Where people go wrong is in ignoring all the thousands of other steps that come after it. They make the single step of deciding to become one with the universe, and for some reason forget to take the logical next step of living for seventy years on a mountain and a daily bowl of rice and yak-butter tea that would give it any kind of meaning. While evidence says that the road to Hell is paved with good intentions, they're probably all on first steps.
The Dean was always at his best at times like this. He led the way between the huge, ardent copper vats, prodding with his staff into dark corners and going ‘Hut! Hut!’ under his breath.
‘Why would it turn up here?’ whispered the Lecturer in Recent Runes.
‘Point of reality instability,’ said Ridcully, standing on tiptoe to look into a bleaching cauldron. ‘Every damn thing turns up here. You should know that by now.’
‘But why
‘No talking!’ hissed the Dean, and leapt out into the next alleyway, staff held protectively in front of him.
‘Hall!’ he screamed, and then looked disappointed.
‘Er, how big would this sock-stealing thing be?’ said the Senior Wrangler.
‘Don't know,’ said Ridcully. He peered behind a stack of washboards. ‘Come to think of it, I must've lost a ton of socks over the years.’
‘Me too,’ said the Lecturer in Recent Runes.
‘So… should we be looking in small places or very
‘Good point,’ said Ridcully. ‘Dean, why do you keep referring to sheds all the time?’
‘It's “hut”, Mustrum,’ said the Dean. ‘It means it means…’
‘Small wooden building?’ Ridcully suggested.
‘Well, sometimes, agreed, but other times… well, you just have to say “hut”.’
‘This sock creature… does it just steal them, or does it eat them?’ said the Senior Wrangler.
‘Valuable contribution, that man,’ said Ridcully, giving tip on the Dean. ‘Right, pass the word along: no one is to look like a sock, understand?’
‘How can you—’ the Dean began, and stopped.
They all heard it.
It was a busy sound, the sound of something with a serious appetite to satisfy.
‘The Eater of Socks,’ moaned the Senior Wrangler, with his eyes shut.
‘How many tentacles would you expect it to have?’ said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. ‘I mean, roughly speaking?’
‘It's a very large sort of noise, isn't it?’ said the Bursar.
‘To the nearest dozen, say,’ said the Lecturer in Recent Runes, edging backwards.
‘It'd probably tear our socks off as soon as look at us…’ wailed the Senior Wrangler.
‘Ah. So at least five or six tentacles, then, would you say?’ said the Lecturer in Recent Runes.
‘Seems to me it's coming from one of the washing engines,’ said the Dean.
The engines were each two storeys high, and usually only used when the University's population soared during term time. A huge treadmill connected to a couple of big bleached wooden paddles in each vat, which were heated via the fireboxes underneath. In full production the washing engines needed at least half a dozen people to manhandle the loads, maintain the fires and oil the scrubbing arms. Ridcully had seen them at work once, when it had looked like a picture of a very clean and hygienic Hell, the kind of place soap might go to when it died.
The Dean stopped by the door to the boiler area.
‘Something's in here,’ he whispered. ‘Listen!’
‘It's stopped! It knows we're here!’ he hissed. ‘All right? Ready? Hut!’
‘No!’ squeaked the Lecturer in Recent Runes.
‘I'll open the door and you be ready to stop it! One… two…
The sleigh soared into the snowy sky.
ON THE WHOLE, I THINK THAT WENT VERY WELL, DON'T YOU?
‘Yes, master,’ said Albert.
I WAS RATHER PUZZLED BY THE LITTLE BOY IN THE CHAIN MAIL, THOUGH.
‘I think that was a Watchman, master.’
REALLY? WELL, HE WENT AWAY HAPPY, AND THAT's THE MAIN THING.
‘Is it, master?’ There was worry in Albert's voice. Death's osmotic nature tended to pick up new ideas altogether too quickly. Of course, Albert understood why they had to do all this, but the master… well, sometimes the master lacked the necessary mental equipment to work out what should be true and what shouldn't …
AND I THINK I'VE GOT THE LAUGH WORKING REALLY WELL NOW. HO. HO. HO.
‘Yeah, sir, very jolly,’ said Albert. He looked down at the list. ‘Still, work goes on, eh? The next one's pretty close, master, so I should keep them down low if I was you.’
JOLLY GOOD. HO. HO. HO.
‘Sarah the little match girl, doorway of Thimble's Pipe and Tobacco Shop, Money Trap Lane, it says here.’
AND WHAT DOES
‘Dunno. Never sent a letter. By the way, just a tip, you don't have to say “Ho, ho, ho,” all the time, master. Let's see… It says here…’ Albert's lips moved as he read.
I EXPECT A DOLL IS ALWAYS ACCEPTABLE. OR A SOFT TOY OF SOME DESCRIPTION. THE SACK SEEMS TO KNOW. WHAT'VE WE GOT FOR HER, ALBERT? HO. HO. HO.
Something small was dropped into his hand.
‘This,’ said Albert.
OH.
There was a moment of horrible silence as they both stared at the lifetimer.
‘You're for life, not just for Hogswatch,’ prompted Albert. ‘Life goes on, master. In a manner of speaking.’
BUT THIS IS
‘Very traditional time for this sort of thing, I understand,’ said Albert.
I THOUGHT IT WAS THE SEASON TO BE JOLLY, said Death.
‘Ah, well, yes, you see, one of the things that makes folks even more jolly is knowing there're people who ain't,’ said Albert, in a matter-of-fact voice. ‘That's how it goes, master. Master?’
NO. Death stood Up. THIS IS HOW IT SHOULDN'T GO.
The University's Great Hall had been set for the Hogswatchnight Feast. The tables were already groaning under the weight of the cutlery, and it would be hours before any real food was put on them. It was hard to see where there would be space for any among the drifts of ornamental fruit bowls and forests of wine glasses.
The oh god picked up a menu and turned to the fourth page.
‘Course four: molluscs and crustaceans. A medley of lobster, crab, king crab, prawn, shrimp, oyster, clam, giant mussel, green-lipped mussel, thin-lipped mussel and Fighting Tiger Limpet. With a herb and butter dipping sauce. Wine: “Three Wizards” Chardonnay, Year of the Talking Frog. Beer: Winkles' Old Peculiar.’ He put it down. ‘That's
‘They're big men in the food department,’ said Susan.
He turned the menu over. On the cover was the University's coat of arms and, over it, three large letters in ardent script:
‘Is this some sort of magic word?’
‘No.’ Susan sighed. ‘They put it on all their menus. You might call it the unofficial motto of the University.’
