The Last Continent

irritably. “What’s happened to the water, Boring?”
    “It’s all been used up, I suppose,” said Rincewind.
    “So how can we get some more?”
    “Why does everyone ask me? Don’t you have some rainmaking spells or something?”
    “There’s that word again,” said the Dean. “Water sprinkling out of the sky, eh? I’ll believe that when I see it!”
    “We tried making one of these—what were they called? Big white bags of water? The things some of the sailors say they see in the sky?”
    “Clouds.”
    “Right. They don’t stay up, Boring. We threw one off the tower last week and it hit the Dean.”
    “I’ve never believed those old stories,” said the Dean. “And I reckon you mongrels waited till I was walking past.”
    “You don’t have to make them, they just happen,” said Rincewind. “Look, I don’t know how to make it rain. I thought any halfway decent wizard knew how to do a rainmaking spell,” he added, as someone who wouldn’t know where to start.
    “Really?” said the Archchancellor, with dangerous brightness.
    “No offense meant,” said Rincewind hurriedly. “I’m sure this is a very good university, considering. Obviously it’s not a real one, but it’s amazingly good in the circumstances.”
    “What’s wrong with it?” said the Archchancellor.
    “Well…your tower’s a little bit on the small side, isn’t it? I mean, even compared to the buildings around here? Not that there’s—”
    “I think we ought to show Mister Boring our tower,” said the Archchancellor. “I don’t think he’s taking us seriously.”
    “I’ve seen it,” said Rincewind.
    “From the top?”
    “No, obviously not from the top—”
    “We haven’t got time for this, Archchancellor,” said a small wizard. “Let’s send this wozza back to Hell and find something better.”
    “Excuse me ?” said Rincewind. “By ‘Hell’ do you mean some hot red place?”
    “Yes!”
    “Really? How do Ecksians know when they’ve got there? The beer’s warmer?”
    “No more arguing. This one turned up very fast when we did the summoning, so this is the one we need,” said the Archchancellor. “Come along, Boring. This won’t take a minute.”

    Ponder shook his head and wandered over to the fire. Mrs. Whitlow was sitting demurely on a rock. In front of her, getting as close to the fire as possible, was the Librarian. He was still extremely small. Maybe his temporal gland had to take longer to work itself out, Ponder thought.
    “What are the gentlemen doing?” said Mrs. Whitlow. She had to raise her voice above the argument, but Mrs. Whitlow would still have said, “Is there some difficulty?” if she saw the wizards out on the lawn throwing fireballs at the monsters from the Dungeon Dimensions. She liked to be told these things.
    “They’ve found a man drawing the most alive -looking pictures I’ve ever seen,” said Ponder. “So now they’re trying to teach him Art. By committee.”
    “The gentlemen always take an interest,” said Mrs. Whitlow.
    “They always interfere,” said Ponder. “I don’t know what it is about wizards, they can’t just watch . So far they’re arguing about how to draw a duck and frankly I don’t think a duck has four legs, which is what it’s got so far. Honestly, Mrs. Whitlow, they’re like kittens in a feather-plucking shed…What’s that?”
    The Librarian had tipped up the leather bag lying by the fire and was testing the contents for taste, in the way of young mammals everywhere.
    He picked up a flat, bent piece of wood, painted in lines of many colors—far more pigments than the old man had been using to paint, and Ponder wondered why. He tested it for palatability, banged it on the ground in a vaguely hopeful way, and threw it away. Then he pulled out a flat oval of wood on a piece of string, and tried chewing the string.
    “Is that a yo-yo?” said Mrs. Whitlow.
    “We used to call them bullroarers when I was a kid,” said Ponder. “You whirl it around over your head to make a funny noise.” He waved his hand vaguely in the air.
    “Eeek?”
    “Ooh, isn’t that sweet? He’s trying to do what you do!”
    The Librarian tried to whirl the string, wrapped it round his face and hit himself on the back of the head.
    “Oh, the poor little thing! Take it off him, Mister Stibbons, do.”
    The Librarian bared some small fangs as Ponder unwound the string.
    “I hope he’s going to grow up soon,” he said. “Otherwise the Library