‘And then there was old Postule, who was in the rowing team. Coxed us through two wonderful years.’ Ponder’s expression did not change, but for a few moments his face went pink and shiny. ‘A lot of that sort of thing about, apparently,’ said Ridcully. ‘People make such a fuss. Anyway, in my opinion there’s not enough love in the world. Besides, if you didn’t like the company of men you wouldn’t come here in the first place. I say! Well done, that man!’ This was because, in the absence of Ridcully’s attention, the footballers had at last started their own kick-about and some quite fancy footwork was emerging. ‘Yes, what?’

A bledlow had appeared alongside Ridcully.

‘Gentleman to see the Archchancellor, sir. He’s a wizard, sir. The, er, the Dean, as was, only he says he’s an Archchancellor too.’

Ridcully hesitated, but you’d have had to be an experienced Ridcully watcher, like Ponder, to notice the moment. When the Archchancellor spoke, it was calmly and carefully, every word hammered on the anvil of self-control.

‘What a pleasant surprise, Mister Nobbs. Do show the Dean in. Oh, and please do not glance at Mister Stibbons for confirmation, thank you. I am still the Archchancellor in these parts. The only one, in fact. Is there a problem, Mister Stibbons?’

‘Well, sir, it is a bit public in here—’ Ponder stopped, because suddenly he had nobody’s attention. He hadn’t seen the ball bounce towards Bledlow Nobbs (no relation). Nor the vicious kick the latter gave it, just as he would an impertinent intrusion by a street urchin’s tin can. Ponder did see the ball curving majestically through the air, heading for the other end of the Hall where, behind the organ, rose the stained-glass window dedicated to Archchancellor Abasti, which on a daily basis showed one of several thousand scenes of a mystical or spiritual nature. The intuition with which Ponder had successfully calculated the distance and trajectory of the ball told him that the current glowing picture of ‘Bishop Horn realizing that the alligator quiche was an unwise choice’ had appeared just in time to be extremely unlucky.

And then, like some new planet swimming into the ken of a watcher of the skies, as they are prone to do, a rusty red shape arose, unfolding as it came, snatched the ball out of the air and landed on the organ keyboard to the sound of gloing! in B flat.

‘Well done, that ape!’ the Archchancellor boomed. ‘A beautiful save, but, regrettably, against the rules!’

To Ponder’s surprise there was a murmur of dissent from all the players. ‘I believe that decision may benefit from some consideration,’ said a small voice behind them.

‘Who said that?’ said Ridcully, spinning round and looking into the suddenly terrified little eyes of Nutt.

‘Nutt, sir. The candle dribbler. We met yesterday. I helped you with the ball… ?’

‘And you are telling me I’m wrong. Are you?’

‘I would rather you thought of me as suggesting a way in which you could be even more right.’

Ridcully opened his mouth and then shut it again. I know what he is, he thought. Does he? Or did they spare him that?

‘Very well, Mister Nutt. Is there a point you wish to make?’

‘Yes, sir. What is the purpose of this game?’

‘To win, of course!’

‘Indeed. Regrettably, it is not being played that way.’

‘It isn’t?’

‘No, sir. The players all want to kick the ball.’

‘And so they should, surely?’ said Ridcully.

‘Only if you believe the purpose of the game is healthy exercise, sir. Do you play chess?’

‘Well, I have done.’

‘And would you have thought it proper for all the pawns to swarm up the board in the hope of checkmating the king?’

For a moment, Ridcully had a mental vision of Lord Vetinari holding aloft a solitary pawn and saying what it might become…

‘Oh, come now, that is quite different!’ he burst out.

‘Yes, but the skill lies in marshalling resources in the right way.’

Ridcully saw a face appear behind Nutt, like a rising moon of wrath.

‘You don’t talk to the gentlemen, Nutt, it is not your place to take up their time with your chatter—’

Ridcully writhed in sympathy with Nutt, all the more so because Smeems, as is the habit of such people, kept looking at the Archchancellor as if seeking and, worse, expecting approval of this petty tyranny.

But authority must back up authority, in public at least, otherwise there is no authority, and therefore the senior authority is forced to back up the junior authority, even if he, the senior authority, believes that the junior authority is a tiresome little tit.

‘Thank you for your concern, Mister Smeems,’ he said, ‘but in fact I asked Mister Nutt his opinion of our little kick-about, since it is the game of the people and he is rather more people than I am. I will not keep him long from his duties, Mister Smeems, nor you from yours, which I know are both vital and pressing.’

Small, insecure authority can spot, if it is sensible, when a larger authority is giving it a chance to save face.

‘Right you are, sir!’ said Smeems after only a second’s hesitation, and he scurried off to safety. The thing called Nutt appeared to be trembling.

He thinks he’s done something wrong, Ridcully thought, and I shouldn’t think of him as a thing. Some wizard’s sense made him look round into the face of–what was the lad’s name?–Trevor Likely.

‘Do you have anything else to add, Mister Likely? Only I’m a bit busy at the moment.’

‘I gave Mister Stibbons the change and the receipt,’ said Trevor.

‘What is it you do around here, young man?’

‘I run the candle vats, guv.’

‘Oh, do you? We’re getting some very good dribbling from you fellows these days.’

Trev appeared to let this pass. ‘Mister Nutt is not in any trouble, is he, guv?’

‘Not to my knowledge.’

But what do I know? Ridcully asked himself. Mr Nutt, by definition, is trouble. But the Librarian says he potters about repairing things and is generally an amiable milksop, and he talks as though he’s giving a lecture[13]. This little man, who actually, when you look at him, is not as little as he appears because he weighs himself down with humility… this little man was born with a name so fearsome some peasants chained him to an anvil because they were too scared to kill him. Perhaps Vetinari and his friends are right in their smug way and a leopard can change his shorts. I hope so, because if they aren’t, a leopard will be a picnic. And any minute now, the Dean is coming, damn his treacherous hide.

‘Only he’s my friend, guv.’

‘Well, that’s good. Everyone should have a friend.’

‘I’m not gonna let anyone touch ’im, guv.’

‘A brave ambition, young man, if I may say so. Nevertheless, Mister Nutt, why did you object when I pointed out that the Librarian, wonderful though his rising save was, was in infringement of the rules?’

Nutt didn’t look up, but in a small voice said, ‘It was elegant. It was beautiful. The game should be beautiful, like a well-executed war.’

‘Oh, I don’t think many people would say that war is very jolly,’ said Ridcully.

‘Beauty can be considered to be neutral, sir. It is not the same as nice or good.’

‘I thought it was the same as truth, though,’ said Ponder, trying to keep up.

‘Which is often horrible, sir, but Mister Librarian’s leap was both beautiful, sir, and good, sir, and therefore must be true and therefore the rule which should prevent him from doing it again would be proved to be neither beautiful nor true and would, indeed, be a false law.’

‘That’s right, guv,’ said Trev. ‘People will shout for that stuff.’

‘Do you mean that they’d cheer for a goal not achieved?’ said Ponder.

‘Of course they will! And groan! It’s something happening,’ Ridcully snorted. ‘You saw the game the other day! If you were lucky, you got a glimpse of a lot of large, grubby men fighting over a ball like a lump of wood. People want to see goals scored!’