‘Yes, sir, and he gave me the change and the receipt.’

‘You seem puzzled, Mister Stibbons?’

‘Well, yes, sir. I feel I have been rather misjudging him.’

‘Possibly even small leopards can change their shorts,’ said Ridcully, slamming him on the back convivially. ‘Call it score one for human nature. Now, which of these balls is the one that’s going back to the Cabinet?’

‘Amazingly, sir, they did think to mark the new ball and there’s a tiny little dot of white paint on this one here… I mean this one here… I think it was here… Ah! Here it is. It’s ours. I’ll send one of the students to put the other one back shortly. We still have an hour and a half.’

‘No, I’d rather you did it yourself, Mister Stibbons, I’m sure it would only take a few minutes. Do hurry back, I’d like to try a little experiment.’

When Ponder returned, he found Ridcully loitering unobtrusively by one of the big doors. ‘You have your notebook ready, Mister Stibbons?’ he said quietly.

‘And a fresh pencil, Archchancellor.’

‘Very well, then. The experiment begins.’

Ridcully gently rolled the new football out on to the floor, straightened up and glanced at his stopwatch.

‘Ah, the ball has been kicked aside by the Professor of Illiberal Studies, quite possibly by accident… Now one of the bledlows, Mister Hipney I think his name is, has kicked it somewhat uncertainly. One of the students, Pondlife, I believe, has prodded it back… We have momentum, Mister Stibbons. Undirected, it is true, but promising. Ah, but we can’t have this…

‘No touching the ball with your hands, gentlemen!’ shouted the Archchancellor, deftly trapping the travelling ball with his boot. ‘That’s a rule! We really could do with that whistle, Stibbons.’

He bounced the ball on the stone floor.

Gloing!

‘Don’t just mess about like kids kicking a tin! Play football! I am the Archchancellor of this university, by Io, and I will rusticate, or otherwise expel, any man who skives off without a note from his mother, hah!’

Gloing!

‘You will arrange yourself into two teams, set up goals and strive to win! No man will leave the field of play unless injured! The hands are not to be used, is that clear? Any questions?’ A hand went up. Ridcully sought the attached face.

‘Ah, Rincewind,’ he said, and, because he was not a determinedly unpleasant man, amended this to, ‘Professor Rincewind, of course.’

‘I would like permission to fetch a note from my mother, sir.’

Ridcully sighed. ‘Rincewind, you once informed me, to my everlasting puzzlement, that you never knew your mother because she ran away before you were born. Distinctly remember writing it down in my diary. Would you like another try?’

‘Permission to go and find my mother?’

Ridcully hesitated. The Professor of Cruel and Unusual Geography had no students and no real duties other than to stay out of trouble. Although Ridcully would never admit it, it was against all reason an emeritus position. Rincewind was a coward and an unwitting clown, but he had several times saved the world in slightly puzzling circumstances. He was a luck sink, the Archchancellor had decided, doomed to being a lightning rod for the fates so that everyone else didn’t have to. Such a person was worth all his meals and laundry (including an above-average level of soiled pants) and a bucket of coal every day even if he was, in Ridcully’s opinion, a bit of a whiner. However, he was fast, and therefore useful.

‘Look,’ said Rincewind, ‘a mysterious urn turns up and suddenly it’s all about football. That bodes. It means something bad is going to happen.’

‘Come now, it could be something wonderful,’ Ridcully protested.

Rincewind appeared to give this due consideration. ‘Could be wonderful, will be dreadful. Sorry, that’s how it goes.’

‘This is Unseen University, Rincewind. What is there to fear?’ Ridcully said. ‘Apart from me, of course. Good heavens, this is a sport.’ He raised his voice. ‘Arrange yourselves into two teams and play football!’

He stepped back and joined Ponder. The dragooned footballers, having been given clear instructions in a loud voice, went into a huddle to find out by hubbub what they should actually do instead.

‘I can’t believe this,’ said Ridcully. ‘Every boy knows what to do when they’ve found something to kick, don’t they?’ He cupped his hands. ‘Come on, two captains step up. I don’t care who it is.’ This took rather more time than might have been expected since those who had not surreptitiously left the Hall could see that the post of football captain was one that offered a wonderful chance for being the target of the Archchancellor’s mercurial wrath. Eventually two sacrifices were pushed forward and found it too difficult to push their way back into the ranks again.

‘Now, I say again, pick the teams alternately.’ He took off his hat and flung it to the ground. ‘Now we all understand this! It’s a boy thing! It’s like little girls and the colour pink! You know how to do this! Pick the teams alternately so one of you ends up with the weird kid and the other with the fat kid. Some of the fastest mathematics of all time has been achieved by team captains trying not to end up with the weird kid—Stay where you are, Rincewind!’

Ponder gave an involuntary shudder as his schooldays came running back, jeering at him. The fat kid in his class had been the unfortunately named ‘Piggy’ Love, whose father owned a sweet shop, which gave the son some weight in the community, not to mention clout. That had left only the weird kid as the natural target for the other boys, which meant a chronic hell for Ponder until that wonderful day when sparks came out of Ponder’s fingers and Martin Sogger’s pants caught fire. He could smell them now. Best days of your life be buggered; the Archchancellor could be a bit crass and difficult at times, but at least he wasn’t allowed to give you a wedgie—

‘Are you listening to me, Stibbons?’

Ponder blinked. ‘Er, sorry, sir, I was… calculating.’

‘I said, who’s the tall feller with the tan and the dinky beard?’

‘Oh, that’s Professor Bengo Macarona, Archchancellor. From Genua, remember? He’s swapped with Professor Maidenhair for a year.’

‘Oh, right. Poor old Maidenhair. Perhaps he won’t get laughed at so much in a foreign language. And Mister Macarona’s here to better himself, yes? Put a bit of polish on his career, no doubt.’

‘Hardly, sir. He’s got doctorates from Unki, QIS and Chubb, thirteen in all, and a visiting professorship at Bugarup, and he has been cited in two hundred and thirty-six papers and, er, one divorce petition.’

‘What?’

‘The rule about celibacy isn’t taken seriously over there, sir. Very hot-blooded people, I understand, of course. His family owns a huge ranch and the biggest coffee plantation outside Klatch, and I think his grandmother owns the Macarona Shipping Company.’

‘So why the hell did he come here?’

‘He wants to work with the best, sir,’ said Ponder. ‘I think he’s serious.’

‘Really? Oh, well, he seems like a sensible chap, then. Er, the divorce thing?’

‘Don’t know much, sir, it got hushed up, I believe.’

‘Angry husband?’

‘Angry wife, as I heard it,’ said Ponder.

‘Oh, he was married, was he?’

‘Not to my knowledge, Archchancellor.’

‘I don’t think I quite understand,’ said Ridcully.

Ponder, who was not at all at home in this area, said very slowly, ‘She was the wife of another man… I, er, believe, sir.’

‘But I—’

To Ponder’s relief, light dawned on Ridcully’s huge face. ‘Oh, you mean he was like Professor Hayden. We used to have a name for him… ’

Ponder braced himself.

‘Snakes. Very keen on them, you know. Could talk for hours about snakes with a side order of lizards. Very keen.’

‘I’m glad you feel like that, Archchancellor, because I know that a number of the students—’