The Science of Discworld IV Judgement Da

TWENTY-ONE



* * *



THE TURTLE MOVES!





Marjorie drew breath.

‘My name, sir, is Marjorie Daw, and I am chief librarian for the borough of Four Farthings in London, England, er, on Earth. I am fluent in Latin and Greek, also in French, of course; and well versed in the patois of Essex … whatever. Today, I am also rather proud to have learned the library cataloguing language of Ook – a great revelation!’

As she spoke, Marjorie was aware of the double doors at the end of the room swinging open, causing a susurrus among the audience. All eyes turned towards a tall white-haired man who looked rather like a farm worker; although, Marjorie thought, a farm worker would never walk with such presence, regardless of how many pigs he had. Moreover, the man strolling towards Lord Vetinari had a large hand-axe, which was attached to his body by a careful arrangement of leather strips.

Lord Vetinari was watching the oncoming man with a smile on his face, while behind Marjorie the susurration had died away into silence, which was somehow a lot noisier by the time it hit the brain, where it thundered. The Patrician was on his feet as the interloper reached him; he held out his hand in welcome.

‘Pastor Oats!fn1 I thought that my envoys hadn’t been able to track you down. Do please take a seat.’

‘You know me, Havelock; I travel at the speed of an ass, and thank you, but I will stand – I’ve spent far too much time on my ass as it is.’

Nobody tittered, nobody laughed; Pastor Oats held the floor, and when he began speaking you could hear the listening.

He looked around the room and said, ‘The Church of the Latter-Day Omnians has, in my opinion, no claim whatsoever to the orb known as Roundworld, and neither do the sapient species on Roundworld itself. After all, however unlikely, they didn’t make it; it made them, with a little deference to the multiple, tireless and curiously inventive processes that altogether made it what it is today – a decent paradise for those who approach it in the right state of mind, and ultimately a charnel house for those who do not.’

Marjorie sat back and listened intently. She wasn’t sure about being described as a ‘sapient species’, but you didn’t argue with a man with an axe, no matter how wise he seemed. Not if you wanted to continue to have fingers to turn the pages of the books you loved, anyway.

‘Intelligence helps,’ Pastor Oats continued, ‘but it must be informed intelligence and I am sorry to say that the Latter-Day Omnians possess neither. The turtle moves! And that is a truth, but certainly not the whole of the truth, because it doesn’t move for Roundworld, a world that more or less moves for itself. It will take real stupidity to stop it doing so, and that kind of stupidity begins when facts are denied.’

This was food and drink to Marjorie. She liked facts.

‘Lord Vetinari, you sent for me to ask my advice, and I have given it to you,’ the pastor concluded. ‘Allow the wizards to be stewards of Roundworld. Admittedly, they are often proud, and wrong, but ultimately they search for the truth, by trial and error, and this is how it should be. The search for truth might be flawed, but the search itself is priceless!’

Vetinari nodded and reached for his gavel.

‘My Lord!’ Stackpole objected. ‘That is merely one man’s opinion. I can call a dozen expert witnesses to refute it. Among them persons of the highest—’ Dramatically, he fell to his knees in an attitude of prayer and continued, ‘As Om is my witness! I call upon the great god …’

There was a ripple in the world, followed by the appearance of an imposing figure in full morning dress and sporting an exquisite hairstyle. He glanced at Mister Stackpole and said, ‘Oh, it’s you … again. I am indeed your witness, Mister Stackpole, but you don’t call me – I call you. There are rules, you know.’

Later, there was some discussion as to whether the appearance of the great god in, as it were, the flesh, caused a kerfuffle or merely a very large stir. A small, but pernicious argument about this point continued for some considerable time among the audience.

Mister Slant, raising his voice over the hubbub, or possibly tumult, said, ‘For the record, I ask the witness to state his name, address, and profession.’

The great god raised an eyebrow at Mister Slant.

Mister Slant returned the raised eyebrow and said, ‘As you say, sir, there must be rules.’

‘Oh, all right,’ said Om. ‘Om. No fixed abode. Great god. Now get on with the questions – I have a swanky dinner to attend in Valhalla.’

Mister Stackpole spluttered in anger. ‘Mister Slant can’t ask him questions! It’s my job to interpret the ways of God to Man! We’d all be out of a job if He just comes down here and tells us all what to do – talks to anyone!’

‘I can do anything I want,’ said the great god. ‘The agent cannot transcend the principal. Now, what’s all this nonsense about the Disc being round? Roundworld is round. The Disc is flat. Believe me, I know. I know everything, for a given value of everything and, if it comes to that, a given value of know.’

Vetinari again reached for his gavel.

Stackpole, dredging up a shred of resistance, said, ‘It is a test of my faith … I must … My Lord, what concerns the court is not truth. It is belief. And once there is no belief, there is nothing.’

‘Since when should belief trump truth, Mister Stackpole?’ asked Vetinari.

‘This case does not depend upon the actual shape of the so-called Disc, my Lord. The substance of the Church’s case is that Unseen University has infringed our theological property rights to the concept of a spherical world. They have committed blasphemy.’

