
    “Really?” said Rincewind. The Luggage turned around slowly so that he couldn’t see the expression on its lock.
    “Oh, yes. I reckon the miners in Cangoolie would’ve…been very unpleasant to Letitia if Trunkie hadn’t stepped in.”
    “Stepped on, I expect.”
    “How did you know that?”
    “Oh, the L—Trunkie is mine. We got separated.”
    Neilette tried to arrange her hair. “It’s all right for the others,” she said. “They just have to change wigs. Beer might be a good shampoo, but not when it’s still in the tinnie.” She sighed. “Oh, well. I suppose I’ll have to find a way home, now.”
    “Where do you live?”
    “Worralorrasurfa. It’s Rimwards.” She sighed again. “Back to life in the banana-bending factory. So much for showbusiness!”
    Then she burst into tears and sat down heavily on the Luggage.
    Rincewind didn’t know whether he should go into the “pat, pat, there, there” routine. If she was like Darleen, he might lose an arm. He made what he hoped was a soothing yet non-aggressive mumble.
    “I mean, I know I can’t sing very well and I can’t dance but, frankly, neither can Letitia and Darleen. When Darleen sings ‘Prancing Queen’ you could slice