quite sure.’
‘That is big,’ agreed Trymon. ‘The word “huge” comes to mind.’
‘Massive,’ agreed the astrologer hurriedly.
‘Hmm.’
Trymon paced the broad mosaic floor of the observatory, which was inlaid with the signs of the Disc zodiac. There were sixty-four of them, from Wezen the Double-headed Kangaroo to Gahoolie, the Vase of Tulips (a constellation of great religious significance whose meaning, alas, was now lost).
He paused on the blue and gold tilework of Mubbo the Hyaena, and turned suddenly.
‘We’re going to hit it?’ he asked.
‘I am afraid so, sir,’ said the astrologer.
‘Hmm.’ Trymon walked a few paces forward, stroking his beard thoughtfully. He paused on the cusp of Okjock the Salesman and The Celestial Parsnip.
‘I’m not an expert in these matters,’ he said, ‘but I imagine this would not be a good thing?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Very hot, stars?’
The astrologer swallowed. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘We’d be burned up?’
‘Eventually. Of course, before that there would be discquakes, tidal waves, gravitational disruption and probably the atmosphere would be stripped away.’
‘Ah. In a word, lack of decent organisation.’
The astrologer hesitated, and gave in. ‘You could say so, sir.’
‘People would panic?’
‘Fairly briefly, I’m afraid.’
‘Hmm,’ said Trymon, who was just passing over The Perhaps Gate and orbiting smoothly towards the Cow of Heaven. He squinted up again at the red gleam on the horizon. He appeared to reach a decision.
‘We can’t find Rincewind,’ he said, ‘and if we can’t find Rincewind we can’t find the eighth spell of the Octavo. But we believe that the Octavo must be read to avert catastrophe—otherwise why did the Creator leave it behind?’
‘Perhaps He was just forgetful,’ suggested the astrologer.
Trymon glared at him.
‘The other Orders are searching all the lands between here and the Hub,’ he continued, counting the points on his fingers, ‘because it seems unreasonable that a man can fly into a cloud and not come out…’
‘Unless it was stuffed with rocks,’ said the astrologer, in a wretched and, as it turned out, entirely unsuccessful attempt to lighten the mood.
‘But come down he must—somewhere. Where? we ask ourselves.’
‘Where?’ said the astrologer loyally.
‘And immediately a course of action suggests itself to us.’
‘Ah,’ said the astrologer, running in an attempt to keep up as the wizard stalked across The Two Fat Cousins.
‘And that course is…?’
The astrologer looked up into two eyes as grey and bland as steel.
‘Um. We stop looking?’ he ventured.
‘Precisely! We use the gifts the Creator has given us, to whit, we look down and what is it we see?’
The astrologer groaned inwardly. He looked down.
‘Tiles?’ he hazarded.
‘Tiles, yes, which together make up the…?’ Trymon looked expectant.
‘Zodiac?’ ventured the astrologer, a desperate man.
‘Right! And therefore all we need do is cast Rincewind’s precise horoscope and we will know exactly where he is!’
The astrologer grinned like a man who, having tap-danced on quicksand, feels the press of solid rock under his feet.
‘I shall need to know his precise place and time of birth,’ he said.
‘Easily done. I copied them out of the University files before I came up here.’
The astrologer looked at the notes, and his forehead wrinkled. He crossed the room and pulled out a wide drawer full of charts. He read the notes again. He picked up a complicated pair of compasses and made some passes across the charts. He picked up a small brass astrolobe and cranked it carefully. He whistled between his teeth. He picked up a piece of chalk and scribbled some numbers on a blackboard.
Trymon, meanwhile, had been staring out at the new star. He thought: the legend in the Pyramid of Tsort says that whoever says the Eight Spells together when the Disc is in danger will obtain all that he truly desires. And it will be so soon!
And he thought: I remember Rincewind, wasn’t he the scruffy boy who always came bottom of the class when we were training? Not a magical bone in his body. Let me get him in front of me, and we’ll see if we can’t get all eight—
The astrologer said ‘Gosh’ under his breath. Trymon spun around.
‘Well?’
‘Fascinating chart,’ said the astrologer, breathlessly. His forehead wrinkled. ‘Bit strange, really,’ he said.
‘How strange?’
‘He was born under The Small Boring Group of Faint Stars which, as you know, lies between The Flying Moose and The Knotted String. It is said that even the ancients couldn’t find anything interesting to say about the sign, which—’
‘Yes, yes, get on with it,’ said Trymon irritably.
‘It’s the sign traditionally associated with chess board makers, sellers of onions, manufacturers of plaster images of small religious significance, and people allergic to pewter. Not a wizard’s sign at all. And at the time of his birth the shadow of Cori Celesti—’
‘I don’t want to know all the mechanical details,’ growled Trymon. ‘Just give me his horoscope.’
The astrologer, who had been rather enjoying himself, sighed and made a few additional calculations.
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘It reads as follows: “Today is a good time for making new friends. A good deed may have unforeseen consequences. Don’t upset any druids. You will soon be going on a very strange journey. Your lucky food is small cucumbers. People pointing knives at you are probably up to no good. PS, we really mean it about druids”.’
‘Druids?’ said Trymon. ‘I wonder…’
‘Are you all right?’ said Twoflower. Rincewind opened his eyes.
The wizard sat up hurriedly and grabbed Twoflower by the shirt.
‘I want to leave here!’ he said urgently. ‘Right now!’
‘But there’s going to be an ancient and traditional ceremony!’
‘I don’t care how ancient! I want the feel of honest cobbles under my feet, I want the old familiar smell of cesspits, I want to go where there’s lots of people and fires and roofs and walls and friendly things like that! I want to go
He found that he had this sudden desperate longing for the fuming, smoky streets of Ankh-Morpork, which was always at its best in the spring, when the gummy sheen on the turbid waters of the Ankh River had a special iridescence and the eaves were full of birdsong, or at least birds coughing rhythmically.
A tear sprang to his eye as he recalled the subtle play of light on the Temple of Small Gods, a noted local landmark, and a lump came to his throat when he remembered the fried fish stall on the junction of Midden Street and The Street of Cunning Artificers. He thought of the gherkins they sold there, great green things lurking at the bottom of their jar like drowned whales. They called to Rincewind across the miles, promising to introduce him to the pickled eggs in the next jar.
He thought of the cosy livery stable lofts and warm gratings where he spent his nights. Foolishly, he had sometimes jibed at this way of life. It seemed incredible now, but he had found it boring.