‘If they have,’ said Om, ‘I can deal with it myself. I don’t need your help. Personally, I don’t see a problem. The turtle moves. Get used to it.’

Ignoring his god, Stackpole ploughed on, ‘The Church claims custody of the Round World. The true shape of the Disc is irrelevant to our case.’

Vetinari moved as if to replace his gavel.

‘You misunderstand, Mister Stackpole,’ Om countered. ‘I was not referring to the true shape of the Disc; I was referring to the origin of your belief that the Disc is round.’ He turned towards Ponder Stibbons. ‘Mister Stibbons, I was present, extra-dimensionally, when you switched on your recent experiment in quantum thau-modynamics – your Great Big Thing. But you neglected One Tiny Little Thing.’

The Librarian gave Ponder a sharp glance. ‘Ook?’

‘Of course,’ cried Ponder. ‘You’re absolutely right! I assumed that when narrativium propagates through L-space, it doesn’t interact with librarium! But if we invoke Crumbworthy’s Perpetually Overlooked Constraint, an otherwise negligible interaction could weaken the fabric of L-space and create a chronoclastic fistula! Then the thaum would spontaneously split, and mythons would leak one way and antimythons the other way. I … er …’

‘Mythcalculated,’ said Om. ‘Since L-space links libraries across all of space and time, the concept of a flat Disc leaked into the distant past of Roundworld. And the concept of a round world leaked the other way, into the distant past of Discworld – where it became a central feature of the old Omnian religion.’

‘Discworld reality became a Roundworld myth, and Roundworld rules became a Discworld belief!’ said Ponder.

Marjorie jabbed the Archchancellor in the ribs. ‘So, Unseen University didn’t get the idea of a round world from the ancient roots of Omnianism!’

‘No,’ said Ridcully. ‘They got it from us.’

‘Game, set and myth,’ said the Dean. ‘Done and dusted.’

Ridcully looked sceptical and continued, ‘I wouldn’t count on that. In my experience, fanatics don’t change their minds whatever the evidence. Even if their own god were to appear before them and tell them they were wrong, they would still—’

‘Om is not mocked! That is to say that our concept of the true being of Om is not mocked!’ yelled Stackpole. ‘The Disc is round! The turtle does not move! There is no tur—’

‘Oh, do shut up, you horrible little man,’ said Om. ‘And I don’t want any more of this, or I’ll start again and give ants a try.’ He vanished.

‘Well, that’s one dissenting opinion …’ Stackpole began, picking himself up from the floor.

Vetinari picked up his gavel with a hopeful expression. ‘The case is closed. My judgement is that the Church of Latter-Day Omnians’ claim to custody of the Round World has no merit, and it shall remain in the care of Unseen University, in perpetuity.’ He banged the gavel, then glared at Ridcully, raising his eyebrow without twitching a muscle, just to show them. ‘I hope you look after it with more care than you have in the past, Mustrum.’

‘O Great God Om!’ All eyes turned on Stackpole as he threw himself prostrate, yelling and frothing at the mouth. ‘Help your true believers in their hour of need! Confound the lies of the infidels!’

‘He’s wasting his time,’ said the Dean. ‘His god has already pronounced judgement. Why can’t he just accept—?’

But Stackpole took no notice. ‘We will not stand for this! We will continue fighting! There is a truth even higher than the truth!’

Suddenly a small group of hooded figures was in the room at speed, taking the onlookers by surprise and gathering around Lord Vetinari, who in the circumstances appeared to be unflustered, only thoughtful. One of the hooded men grabbed Roundworld from its tripod and ran with it back towards the entrance, and a voice by Marjorie rang out, ‘If our demands are not met, his Lordship and the precious Round World will both be destroyed! Death to the tyrant!’

Marjorie was impressed at her own presence of mind, but a librarian must be prepared for any eventuality, including terrorists. When in doubt strike first, making certain no valuable volumes are harmed, she reminded herself. Then she sank to her knees in front of the hooded man and pleaded for her life: ‘Oh, sir, please don’t kill me, sir, please, sir, I’m on my knees!’

That ringing plea was then echoed by a black figure that had suddenly been punched in the groin. One small blow for a librarian; one giant step for Roundworld, Marjorie thought, gratified to hear a crunch. And mere seconds after this first challenge, she was pelting down the aisle after the retreating bandit carrying her home. Her library and all of the planet surrounding it was accelerating away to only God – or more likely Richard Dawkins – knew where.

Being the fastest track and field runner in Roedean School helped. The fleeing bandit hadn’t had her training, and certainly didn’t have her stamina, and was flagging as he zigzagged through streets that were quite alien to Marjorie. She had to keep him in sight; she would be completely lost if he got away, so she girded her loins, metaphysically speaking, gulped for breath and sped on. Now it was beginning to look as if the wretched miscreant was weakening – she was sure of it – and this reassurance gave her wings.

She could hear the sounds of hue and cry dwindling behind her. And then the figure stopped dead, turned round, screamed something incoherent and flung the globe directly at her head.

fn1 The Quite Reverend Mightily-Praiseworthy-Are-Ye-Who-Exalteth-Om Oats, a mainstream Omnian priest.