The Science of Discworld II

definitely a tree. In fact, it was a lot more like a tree than a tree normally is. Practically no other tree in the forest looked so tree-like as this tree. It projected a sensation of extreme barkness, it exuded leafidity. Pigeons and squirrels were queuing up to settle in the branches. There was even an owl. Other trees were just sticks with greenery on compared to the sylvanic verdanity of this tree …
    â€¦ which raised a branch, and shot another tree. A spinning orange ball spun through the air and went splat! on a small oak.
    Something happened to the oak. Bits of twig and shadows and bark which had clearly made up an image of a gnarled old tree now equally clearly became the face of Archchancellor Mustrum Ridcully, Master of Unseen University (for the extremely magical) and running with orange paint.
    â€˜Gotcha!’ shouted the Dean, causing the owl to leap from his hat. This was lucky for the owl, because a travelling glob of blue paint removed the hat a moment later.
    â€˜Ahah! Take that, Dean!’ shouted an ancient beech tree behind him as, changing without actually changing, it became the figure of the Lecturer in Recent Runes.
    The Dean spun around, and a blob of orange paint hit him in the chest.
    â€˜Eat permitted colourings!’ yelled an excited wizard.
    The Dean glared across the clearing to a crabapple tree which was, now, the Chair of Indefinite Studies.
    â€˜What? I’m on your side, you damn fool!’ he said.
    â€˜You can’t be! You made such a good target!’ 1
    The Dean raised his staff. Instantly, half a dozen orange and blue blobs exploded all over him as other hidden wizards let loose.
    Archchancellor Ridcully wiped paint out of his eyes.
    â€˜All right, you fellows,’ he sighed. ‘Enough’s enough for today. Time for tea, eh?’
    It was so hard, he reflected, to get wizards to understand the concept of ‘team spirit’. It simply wasn’t part of wizardly thinking. A wizard could grasp the idea of, say, wizards versus some other group, but they lost their grip when it came to the idea of wizards against wizards. Wizard against wizards, yes, they had no trouble with that.
    They’d start out as two teams, but as soon as there was any engagement they’d get all excited and twitchy and shoot other wizards indiscriminately. If you were a wizard then, deep down, you knewthat every other wizard was your enemy. If their wands had been left unfettered, rather than having been locked to produce only paint spells – Ridcully had been very careful about that – then this forest would have been on fire by now.
    Still, the fresh air was doing them good. The University was far too stuffy, Ridcully had always thought. Out here there was sun, and bird-song, and a nice warm breeze—
    â€”a cold breeze. The temperature was plunging.
    Ridcully looked down at his staff. Ice crystals were forming on it.
    â€˜Turned a bit nippy all of a sudden, hasn’t it?’ he said, his breath tingling in the frigid air.
    And then the world changed.
    Rincewind, Egregious Professor of Cruel and Unusual Geography, was cataloguing his rock collection. This was, these days, the ground state of his being. When he had nothing else to do, he sorted rocks. His predecessors in the post had spent many years bringing back small examples of cruel or unusual geography and had never had time to catalogue them, so he saw this as his duty. Besides, it was wonderfully dull. He felt that there was not enough dullness in the world.
    Rincewind was the least senior member of the faculty. Indeed, the Archchancellor had made it clear that in seniority terms he ranked somewhat lower than the things that went ‘click’ in the woodwork. He got no salary and had complete insecurity of tenure. On the other hand, he got his laundry done free, a place at mealtimes and a bucket of coal a day. He also had his own office, no one ever visited him and he was strictly forbidden from attempting to teach anything to anyone. In academic terms, therefore, he considered himself pretty lucky.
    An additional reason for this was that he was in fact getting seven buckets of coal a day and so much clean laundry that even his socks were starched. This was because no one else had realised that Blunk, the coal porter, who was far too surly to read, delivered the buckets strictly according to the titles on the study doors.
    The Dean, therefore, got one bucket. So did the