Interesting Times

'Certainly.'

'And officially call myself a wizard?'

'Of course. With any kind of spelling.'

'And never have to go anywhere again as long as I live?'

'Fine. We'll actually ban you leaving the premises, if you like.'

'And a new hat?'

'What?'

'A new hat. This one's practically had it.'

'Two new hats.'

'Sequins?'

'Of course. And those, you know, like glass chandelier things? Lots of those all round the brim. As many as you like. And we'll spell Wizzzard with three Z's.

Rincewind sighed. 'Oh, all right. I'll do it.'

Ponder's genius found itself rather cramped when it came to explaining things to people. And this was the case now, as the wizards forgathered to kick some serious magic.

'Yes, but you see, Archchancellor, he's being sent to the opposite side of the Disc, you see—'

Ridcully sighed. 'It's spinnin', isn't it,' he said. 'We're all going the same way. It stands to reason. If people're going the other way just because they're on the Counterweight Continent we'd crash into them once a year. I mean twice.'

'Yes, yes, they're spinning the same way, of course, but the direction of motion is entirely opposite. I mean,' said Ponder, lapsing into logic, 'you have to think about vectors, you, you have to ask yourself: what direction would they go in if the Disc wasn't here?'

The wizards stared at him.

'Down,' said Ridcully.

'No, no, no, Archchancellor,' said Ponder. 'They wouldn't go down because there'd be nothing to pull them down, they—'

'You don't need anything to pull you down. Down's where you go if there's nothing to keep you up.'

'They'd keep on going in the same direction!' shouted Ponder.

'Right. Round and round,' said Ridcully. He rubbed his hands together. 'You've got to maintain a grip if you want to be a wizard, lad. How're we doing, Runes?'

'I… I can make out something,' said the Lecturer in Recent Runes, squinting into the crystal ball. 'There's a lot of interference…'

The wizards gathered round. White specks filled the crystal. There were vague shapes just visible in the mush. Some of them could be human.

'Very peaceful place, the Agatean Empire,' said Ridcully. 'Very tranquil. Very cultured. They set great store in politeness.'

'Well, yes,' said the Lecturer in Recent Runes, 'I heard it was because people who aren't tranquil and quiet get serious bits cut off, don't they? I heard the Empire has a tyrannical and repressive government!'

'What form of government is that?' said Ponder Stibbons.

'A tautology,' said the Dean, from above.

'How serious are these bits?' said Rincewind. They ignored him.

'I heard that gold's very common there,' said the Dean. 'Lying around like dirt, they say. Rincewind could bring back a sackful.'

'I'd rather bring back all my bits,' said Rincewind.

After all, he thought, I'm only the one who's going to end up in the middle of it all. So please don't anyone bother to listen to me.

'Can't you stop it blurring like that?' said the Archchancellor.

'I'm sorry, Archchancellor—'

'These bits… big bits or small bits?' said Rincewind, unheard.

'Just find us an open space with something about the right size and weight.'

'It's very hard to—'

'Very serious bits? Are we in arms and legs territory here?'

'They say it's very boring there. Their biggest curse is 'May you live in interesting times', apparently.'

'There's a thing… it's very blurry. Looks like a wheelbarrow or something. Quite small, I think.'

'—or toes, ears, that kind of thing?'

'Good, let's get started,' said Ridcully.

'Er, I think it'll help if he's a bit heavier than the thing we move here,' said Ponder. 'He won't arrive at any speed, then. I think—'

'Yes, yes, thank you very much, Mister Stibbons, now get in the circle and let us see that staff crackle, there's a good chap.'

'Fingernails? Hair?'

Rincewind tugged at the robe of Ponder Stibbons, who seemed slightly more sensible than the others.

'Er. What's my next move here?' he said.

'Urn. About six thousand miles, I hope,' said Ponder Stibbons.

'But… I mean… Have you got any advice?'

Ponder wondered how to put things. He thought: I've done my best with Hex, but the actual business will be undertaken by a bunch of wizards whose idea of experimental procedure is to throw it and then sit down and argue about where it's going to land. We want to change your position with that of something six thousand miles away which, whatever the Archchancellor says, is heading through space in a quite different direction. The key is precision. It's no good using any old travelling spell. It'd come apart halfway, and so would you. I'm pretty sure that we'll get you there in one or, at worst, two pieces. But we've no way of knowing the weight of the thing we change you with. If it's pretty much the same weight as you, then it might just all work out provided you don't mind jogging on the spot when you land. But if it's a lot heavier than you, then my suspicion is that you'll appear over there travelling at the sort of speed normally only experienced by sleep-walkers in clifftop villages in a very terminal way.

'Er,' he said. 'Be afraid. Be very afraid.'

'Oh, that,' said Rincewind. 'No problem there. I'm good at that.'

'We're going to try to put you in the centre of the continent, where Hunghung is believed to be,' said Ponder.

'The capital city?'

'Yes. Er.' Ponder felt guilty. 'Look, whatever happens I'm sure you'll get there alive, which is more than would happen if it'd just been left to them. And I'm pretty sure you'll end up on the right continent.'

'Oh, good.'

'Come along, Mr Stibbons. We're all agog to hear how you wish us to do this,' said Ridcully.

'Ah, er, yes. Right. Now, you, Mr Rincewind, if you will go and stand in the centre of the octagon… thank you. Um. You see, gentlemen, what has always been the problem with teleporting over large distances is Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle,[12] since the object teleported, that's from tele, 'I see', and porte, 'to go', the whole meaning 'I see it's gone', er, the object teleported, er, no matter how large, is reduced to a thaumic particle and is therefore the subject of an eventually fatal dichotomy: it can either know what it is or where it is going, but not both. Er, the tension this creates in the morphic field eventually causes it to disintegrate, leaving the subject as a randomly shaped object, er, smeared across up to eleven dimensions. But I'm sure you all know this.'

There was a snore from the Chair of Indefinite Studies, who was suddenly giving a lecture in room 3B.

Rincewind was grinning. At least, his mouth had gaped open and his teeth were showing.