Terry Pratchett - Discworld 26 Thief of Time

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awake. Remember? It was there yesterday.

'There was no yesterday.'

'Er ... er ... I think there was, master,' said Clodpool, strug-

gling to his feet. 'Remember? We came up here and I cooked a

meal, and had the rind off your sklang because you didn't want

it.'

'I remember yesterday,' said Wen thoughtfully. 'But the

memory is in my head now. Was yesterday real? Or is it only

the memory that is real? Truly, yesterday I was not born.'

Clodpool's face became a mask of agonized incomprehen-

sion.

'Dear stupid Clodpool, I have learned everything,' said Wen.

'In the cup of the hand there is no past, no future. There is only

now. There is no time but the present. We have a great deal to

do.'

Clodpool hesitated. There was something new about his

master. There was a glow in his eyes and, when he moved,

there were strange silvery-blue lights in the air, like reflections

from liquid mirrors.

'She has told me everything,' Wen went on. 'I know that time

was made for men, not the other way round. I have learned how

to shape it and bend it. I know how to make a moment last for

ever, because it already has. And I can teach these skills even

to you, Clodpool. I have heard the heartbeat of the universe. I

know the answers to many questions. Ask me.'

The apprentice gave him a bleary look. It was too early in the

morning for it to be early in the morning.

That was the only thing that he currently knew for sure.

'Er ... what does master want for breakfast?' he said.

and direction of everything in the other tenth. Every atom has

its biography, every star its file, every chemical exchange its

equivalent of the inspector with a clipboard. It is unaccounted

for because it is doing the accounting for the rest of it, and you

cannot see the back of your own head. [1]

Nine-tenths of the universe, in fact, is the paperwork.

And if you want the story, then remember that a story does

not unwind. It weaves. Events that start in different places and

different times all bear down on that one tiny point in space-

time, which is the perfect moment.

Supposing an emperor was persuaded to wear a new suit of

clothes whose material was so fine that, to the common eye,

the clothes weren't there. And suppose a little boy pointed out

this fact in a loud, clear voice...

Then you have The Story of the Emperor Who Had No

Clothes.

But if you knew a bit more, it would be The Story of the Boy

Who Got a Well-Deserved Thrashing from His Dad for Being

Rude to Royalty, and Was Locked Up.

Or The Story of the Whole Crowd Who Were Rounded Up by

the Guards and Told 'This Didn't Happen, Okay? Does Anyone

Want to Argue?'

Or it could be a story of how a whole kingdom suddenly saw

the benefits of the 'new clothes', and developed an enthusiasm

for healthy sports [2] in a lively and refreshing atmosphere

which got many new adherents every year, and led to a reces-

sion caused by the collapse of the conventional clothing indus-

try.

It could even be a story about The Great Pneumonia Epi-

demic of '09.

countably floating iron and an exciting sound track ...

... you'd want to know the whole story.

And this one starts with desks.

This is the desk of a professional. It is clear that their job is

their life. There are... human touches, but these are the human

touches that strict usage allows in a chilly world of duty and

routine.

Mostly they're on the only piece of real colour in this picture

of blacks and greys. It's a coffee mug. Someone somewhere

wanted to make it a jolly mug. It bears a rather unconvincing

picture of a teddy bear, and the legend 'To The World's Greatest

Grandad' and the slight change in the style of lettering on the

word 'Grandad' makes it clear that this has come from one of

those stalls that have hundreds of mugs like this, declaring that

they're for the world's greatest Grandad/ Dad/ Mum/ Granny/

Uncle/ Aunt/ Blank. Only someone whose life contains very lit-

tle else, one feels, would treasure a piece of gimcrackery like

this.

It currently holds tea, with a slice of lemon.

The bleak desktop also contains a paperknife in the shape of

a scythe and a number of hourglasses.

Death picks up the mug in a skeletal hand...

... and took a sip, pausing only to look again at the wording

he'd read thousands of times before, and then put it down.

VERY WELL, he said, in tones of funeral bells. SHOW ME.

The last item on the desktop was a mechanical contrivance.

'Contrivance' was exactly the right kind of word for it.

Most of it was two discs. One was horizontal and contained a

circlet of very small squares of what would prove to be carpet.

to have an independent existence. After all, being Death meant

being the Death of everything, including rodents of all descrip-

tions. But perhaps everyone needs a tiny part of themselves

that can, metaphorically, be allowed to run naked in the rain [3],

to think the unthinkable thoughts, to hide in corners and spy on

the world, to do the forbidden but enjoyable deeds.

Slowly, the Death of Rats pushed the treadles. The wheels

began to spin.

'Exciting, eh?' said a hoarse voice by Death's ear. It be-

longed to Quoth, the raven, who had attached himself to the

household as the Death of Rats' personal transport and crony.

He was, he always said, only in it for the eyeballs.

The carpets began to turn. The tiny toasties slapped down

randomly, sometimes with a buttery squelch, sometimes with-

out. Quoth watched carefully, in case any eyeballs were in-

volved.

Death saw that some time and effort had been spent devising

a mechanism to rebutter each returning slice. An even more

complex one measured the number of buttered carpets.

After a couple of complete turns the lever of the buttered

carpet ratio device had moved to 60 per cent, and the wheels

stopped.

WELL? said Death. IF YOU DID IT AGAIN, IT COULD WELL

BE THAT-

The Death of Rats shifted a gear lever and began to pedal

again.

SQUEAK, it commanded. Death obediently leaned closer.

This time the needle went only as high as 40 per cent.

Death leaned closer still.

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摘要：

awake.Remember?Itwasthereyesterday.'Therewasnoyesterday.''Er...er...Ithinktherewas,master,'saidClodpool,strug-glingtohisfeet.'Remember?WecameuphereandIcookedameal,andhadtherindoffyoursklangbecauseyoudidn'twantit.''Irememberyesterday,'saidWenthoughtfully.'Butthememoryisinmyheadnow.Wasyesterdayreal?Or...

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Terry Pratchett - Discworld 26 Thief of Time

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