The Science of Discworld IV Judgement Da

SEVENTEEN



* * *



THE WIZARD FORMERLY KNOWN AS THE DEAN





The black gallery wasn’t as black or foreboding as Marjorie had expected; it was just filled with pictures of long-deceased people with no indication of how they had become deceased, these facts lost now to memory as well as to life.

The wizards went into a huddle, and she heard the Archchancellor say, ‘Look! We have always known we were not your average planet; after all, we have sometimes passed other more ordinary planets as the turtle has moved, and often as you know by occult ways and means. I think the opposition will try to say that we are somehow on a freak world. I am debating with myself whether or not to allow them to feel that is the way forward. What do you say, Mister Stibbons?’

Ponder nodded. ‘A sensible plan, Archchancellor. If we live in a freak world, then surely we are all freaks; though somehow I do not think this will sit well with the population at large, especially the dwarfs who take offence at that sort of thing.’

‘Offending small people as well, then? Capital!’

Ponder shuddered, then very carefully said, ‘Very droll, Archchancellor, but I fear that little codicil might just do more harm than good, sir. Oh, and the Dean has arrived from Pseudopolis, and has made that inspection tour of Roundworld that you told Rincewind to arrange. He will be happy to testify. I thought you should know, Archchancellor.’

Ponder edged away a little; the subject of the Dean, or more accurately the person formerly known as the Dean, generally had the same effect on Mustrum Ridcully as the dropping of a hint in a game of chess – you did it at your peril. On the other hand, the Archchancellor could be mercurial at times, one of these times fortunately being now.

‘Henry! So he did get my message then. That’s nice of him, but of course he secretly yearns for the old Alma Pater.’fn1

Ponder sighed with relief. Relationships with Pseudopolis University had been rather dire after the Dean had left to become Archchancellor there; there had been much muttering about there being only one arch Chancellor on Discworld. But time had healed as it proverbially does, and relationships between the two universities were back to the standard for universities everywhere – which is to say they were keeping a friendly eye on the opposition, while politely and privately misleading them if necessary, but always smiling whilst doing so.

The Dean, still recovering from his visit to Roundworld, arrived in the gallery, breathless. He shook hands with Ridcully, who said, ‘You will have to be my ace in the hole, Henry. So happy that you could come in time.’

‘Don’t mention it, Mustrum! Nobody can tell wizards what to do – except of course other wizards! And even then they will argue and find fault, hurrah!’

‘Hurrah! Indeed, Henry! We test, test and test again – we are extremely testy people, and we would argue with our own grandmother if we thought she was wrong. “Nullius in verba”: we take nobody’s word for anything – including our own. The truth does not distil out of the air; it has to be thought – pursued, in fact!’

‘Yes indeed, old chap, and that at some cost. Faith can move mountains, but only as a metaphor, and the gods, if they exist, exist as bystanders.’

‘Hang on a minute, old fellow. What about Anoia, the goddess of things that get stuck in drawers? I myself was disembogued of a particularly difficult ladle by her, thanks be – but of course this is hardly worship: it is a simple mercantile matter. She keeps our drawers rattle-free, and our belief keeps her going. Quid pro quo, but without the quid.’

The Dean was enjoying the argument immensely. ‘But we must remember, Mustrum,’ he pointed out, ‘that Discworld and Roundworld are entirely different things, albeit that – as has been said – they have quite a lot in common. Well, when you forget about the turtle and if you ignore that terrifying core of overheated iron. Then you don’t really notice any difference, apart from the trolls, and so on. As Lord Vetinari says, sooner or later it all comes down to people and the commonality of mankind.’

The two Archchancellors were suddenly aware of the silence in the large room; they were the centre of attention and it seemed that everybody, some even holding teacups, was staring like people might if they saw two lobsters having a dance for no other reason than joie de vivre. There was even some applause, sprinkled with little spurts of laughter.

Marjorie didn’t join in, but watched the wizards carefully. The Archchancellor had told her about the origins of Roundworld, and had seemed, at the time, to be almost apologetic. He had also been very surprised when she laughed.

It was a strange world, this turtle world, but it didn’t seem outlandish when you were on it. As for the religious connotations, she couldn’t help thinking of the day her mother had died, which had been unpleasant, for all that the hospice had been able to do. Her father had taken off his clerical collar and dropped it in a waste basket without saying a word, and she had helped him with such things as probate and the sundry unpleasant hoops the bereaved must jump through to satisfy the temporal powers. But he had grieved, and for weeks afterwards he would barely talk to her beyond the niceties of please and thank you – those stayed with him, courtesy even where courtesy was not forthcoming, since he was that kind of a man.

She had spoken to him some months afterwards, worried that after years and years of growing doubt he might have now lost his faith, triggered by the death of his wife so unfairly. She understood that, she understood him, though she had never understood his bishop, who in her presence was pernicious, stupid and condescending.

Right in front of her – yes, she who had read the Bible by the time she was seven and who by the time she was twenty-five had decided that it had by rights to be put on the fantasy and science fiction shelf – he had talked at length, without a shred of evidence, about her mother now being ‘in God’s embrace’. He wouldn’t have been alone, either; there were many people who would insist that what he said was true when to her it manifestly was not. Yearning for a truth they had already declared was solid and immutable, they demanded – demanded – that their brand of fiction should be treated as fact.

She remembered a dreadful tidal wave that had almost devoured a small country, and she remembered how men and women all over the planet had found their way to the island and scrabbled in the ruins of stricken houses until they heard faint cries from below … The newspapers had called it a miracle; she had gone ballistic, screaming to the world at large: It wasn’t a bloody miracle! A miracle would have been the appearance of God and all His angels, coming to the rescue. But it wasn’t, not even close; it had been people – everyday people – helping other people, acknowledging them as people like themselves: a triumph for the commonality of mankind and the knowledge, slewed into our genes, that the person who you helped today might be the person who would pull you out from under a burning car tomorrow.

Support the clan. If one man tries to fight a mastodon, he is a dead man; a whole clan fights the mastodon, and everybody gets to eat for a week. And if enough of the clan work together, a couple of surprised former monkeys eventually land on the Moon …

And yet, as she had grown up and worked, building her career, she could all too easily spot those who thought that being a believer gave them power. She could see the shine on their faces, the determination never to let go – sometimes never even to think again for themselves.

After all, it had all been done for them already.

Right from the moment their God created their world in His own image. Which probably wasn’t that of a turtle …

fn1 Generally speaking, centres of learning are almost always referred to as feminine; rather surprising considering the length of time it took for any woman to get into one of them for a purpose higher than scrubbing the floors. Unseen University, of course, still marches to a different drum; it is a broken drum, but it is their drum, and they won’t have it any other way.