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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 . . .'
'Unless it was stuffed with rocks,' said the astrologer, in a wretched and, as it turned out, entirely unsuccessful attempt to lighten the mood.
'But come down he must – somewhere. Where? we ask ourselves.'
'Where?' said the astrologer loyally.
'And immediately a course of action suggests itself to us.'
'Ah,' said the astrologer, running in an attempt to keep up as the wizard stalked across The Two Fat Cousins.
'And that course is . . .?'
The astrologer looked up into two eyes as grey and bland as steel.
'Um. We stop looking?' he ventured.
'Precisely! We use the gifts the Creator has given us, to whit, we look down and what is it we see?'
The astrologer groaned inwardly. He looked down.
'Tiles?' he hazarded.
'Tiles, yes, which together make up the . . .?' Trymon looked expectant.
