The Last Continent

sand with the log as his pillow, and looked up at the purple sky. Already a few stars were coming out.
    Now, there was something…Oh, yes. The kangaroo was lying down on the other side of the water-hole.
    Rincewind raised his head. “You said something about when ‘he’ created this place, and you talked about ‘him’…”
    “Yep.”
    “Only…I’m pretty sure I’ve met the Creator. Short bloke. Does all his own snowflakes.”
    “Yeah? And when did you meet him ?”
    “When he was making the world, as a matter of fact.” Rincewind decided to refrain from mentioning that he’d dropped a sandwich into a rockpool at the time. People don’t like to hear that they may have evolved from somebody’s lunch. “I get around quite a lot,” he added.
    “Are you coming the raw prawn?”
    “What? Oh, no. Certainly not. Coming a raw prawn? Not me. That’s something I never do. Or even cooked prawns. Or crustaceans of any sort, especially in rockpools. Not me. Er…what was it that you actually meant?”
    “Well, he didn’t create this place,” said Scrappy, ignoring him. “This was done after.”
    “Can that happen?”
    “Why not?”
    “Well, it’s not like, you know, building on over the stables, is it?” said Rincewind. “Someone just wanders along when a world’s all finished and slings down an extra continent?”
    “Happens all the time, mate,” said Scrappy. “Bloody hell, yeah. Why not, anyway? If other creators go around leaving ruddy great empty oceans, someone’s bound to fill ’em up, right? Does a world good, too, having a fresh look, new ideas, new ways.”
    Rincewind stared up at the stars. He had a mental vision of someone walking from world to world, sneaking in extra lands when no one was looking.
    “Yes indeed,” he said. “I for one would not have thought of making all the snakes deadly, and all the spiders deadlier than the snakes. And putting pockets on everything? Great idea.”
    “There you go, then,” said Scrappy. He was hardly visible now, as the dark filled up the cave.
    “Made a lot of them, has he?”
    “Yep.”
    “Why?”
    “So’s maybe at least one of them won’t get mucked up. Always puts kangaroos on ’em, too. Sort of a signature, you might say.”
    “Does this Creator have a name?”
    “Nope. He’s just the man who carries the sack that contains the whole universe.”
    “A leather sack?”
    “Sounds like him,” the kangaroo agreed.
    “The whole universe in one small sack?”
    “Yep.”
    Rincewind settled back. “I’m glad I’m not religious,” he said. “It must be very complicated.”
    After another five minutes he began to snore. After half an hour he moved his head slightly. The kangaroo didn’t seem to be around.
    With almost super-Rincewind speed he was upright and scrambling up the fallen rocks, over the lip of the cave and into the dark oven of the night.
    He sighted on a random star and got into his stride, ignoring the bushes that lashed at his bare legs.
    Hah!
    He was not going to be found wanting when duty called. He did not intend to be found at all.
    In the cave the water in the pool rippled under the starlight, the expanding circles lapping against the sand.
    On the wall was an ancient drawing of a kangaroo, in white and red and yellow. The artist had tried to achieve on stone what might better have been attempted with eight dimensions and a large particle accelerator; he’d tried to include not just the kangaroo now but also the kangaroo in the past, and the kangaroo in the future and, in short, not what the kangaroo looked like but what the kangaroo was .
    Among other things, as it faded, it was grinning.

    Among the complexities that made up the intelligent biped known to the rest of the world as Mrs. Whitlow was this: there was no such thing as an informal meal in Mrs. Whitlow’s world. If Mrs. Whitlow made sandwiches even just for herself she would put a sprig of parsley on the top. She placed a napkin on her lap to drink a cup of tea. If the table could have a vase of flowers and a placemat with a tasteful view of something nice, so much the better.
    It was unthinkable that she should eat a meal balanced on her knees. In fact it was unthinkable to think of Mrs. Whitlow as having knees, although the Senior Wrangler had to fan himself with his hat occasionally. So the beach had been scoured to find enough bits of driftwood to make a very rough table, and some suitable rocks to use as seats.
    The Senior Wrangler