The Last Continent

I’d prefer that, what is it, you know, the cake with the pink and yellow squares —” muttered the Senior Wrangler, because wizards tend to follow a thought all the way through.
    “You’re a bit small, then,” said the Dean.
    “ And the sugary marzipan on the outside, marvelous stuff …”
    The god finally realized what else had been bothering him. Scale was always tricky in these matters. Being three feet high was not adding anything to his authority.
    “Damn!” he said again. “Why am I so small?”
    “Size isn’t everything,” said Ridcully. “People always smirk when they say that. I can’t think why.”
    “You’re absolutely right!” snapped the god, as if Ridcully had triggered an entirely new train of thought. “Look at amoebas, except that of course you can’t because they’re so small. Adaptable, efficient and practically immortal. Wonderful things, amoebas.” His little eyes misted over. “Best day’s work I ever did.”
    “Excuse me, sir, but exactly what kind of god are you?” said Ponder.
    “And is there cake or not?” said the Senior Wrangler.
    The god glared up at him. “I beg your pardon?” he said.
    “I meant, what is it that you’re the god of ?” said Ponder.
    “I said , what about this cake you’re supposed to have?” said the Senior Wrangler.
    “Senior Wrangler?”
    “Yes, Archchancellor?”
    “Cake is not the issue here.”
    “But he said—”
    “Your comments have been taken on board, Senior Wrangler. And they will be thrown over the side as soon as we leave harbor. Do continue, god, please.”
    For a moment the god looked in a thunderbolt mood, and then sagged. He sat down on a rock.
    “All that smiting talk doesn’t really work, does it?” he said gloomily. “You don’t have to be nice about it. I could tell. I could give you boils, you understand, it’s just that I can’t really see the point. They clear up after a while, anyway. And it is rather bullying people, isn’t it? To tell you the truth, I’m something of an atheist.”
    “Sorry?” said Ridcully. “You are an atheist god?”
    The god looked at their expressions. “Yes, I know,” he said. “It’s a bit of a bottomer, isn’t it?” He stroked his long white beard. “Why exactly have I got this?”
    “You didn’t shave this morning?” said Ridcully.
    “I mean, I simply tried to appear in front of you in a form that you recognize as godly,” said the god. “A long beard and a nightshirt seem to be the thing, although the facial hair is a little puzzling.”
    “It’s a sign of wisdom,” said Ridcully.
    “Said to be,” said Ponder, who’d never been able to grow one.
    “Wisdom: insight, acumen, learning,” said the god thoughtfully. “Ah. The length of the hair improves the operation of the cognitive functions? Some sort of cooling arrangement, perhaps?”
    “Never really thought about it,” said Ridcully.
    “The beard gets longer as more wisdom is acquired?” said the god.
    “I’m not sure it’s actually a case of cause and effect,” Ponder ventured.
    “I’m afraid I don’t get about as much as I should,” said the god sadly. “To be frank, I find religion rather offensive.” He heaved a big sigh and seemed to look even smaller. “Honest, I really do try but there are some days when life just gets me down…Oh, excuse me, liquid seems to be running out of my breathing tubes…”
    “Would you like to blow your nose?” said Ponder.
    The god looked panicky. “Where to?”
    “I mean, you sort of hold…Look, here’s my handkerchief, you just sort of put it over your nose and sort of…well, snuffle into it.”
    “Snuffle,” said the god. “Interesting. And what a curiously white leaf.”
    “No, it’s a cotton handkerchief,” said Ponder. “It’s…made.” He stopped there. He knew that handkerchiefs were made, and cotton was involved, and he had some vague recollection of looms and things, but when you got right down to it you obtained handkerchiefs by going into a shop and saying, “I’d like a dozen of the reinforced white ones, please, and how much do you charge for embroidering initials in the corners?”
    “You mean…created?” said the god, suddenly very suspicious. “Are you gods too?”
    Beside his foot a small shoot pushed through the sand and began to grow rapidly.
    “No, no,” said Ponder. “Er…you just take some cotton and…hammer it flat, I think…and you get handkerchiefs.”
    “Oh, then you’re tool-using