“Please give me the bomb, sir,” said the man with the metallic thing. “Carefully, please.”
“This thing?” said Rincewind. “You have it! I don’t want it!” The man took it very carefully and put it on the floor. The seated men relaxed, and one of them started speaking urgently to the wall. The wizard watched him in amazement.
“Don’t move!” snapped the man with the metal—an amulet, Rincewind decided, it must be an amulet. The swarthy man backed into the corner.
“That was a very brave thing you did,” said Amuletholder to Rincewind. “You know that?”
“What?”
“What’s the matter with your friend.”
“Friend?”
Rincewind looked down at Twoflower, who was still slumbering peacefully. That was no surprise. What was really surprising was that Twoflower was wearing new clothes. Strange clothes. His britches now ended just above his knees. Above that he wore some sort of vest of brightly-striped material. On his head was a ridiculous little straw hat. With a feather in it.
An awkward feeling around the leg regions made Rincewind look down. His clothes had changed, too. Instead of the comfortable old robe, so marvelously well-adapted for speed into action in all possible contingencies, his legs were encased in cloth tubes. He was wearing a jacket of the same gray material…
Until now he’d never heard the language the man with the amulet was using. It was uncouth and vaguely Hublandish—so why could he understand every word?
Let’s see, they’d suddenly appeared in this dragon after, they’d materialized in this drag, they’d sudd, they’d, they’d—they had struck up a conversation in the airport so naturally they had chosen to sit together on the plane, and he’d promised to show Jack Zweiblumen around when they got back to the States. Yes, that was it. And then Jack had been taken ill and he’d panicked and come through here and surprised this hijacker. Of course. What on earth was “Hublandish?”
Dr. Rjinswand rubbed his forehead. What he could do with was a drink.
Ripples of paradox spread out across the sea of causality.
Possibly the most important point that would have to be borne in mind by anyone outside the sum totality of the multiverse was that although the wizard and the tourist had indeed only recently appeared in an aircraft in midair, they had also at one and the same time been riding on that airplane in the normal course of things. That is to say: while it was true that they had just appeared in this particular set of dimensions, it was also true that they had been living in them all along. It is at this point that normal language gives up, and goes and has a drink.
The point is that several quintillion atoms had just materialized (however, they had not. See below) in a universe where they should not strictly had been. The usual upshot of this sort of thing is a vast explosion but, since universes are fairly resilient things, this particular universe had saved itself by instantaneously unraveling its space-time continuum back to a point where the surplus atoms could safely be accommodated and then rapidly rewinding back to that circle of firelight which for want of a better term its inhabitants were wont to call The Present. This had of course changed history—there had been a few less wars, a few extra dinosaurs and so on—but on the whole the episode passed remarkably quietly.
Outside of this particular universe, however, the repercussions of the sudden double-take bounced to and fro across the face of The Sum of Things, bending whole dimensions and sinking galaxies without a trace.
All this was however totally lost on Dr. Rjinswand, 33, a bachelor, born in Sweden, raised in New Jersey, and a specialist in the breakaway oxidation phenomena of certain nuclear reactors. Anyway, he probably would not have believed any of it.
Zweiblumen still seemed to be unconscious. The stewardess, who had helped Rjinswand to his seat to the applause of the rest of the passengers, was bending over him anxiously.
“We’ve radioed ahead,” she told Rjinswand. “There’ll be an ambulance waiting when we land. Uh, it says on the passenger list that you’re a doctor—”
“I don’t know what’s wrong with him,” said Rjinswand hurriedly. “It might be a different matter if he was a Magnox reactor of course. Is it shock of some kind?”
“I’ve never—”
Her sentence terminated in a tremendous crash from the rear of the plane. Several passengers screamed. A sudden gale of air swept every loose magazine and newspaper into a screaming whirlwind that twisted madly down the aisle.
Something else was coming up the aisle. Something big and oblong and wooden and brass-bound. It had hundreds of legs. If it was what it seemed—a walking chest of the kind that appeared in pirate stories brim full of ill-gotten gold and jewels—then what would have been its lid suddenly gaped open.
There were no jewels. But there were lots of big square teeth, white as sycamore, and a pulsating tongue, red as mahogany.