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The genie looked shocked.
‘Red is bad for -’ it began.
‘- but any port in a storm,’ said Creosote hurriedly. ‘Or sauterne, even. But no umbrella in it.’ It dawned on the Seriph that this wasn’t the way to talk to the genie. He pulled himself together a bit. ‘No umbrella, by the Five Moons of Nasreem. Or bits of fruit salad or olives or curly straws or ornamental monkeys, I command thee by the Seventeen Siderites of Sarudin ‘
‘I’m not an umbrella person,’ said the genie sulkily.
‘It’s pretty sparse in here,’ said Conina, ‘Why don’t you furnish it?’
‘What I don’t understand,’ said Nijel, ‘is, if we’re all in the lamp I’m holding, then the me in the lamp is holding a smaller lamp and in that lamp-’
The genie waved his hands urgently.
‘Don’t talk about it!’ he commanded. ‘Please!’
Nijel’s honest brow wrinkled. ‘Yes, but,’ he said, ‘is there a lot of me, or what?’
‘It’s all cyclic, but stop drawing attention to it, yuh? … Oh, shit.’
There was the subtle, unpleasant sound of the universe suddenly catching on.
It was dark in the tower, a solid core of antique darkness that had been there since the dawn of time and resented the intrusion of the upstart daylight that nipped in around Rincewind.
He felt the air move as the door shut behind him and the dark poured back, filling up the space where the light had been so neatly that you couldn’t have seen the join even if the light had still been there.
The interior of the tower smelled of antiquity, with a slight suspicion of raven droppings. >‘We want you to take us across the sea to Ankh-Morpork,’ said Conina firmly.
The genie looked blank. Then he pulled a very thick book[21] from the empty air and consulted it.
‘It sounds a really neat concept,’ he said eventually. ‘Let’s do lunch next Tuesday, okay?’
‘Do what?’
‘I’m a little energetic right now.’
‘You’re a little-?’ Conina began.
‘Great,’ said the genie, sincerely, and glanced at his wrist. ‘Hey, is that the time?’ He vanished.
The three of them looked at the lamp in thoughtful silence, and then Nijel said, ‘Whatever happened to, you know, the fat guys with the baggy trousers and I Hear And Obey O Master?’
Creosote snarled. He’d just drunk his drink. It had turned out to be water with bubbles in it and a taste like warm flatirons.
‘I’m bloody well not standing for it,’ snarled Conina. She snatched the lamp from his hand and rubbed it as if she was sorry she wasn’t holding a handful of emery cloth.
The genie reappeared at a different spot, which still managed to be several feet away from the weak explosion and obligatory cloud of smoke.
He was now holding something curved and shiny to his ear, and listening intently. He looked hurriedly at Conina’s angry face and contrived to suggest, by waggling his eyebrows and waving his free hand urgently, that he was currently and inconveniently tied up by irksome matters which, regretfully, prevented him giving her his full attention as of now but, as soon as he had disentangled himself from this importunate person, she could rest assured that her wish, which was certainly a wish of tone and brilliance, would be his command.
‘I shall smash the lamp,’ she said quietly.
The genie flashed her a smile and spoke hastily into the thing he was cradling between his chin and his shoulder.
‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Great. It’s a slice, believe me. Have your people call my people. Stay beyond, okay? Bye.’ He lowered the instrument. ‘Bastard,’ he said vaguely.
‘I really shall smash the lamp,’ said Conina.
‘Which lamp is this?’ said the genie hurriedly.
