'Big on smiting?'

'Not lately. It's gone very quiet vis-a-vis heavenly fire, widespread flooding and transmutation into food additives,' said the Chair.

'Don't tell me,' said Ridcully. 'A public appearance, some simple moral precepts, and then apparent silence? Apart, that is, for millions of people arguing what "Do not steal" and "Don't Commit Murder" actually mean?'

'That's right.'

'Just like Omnianism, then,' said the Archchancellor glumly. 'Noisy religion, silent god. We must tread carefully, gentlemen.'

'But I did point out that there is no perceptible trace whatsoever of any deities of any kind anywhere in this universe!' said Ponder.

'Yes, very puzzling,' said Ridcully. 'Nevertheless, we have no magical powers here and it pays to be careful.'

Ponder opened his mouth. He wanted to say: We know everything about this place! We've watched it happen! It's all balls, spinning in curves. It's matter bending space and space moving matter. Everything here is the result of a few simple rules! That's all! It's all just a matter of rules! It's all ... logical.

He wanted it to be logical. Discworld wasn't logical. Some things happened on the whim of gods, some things happened because it was a good idea at the time, some things happened out of sheer randomness. But there was no logic -at least, no logic that Ponder approved of. He'd gone to the little town called Athens that Rincewind had talked about, in a sheet borrowed from Doctor Dee, and listened to men not entirely unlike the philosophers of Ephebe talking about logic, and it had made him want to burst into tears. They didn't have to live in place where things changed on a whim.

Everything ticked and tocked and turned for them like a great big machine. There were rules.

Things stayed the same. The same reliable stars came up every night. Planets didn't disappear because they've wandered too close to a flipper and been flicked far away from the sun.

No trouble, no complications. A few simple rules, a handful of elements ... it was all so easy.

Admittedly, he found it a little hard to work out exactly how you got from a few simple rules to, say, the sheen on mother-of-pearl or the common porcupine, but he was sure that you did. He wanted, intensely, to believe in a world where logic worked. It was a matter of faith.

He envied those philosophers. They nodded to their gods and then, by degrees, destroyed them.

And now he sighed.

'We've done the best we can,' he said. 'Your plan, Rincewind?'

Rincewind stared at the glass sphere that was the current abode of Hex.

'Hex, is this world ready for the William Shakespeare of whom we spoke?'

'It is.'

'And he exists?'

'No. Two of his grandparents did not meet. His mother was never born.'

In his hollow voice, Hex recounted the sad history, in detail. The wizards took notes.

'Right,' said Ridcully, rubbing his hands together when Hex finished. 'This at least is a simple problem. We shall need a length of string, a leather ball of some kind, and a large bunch of flowers ...'

Later, Rincewind stared at the glass sphere that was the current abode of Hex.

'Hex, now is this world ready for the William Shakespeare of whom we spoke?'

'It is.'

'And he exists?'

'Violet Shakespeare exists. She married Josiah Slink at the age of sixteen. No plays have been written, but there have been eight children of which five have survived. Her time is fully occupied.'

The wizards exchanged glances.

'Perhaps if we offered to babysit?' said Rincewind.

'Too many problems,' said Ridcully firmly. 'Still it's a change to have an easy one for once. We will need the probable date of conception, a stepladder and a gallon of black paint.'

Rincewind stared at the glass sphere that was the current abode of Hex.

'Hex, is this world ready for the William Shakespeare of whom we spoke?'

'It is.'

'And he exists?'

'He was born, but died at the age of 18 months. Details follow.

The wizards listened. Ridcully looked thoughtful for a moment.

'This will require some strong disinfectant,' he said. 'And a lot of carbolic soap.'

Rincewind stared at the glass sphere that was the current abode of Hex.

'Hex, is this world ready for the William Shakespeare of whom we spoke?'

'It is.'

'And he exists?'

'No. He was born, successfully survived several childhood illnesses, but was shot dead one night while poaching game at the age of thirteen. Details follow.

'Another easy one,' said Ridcully, standing up. 'We shall need ... let me see ... some drab clothing, a dark lantern and a very large cosh ..."

Rincewind stared at the glass sphere that was the current abode of Hex.

'Hex, is this world ready for the William Shakespeare of whom we spoke? Please?'

'It is.'

'And he exists?'

'Yes.'

The wizards tried not to look hopeful. There had been too many false dawns in the last week.

'Alive?' said Rincewind. 'Male? Sane? Not in the Americas? Not struck by a meteorite? Not left incapacitated by a hake during an unusual fall of fish? Or killed in a duel?'

'No. At this moment he is in the tavern that you gentlemen frequent.'

'Does he have all his arms and legs?'

'Yes,' said Hex. And ... Rincewind?'

Yes?'

As one of two unexpected collateral events to this latest interference, the potato has been brought to these shores.'

'Hot damn!'

'And Arthur J. Nightingale is a ploughman and never learned to write.'

'Near miss there,' said Ridcully.

WORLDS OF IF

The wizards have devised a secret weapon in their battle against the elves for the soul of Roundworld, and they are busily re-engineering history to make sure that their weapon gets invented. The weapon is one Will Shakespeare -Arthur J. Nightingale just can't hack it. And they're proceeding by trial and error, with a lot of both. Nonetheless, they gradually persuade the flow of history to converge, step by step, towards their desired outcome.

Black paint? You may know this superstitious practice, but if not: painting the kitchen ceiling black is supposed to guarantee a boy.69 The wizards will try anything. To begin with. And if it doesn't work, they'll try something else, until eventually they get somewhere.

Why is it unreasonable to expect them to succeed in one go, but reasonable to expect them to achieve their objective by repeated refinements?

History is like that.

There is a dynamic to history, but we find out what that dynamic is only as the events concerned unfold. That's why we can put a name to historical periods only after they've happened. That's why the history monks on Discworld have to wander the Disc making sure that historical events that ought to happen do happen. They are the guardians of narrativium and they spread it around dispassionately to ensure that the whole world obeys its storyline. The history monks come into their own in Thief of Time. Using great spinning cylinders called Procrastinators, they borrow time from where it is not needed and repay it where it is: According to the Second Scroll of Wen the Eternally Surprised, Wen the Eternally Surprised sawed the first procrastinator from a trunk of a wamwam tree, carved certain symbols on it, fitted it with a bronze spindle, and summoned the apprentice, Clodpool.

'Ah, very nice, master,' said Clodpool. 'A prayer wheel, yes?'

'No, this is nothing like as complex,' said Wen. 'It merely stores and moves time.'

'That simple, eh?'

'And now I shall test it,' said Wen. He gave it a half-turn with his hand.

'Ah, very nice, master,' said Clodpool. A prayer wheel, yes?'

'No, this is nothing like as complex,' said Wen. 'It merely, stores and moves time.'