The Last Continent

them, revealing a circular room with a shallow pyramid of steps in the center. At the summit was another cloud of blue mist, in which occasional lights flared and died.
    The future unrolled in front of Ponder Stibbons. His eyes were so bright that his glasses steamed, that he could probably scorch holes in thin paper. Oh, right …what more could any natural philosopher dream of? He’d got the theories, now he could do the practice.
    And this time it’d be done properly . To hell with messing up the future! That’s what the future was for . Oh, he’d been against it, that was true, but it’d been…well, when someone else was thinking of doing it. But now he’d got the ear of a god, and maybe some intelligence could be applied to the task of creating intelligence.
    For a start, it ought to be possible to put together the human brain so that long beards weren’t associated with wisdom, which would instead be seen to reside in those who were young and skinny and required glasses for close work.
    “And…you’ve finished this?” he said, as they climbed the steps.
    “Broadly, yes,” said the god. “My greatest achievement. Frankly, it makes the elephants look very flimsy by comparison. But there’s plenty of fine detail left to do, if you think you’re up to it.”
    “It’d be an honor,” said Ponder.
    The blue mist was right in front of him. By the look of the sparks, something very important was happening in there.
    “Do you give them any instructions before you let them out?” he said, his breathing shallow.
    “A few simple ones,” said the god. He waved a wrinkled hand, and the glowing ball began to contract. “Mostly they work things out themselves.”
    “Of course, of course,” said Ponder. “And I suppose if they go wrong we could always put them right with a few commandments.”
    “Not really necessary,” said the god, as the blue ball vanished and revealed the pinnacle of creation. “I find very simple instructions are quite sufficient. You know…‘Head for dark places,’ that sort of thing. There! Isn’t it perfect? What a piece of work! The sun will burn out, the seas will dry up, but this chap will be there, you mark my—Hello? Ponder?”

    The Dean wet a finger and held it up. “We have the wind on our starboard beam,” he said.
    “That’s good, is it?” said the Senior Wrangler.
    “Could be, could be. Let’s hope it can take us to this continent he mentioned. I’m getting nervous of islands.”
    Ridcully finished hacking through the stem of the boat and threw it overboard.
    At the top of the green mast the trumpet-like blooms appeared to tremble in the wind. The leaf sail creaked slowly into a different position.
    “I’d say this was a miracle of nature,” said the Dean, “if we hadn’t just met the person who did it. Rather spoils it, that.”
    While wizards were not generally adventurous, they did understand that a vital part of any great undertaking is the securing of adequate provisions, which is why the boat was noticeably heavier in the water.
    The Dean selected a natural cigar, lit it, and made a face. “Not the best,” he said. “Rather green.”
    “We’ll just have to rough it,” said Ridcully. “What are you doing, Senior Wrangler?”
    “Just preparing a little tray for Mrs. Whitlow. A few choice things.”
    The wizards glanced towards the crude awning they’d erected towards the prow. It wasn’t that she’d actually asked for it. It was simply that she’d made some remark about how hot the sun was, as anyone might, and suddenly wizards were getting in each other’s way as they vied with one another to cut poles and weave palm leaves. Perhaps never has so much intellectual effort gone into building a sunshade, which might have accounted for the wobble.
    “I thought it was my turn to do that,” said the Dean, coldly.
    “No, Dean, you took her the fruit drink, if you remember,” said the Senior Wrangler, cutting a cheese nut into dainty segments.
    “That was just one small drink!” the Dean snapped. “You’re doing a whole tray. Look, you’ve even done a flower arrangement in a coconut shell!”
    “Mrs. Whitlow likes that sort of thing,” said the Senior Wrangler calmly. “But she did say it was still a bit warm, so possibly you can fan her with a palm leaf while I peel these grapes for her.”
    “Once again it is left to me to point out the elementary unfairness,” said the Dean. “Merely waving a leaf is a very menial