The Science of Discworld IV

J.M.F. Wright, who lived in Newton’s former rooms at Trinity College, Cambridge, wrote that the door once had two holes – by then filled in – of the right size for a cat and a kitten.
    fn2 Jay Miller, Why the world is on the back of a turtle,
Man
9 (1974) 306–308.
    fn3 It’s fascinating how priests always know the
names
of the gods.
    fn4 A 10,000-mile long drift net built to catch items falling over the edge.
    fn5 In 1857 Philip Gosse wrote a book called
Omphalos: An Attempt to Untie the Geological Knot
that argued for this approach – see
The Science of Discworld II: The Globe
.
    fn6 In his 1967
Constraints on Variables in Syntax
the linguist John R. Ross states that it was the psychologist/philosopher William James. In other sources the scientist is variously identified as Arthur Stanley Eddington, Thomas Huxley, Linus Pauling, Carl Sagan, and many others. Insert scientist here.
    fn7 Notice how ‘tortoise’ morphs into ‘turtle’. Perhaps the lady was American.

FIVE
----
MAGIC ISN’T REAL

    Miss Marjorie Daw, senior librarian, woke up feeling to her surprise rather chipper; full, as it were, of beans. She felt around and everything important still seemed to be there; and most certainly she was sleeping in an extremely good and comfortable bed, leaving only the minor problem that it was not hers – a state of affairs that hadn’t pertained for some time. However, anybody who knew the Dewey decimal system by heart was a person not to panic until the situation had been most carefully considered. Clearly she was all in one piece and, she now recognised,
extremely
hungry. Then she noticed that on the little table beside the bed was a prominent handwritten note which said, ‘If you require anything, please ring the bell; if you
do not
require anything then don’t ring.’
    For some reason she was rather taken by the thoughtfulness and careful thinking evidenced by the little missive; it showed a sensible mind of the sort that was in short supply these days. She therefore carefully rang the bell, and it was answered by a brisk young woman who identified herself as Glenda, who began by saying, ‘Did you sleep well? Strictly speaking, ladies who are not kitchen staff are not allowed in this university. But quite frankly it doesn’t seem to matter all that much, especially if you dig your heels in, and may I say you have some elegantly high ones.’
    Still bemused, Marjorie said, ‘Yes, Jimmy Choos – not exactly librarian footwear, but it scares the daylights out of the city councillors when it comes to the budget.’
    Glenda smiled and said, ‘The Archchancellor knows that you are a librarian; I will take you to him shortly. Earlier today I took the liberty of getting together some new clothes for someone of your size and height; they’re in the wardrobe of your room if you haven’t already noticed, and I will come back to get you in fifteen minutes. Can I answer any questions at this point?’
    Marjorie’s brain was not exactly spinning – a more definitive description would be that it felt as if it had spent some time in a cocktail shaker. There had been – what? – the sense of motion, gone in an instant; and then, for heaven’s sake, some sort of garden party? Then an inconclusive conversation with a bearded man who was probably from Balliol, to judge by his arrogance; although it was also perfectly
charming
arrogance, sufficient to make him appear quite likeable – like a man who has in fact
earned
the right to be arrogant. But beyond that everything else seemed to be a busy mélange of sights, noises and people. She most certainly knew who she was, and also could remember her telephone number, because in fact she had tried it and there was no signal here, wherever this place was. At least, she thought, it is civilised, but I am a long way from home, and …
how the hell do I know the language?
    All she could do was get changed –
remarkable
how the wizards had managed to get clothes exactly in her size – and wait for Glenda to come back, which she did after exactly fifteen minutes, greeting her cheerfully, asking how she was again, then walking with her through the grounds of this strange but hospitable university.
    They were shortly joined by the elderly but handsome man who called himself an
Arch
Chancellor, a title Marjorie had never heard of before. She had to admit, though, that he
was
pretty arch, appearing to be more of a showman than an academic; he was indeed flamboyant