The Science of Discworld IV Judgement Da

FIVE



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MAGIC ISN’T REAL





Miss Marjorie Daw, senior librarian, woke up feeling to her surprise rather chipper; full, as it were, of beans. She felt around and everything important still seemed to be there; and most certainly she was sleeping in an extremely good and comfortable bed, leaving only the minor problem that it was not hers – a state of affairs that hadn’t pertained for some time. However, anybody who knew the Dewey decimal system by heart was a person not to panic until the situation had been most carefully considered. Clearly she was all in one piece and, she now recognised, extremely hungry. Then she noticed that on the little table beside the bed was a prominent handwritten note which said, ‘If you require anything, please ring the bell; if you do not require anything then don’t ring.’

For some reason she was rather taken by the thoughtfulness and careful thinking evidenced by the little missive; it showed a sensible mind of the sort that was in short supply these days. She therefore carefully rang the bell, and it was answered by a brisk young woman who identified herself as Glenda, who began by saying, ‘Did you sleep well? Strictly speaking, ladies who are not kitchen staff are not allowed in this university. But quite frankly it doesn’t seem to matter all that much, especially if you dig your heels in, and may I say you have some elegantly high ones.’

Still bemused, Marjorie said, ‘Yes, Jimmy Choos – not exactly librarian footwear, but it scares the daylights out of the city councillors when it comes to the budget.’

Glenda smiled and said, ‘The Archchancellor knows that you are a librarian; I will take you to him shortly. Earlier today I took the liberty of getting together some new clothes for someone of your size and height; they’re in the wardrobe of your room if you haven’t already noticed, and I will come back to get you in fifteen minutes. Can I answer any questions at this point?’

Marjorie’s brain was not exactly spinning – a more definitive description would be that it felt as if it had spent some time in a cocktail shaker. There had been – what? – the sense of motion, gone in an instant; and then, for heaven’s sake, some sort of garden party? Then an inconclusive conversation with a bearded man who was probably from Balliol, to judge by his arrogance; although it was also perfectly charming arrogance, sufficient to make him appear quite likeable – like a man who has in fact earned the right to be arrogant. But beyond that everything else seemed to be a busy mélange of sights, noises and people. She most certainly knew who she was, and also could remember her telephone number, because in fact she had tried it and there was no signal here, wherever this place was. At least, she thought, it is civilised, but I am a long way from home, and … how the hell do I know the language?

All she could do was get changed – remarkable how the wizards had managed to get clothes exactly in her size – and wait for Glenda to come back, which she did after exactly fifteen minutes, greeting her cheerfully, asking how she was again, then walking with her through the grounds of this strange but hospitable university.

They were shortly joined by the elderly but handsome man who called himself an Arch Chancellor, a title Marjorie had never heard of before. She had to admit, though, that he was pretty arch, appearing to be more of a showman than an academic; he was indeed flamboyant as, chattering all the time, he carefully took her hand and led her to a table in the garden nearby.

Marjorie was keen on the concept of politeness, so she said, ‘Excuse me, sir, but I cannot recall your name.’

‘Only to be expected, Miss Marjorie Daw. I am told that your disorientation should shortly go away, which of course is why I am taking tea with you here in an environment that is likely to be more salubrious to you than my study; and besides I like the fresh air and trust that you do too. I have a lot to tell you in a short period but – where are my manners? Do you like meringues?’

He was watching her, still with an innocent expression, and Marjorie drew herself together sufficiently to say cautiously, ‘The crackly ones or the soft ones?’

Ridcully said, ‘For preference the crackly ones, the ones that crumble and crunch – although the other kind can be brought out if you so wish.’ He handed her a plate of shining meringues, and said, ‘I thought so; you look like a cruncher if ever I saw one. No namby-pamby, fiddly sticky ones for you.’

‘And how is it, sir, that I suddenly feel so cheerful?’ She paused, suddenly suspicious, remembering the exact-fit clothes. ‘Have you been Googling me?’

‘No, madam, because I do not know what googling is – although I may be goggling, of course. And now, in this little oasis of quiet in a noisy world, I would like you to sit down and listen to me. An Archchancellor learns how to read people, and you are a most organised person, extremely well read, amazingly so. I can see that, and a colleague of your profession has assured me of all these things, although of course you will not have met him as yet. Various types of coffee and tea will be here very shortly, but before you say anything, please let me explain – and believe me, dear Miss Daw, it’s going to be a long explanation!’

The outriders of twilight were metaphorically at least putting on their spurs when Ridcully carefully topped up Marjorie’s cup for the last time and said, ‘And there you are, or more accurately, here you are; and to answer your first question: yes, we can get you back to Earth; although if you don’t mind I rather prefer the term Roundworld; but that is of no moment at the moment, as it were, because we do have a problem at the moment, which is appearing to make it impossible to send you back the other way. This hiatus should not take very long, and I do apologise; but there’s a will, and we are looking for the way; as I said, normally we could do this with almost a wave of a hand, but alas, a mechanical problem has caused something of an obstruction.’

Marjorie drew enough breath for the sentences she was confronting and said, ‘Mister Archchancellor …’

Ridcully quickly held up a hand and said, ‘Call me Mustrum, if you don’t find that too familiar.’

She hesitated and said, ‘Very well … Mustrum. I do find you quite unfamiliar, but in a very familiar way.’ She smiled, and added, ‘Of course I am aware of science fiction; and some of it is extremely good. But somehow I don’t think it should work with wizards. For truly, after all, magic isn’t real.’ She hesitated again for a moment, and then added, more as a statement than a question, ‘Is it?’