The Last Continent

He dropped the cube, which was molten by the time it hit the deck.

'That's impossible!' he said. These things are good up to a million thaums!'

Ridcully licked his finger and held it up. It sprouted a halo of purple and octarine.

'Yep, that's about right,' he said.

'There's not that much magic anywhere any more!' shouted Ponder.

There was a gale behind the boat now. Ahead, the wall of storm was widening and seemed to be a lot blacker.

'How much magic does it take to create a continent?' said Ridcully.

They looked up at the clouds. And further up.

'We'd better batten down the hatches,' said the Dean.

'We don't have any hatches.'

'Batten down Mrs Whitlow at least. Get the Bursar and the Librarian somewhere safe—'

They hit the storm.

Rincewind dropped into an alley and reflected that he'd been in far worse prisons. The Ecksians were a friendly lot, when not drunk or trying to kill you or both. What Rincewind looked for in a good gaol were guards who, instead of ruining everyone's night by prowling around the corridors, got together in one room with a few tins and a pack of cards and relaxed. It made it so much more... friendly. And, of course, easier to walk past.

He turned – and there was the kangaroo, huge and bright and outlined against the sky. Rincewind shrank back for a moment and then realized that it was nothing but an advertising sign on the roof of a building some way off and further down the hill. Someone had rigged up lamps and mirrors below it.

It had a hat on, with some stupid holes for its cars to stick out, and it wore a vest as well, but it was certainly the kangaroo. No other kangaroo could possibly smirk like that. And it was holding a tin of beer.

'Where did you drift in from, curly?' said a voice behind him.

It was a very familiar voice. It had a sort of complaining wheedle in it. It was a voice that kept looking out of the corners of its eyes and was always ready to dodge. It was a voice you could have used to open a bottle of whine.

He turned. And the figure in front of him, except for a few details, was as familiar as the voice.

'You can't be called Dibbler,' said Rincewind.

'Why not?'

'Because— Well, how did you get here?'

'What? I just came up Berk Street,' said the figure. It had a large hat, and large shorts, and large boots, but in every other respect it was the double of the man who, in Ankh-Morpork, was always there after the pubs shut to sell you one of his very special meat pies. Rincewind had a theory that there was a Dibbler everywhere.

Suspended from the neck of this one was a tray. On the front of the tray was written 'Dibbler's Cafe de Feet.'

'I reckoned I'd better get up to the gaol early for a good pitch,' said Dibbler. 'Always gives the crowd an appetite, a good hanging. Can I interest you in anything, mate?'

Rincewind looked at the end of the alley. The streets were quite busy. As he watched, a couple of guards strolled by.

'Such as what?' he said suspiciously, drawing back into the shadows.

'Got some good broadsheet ballads about the notorious outlaw they're gonna top...?'

'No, thank you.'

'Souvenir piece of the rope they're gonna hang him with? Authentic!'

Rincewind looked at the short length of thick string being dangled hopefully in front of him. 'Some people might say that had a hint of clothesline about it,' he said.

Dibbler gave the string a look of extreme interest. 'Obviously we had to unravel it a bit, mate,' he said.

'And some people might pick holes in the suggestion that you could, philosophically speaking, sell lengths of the rope before the hanging?'

Dibbler paused, his smile not moving. Then he said, 'It's the rope, right? Three-quarter-inch hemp, the usual stuff. Authentic. Probably even from the same ropemaker. Come on, all I'm looking for here is a fair go. Probably it's a pure fluke this ain't the actual bit that's gonna go round his neck—'

'That's only half an inch thick. Look, I can see the label, it says "Hill's Clothesline Co".'

'Does it?'

Once again Dibbler appeared to be looking at his product for the first time. But the traditions of the Dibbler clan would never let a mere disastrous fact get in the way of a spiel.

'It's still rope,' he averred. 'Authentic rope. No? No worries. How about some authentic native art?'

He rummaged in his crowded tray and held up a square of cardboard. Rincewind gave it an appraising look.

He'd seen something like this out in the red country, although he'd not been certain that it was art in the way Ankh-Morpork understood it. It was more like a map, a history book and a menu all rolled together. Back home, people tied a knot in their handkerchief to remind them of things. Out in the hot country there weren't any handkerchiefs, so people tied a knot in their thoughts.

They didn't paint very many pictures of a string of sausages.

' 's called Sausage and Chips Dreaming,' said Dibbler.

'I don't think I've seen one like that,' said Rincewind. 'Not with the sauce bottle in it as well.'