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'Yes. I mean no. I mean, supposing you wanted to know when a particular star is going to rise —'
'Why?' said Twoflower, radiating polite interest.
'Well, maybe you want to know when to plant your crops,' said Belafon, sweating a little, 'or maybe—'
'I'll lend you my almanac, if you like,' said Twoflower.
'Almanac?'
'It's a book that tells you what day it is,' said Rincewind wearily. 'It'd be right up your leyline.'
Belafon stiffened. 'Book?' he said. 'Like, with paper?'
'Yes.'
That doesn't sound very reliable to me,' said the druid nastily. 'How can a book know what day it is? Paper can't count.'
He stamped off to the front of the rock, causing it to wallow alarmingly. Rincewind swallowed hard and beckoned Twoflower closer.
'Have you ever heard of culture shock?' he hissed.
'What's that?'
'It's what happens when people spend five hundred years trying to get a stone circle to work properly and then someone comes up with a little book with a page for every day and little chatty bits saying things like “Now is a good time to plant broad beans” and “Early to rise, early to bed, makes a man healthy, wealthy and dead,” and do you know what the most important thing to remember about culture shock.' Rincewind paused for breath, and moved his lips silently trying to remember where the sentence had got to, 'is?' he concluded.
'What?'
'Don't give it to a man flying a thousand ton rock.'
'Has it gone?'
Trymon peered cautiously over the battlements of the Tower of Art, the great spire of crumbling masonry that loomed over Unseen University. The cluster of students nd instructors of magic, far below, nodded.
'Are you sure?'
The bursar cupped his hands and shouted.
r winked at him and raised his arms again.
'To me, o spirits of—'
There was a thunderclap, an implosion of light and a moment of complete physical uncertainty during which even the walls seemed to turn in on themselves. Trymon heard a sharp intake of breath and then a dull, solid thump.
The room was suddenly silent.
After a few minutes Trymon crawled out from behind a chair and dusted himself off. He whistled a few bars of nothing much and turned towards the door with exaggerated care, looking at the ceiling as if he had never seen it before. He moved in a way that suggested he was attempting the world speed record for the nonchalant walk.
The Luggage squatted in the centre of the circle and opened its lid.
Trymon stopped. He turned very, very carefully, dreading what he might see.
The Luggage seemed to contain some clean laundry, smelling slightly of lavender. Somehow it was quite the most terrifying thing the wizard had ever seen.
'Well, er,' he said. 'You, um, wouldn't have seen another wizard around here, by any chance?'
The Luggage contrived to look more menacing.
'Oh,' said Trymon. 'Well, fine. It doesn't matter.'
