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That is big,' agreed Trymon. The word “huge” comes to mind.'
'Massive,' agreed the astrologer hurriedly.
'Hmm.'
Trymon paced the broad mosaic floor of the observatory, which was inlaid with the signs of the Disc zodiac. There were sixty-four of them, from Wezen the Double-headed Kangaroo to Gahoolie, the Vase of Tulips (a constellation of great religious significance whose meaning, alas, was now lost).
He paused on the blue and gold tilework of Mubbo the Hyaena, and turned suddenly.
'We're going to hit it?' he asked.
'I am afraid so, sir,' said the astrologer.
'Hmm.' Trymon walked a few paces forward, stroking his beard thoughtfully. He paused on the cusp of Okjock the Salesman and The Celestial Parsnip.
'I'm not an expert in these matters,' he said, 'but I imagine this would not be a good thing?'
'No, sir.'
'Very hot, stars?'
The astrologer swallowed. 'Yes, sir.'
'We'd be burned up?'
'Eventually. Of course, before that there would be discquakes, tidal waves, gravitational disruption and probably the atmosphere would be stripped away.'
'Ah. In a word, lack of decent organisation.'
The astrologer hesitated, and gave in. You could say so, sir.'
'People would panic?' 'Fairly briefly, I'm afraid.'
Hmm,' said Trymon, who was just passing over The Perhaps Gate and orbiting smoothly towards the Cow of Heaven. He squinted up again at the red gleam on the horizon. He appeared to reach a decision.
'We can't find Rincewind,' he said, 'and if we can't find Rincewind we can't find the eighth spell of the Octavo. But we believe that the Octavo must be read to avert catastrophe – otherwise why did the Creator leave it behind?'
'Perhaps He was just forgetful,' suggested the astrologer.
Trymon glared at him.
'The other Orders are searching all the lands between here and the Hub,' he continued, counting the points on his fingers, 'because it seems unreasonable that a man can fly into a cloud and not come out . . .'
It broke down the hubward door and escaped an hour ago, sir,' he yelled.
'Wrong,' said Trymon. 'It left, we escaped. Well, I'll be getting down, then. Did it get anyone?'
The bursar swallowed. He was not a wizard, but a kind, good-natured man who should not have had to see the things he had witnessed in the past hour. Of course, it wasn't unknown for small demons, coloured lights and various half-materialised imaginings to wander around the campus, but there had been something about the implacable onslaught of the Luggage that had unnerved him. Trying to stop it would have been like trying to wrestle a glacier.
It – it swallowed the Dean of Liberal Studies, sir,' he shouted.
Trymon brightened. 'It's an ill wind,' he murmured. He started down the long spiral staircase. After a while he smiled, a thin, tight smile. The day was definitely improving.
There was a lot of organising to do. And if there was something Trymon really liked, it was organising.
The rock swooped across the high plains, whipping snow from the drifts a mere few feet below. Belafon scuttled about urgently, smearing a little mistletoe ointment here, chalking a rune there, while Rincewind cowered in terror and exhaustion and Twoflower worried about his Luggage.
'Up ahead!' screamed the druid above the noise of the slipstream. 'Behold, the great computer of the skies!'
