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'The picture box,' said Twoflower. 'I must get a picture of this!'
'Can't you just remember it?' said Bethan, not looking at him.
'I might forget.'
'I won't ever forget,' she said. 'It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.'
'Much better than pigeons and billiard balls,' agreed Cohen. 'I'll give you that, Rincewind. How's it done?'
'I dunno,' said Rincewind.
'The star's getting smaller,' said Bethan.
Rincewind was vaguely aware of Twoflower's voice arguing with the demon who lived in the box and painted the pictures. It was quite a technical argument, about field depths and whether or not the demon still had enough red paint.
It should be pointed out that currently Great A'Tuin was very pleased and contented, and feelings like that in a brain the size of several large cities are bound to radiate out. In fact most people on the Disc were currently in a state of mind normally achievable only by a lifetime of dedicated meditation or about thirty seconds of illegal herbage.
That's old Twoflower, Rincewind thought. It's not that he doesn't appreciate beauty, he just appreciates it in his own way. I mean, if a poet sees a daffodil he stares at it and writes a long poem about it, but Twoflower wanders off to find a book on botany. And treads on it. It's right what Cohen said. He just looks at things, but nothing he looks at is ever the same again. Including me, I suspect.
The Disc's own sun rose. The star was already dwindling, and it wasn't quite so much competition. Good reliable Disc light poured across the enraptured landscape, like a sea of gold.
Or, as the more reliable observers generally held, like golden syrup.
That is a nice dramatic ending, but life doesn't work like that and there were other things that had to happen.
There was the Octavo, for example.
As the sunlight hit it the book snapped shut and started to fall back to the tower. And many of the observers realised that dropping towards them was the single most magical thing on the Discworld.
The feeling of bliss and brotherhood evaporated along with the morning dew. Rincewind and Twoflower were elbowed aside as the crowd surged forward, struggling and trying to climb up one another, hands outstretched.
The Octavo dropped into the centre of the shouting mass. There was a snap. A decisive snap, the sort of snap made by a lid that doesn't intend to be opening in a hurry.
Rincewind peered between someone's legs at Twoflower.
'Do you know what I think's going to happen?' he said, grinning.
'What?'
'I think that when you open the Luggage there's just going to be your laundry in there, that's what I think.'
'Oh dear.'
'I think the Octavo knows how to look after itself. Best place for it, really.'
'I suppose so. You know, sometimes I get the feeling that the Luggage knows exactly what it's doing.'
'I know what you mean.'
They crawled to the edge of the milling crowd, stood up, dusted themselves off and headed for the steps. No-one paid them any attention.
'What are they doing now?' said Twoflower, trying to see over the heads of the throng.
'It looks as though they're trying to lever it open,' said Rincewind.
There was a snap and a scream.
'I think the Luggage rather enjoys the attention,' said Twoflower, as they began their cautious descent.
