Blackmore points out that when it comes to a choice between doing good and spreading the meme, religious people tend to go for the meme. To most Catholics, and many other people, Mother Teresa was a saint (and she looks well set to become one in the fullness of time). Her work in the slums of Calcutta was selfless and altruistic. She did a lot of good, no question. But some Calcuttans feel that she diverted attention away from the real problems, and helped only those who accepted the teachings of her faith. For example, she was staunchly against birth control, the one practical thing that would have done the most good for the young women who needed her help. But the Catholic memeplex forbids birth control, and in a crunch, the meme wins. Blackmore sums up her analysis like this: These religious memes did not set out with an intention to succeed. They were just behaviours, ideas and stories that were copied from one person to another ... They were successful because they happened to come together into mutually supportive gangs that included all the right tricks to keep them safely stored in millions of brains, books and buildings, and repeatedly passed on to more.

In Shakespeare, memes become art. And now we move up another conceptual level. In drama, genes and memes cooperate to produce a temporary construct on a stage, for other extelligences to view. Shakespeare's plays give them pleasure, and change their minds. They, and works like them, redirect human culture by attacking our own mental elvishness.

The power of story. Don't leave home without it. And never, never, never underestimate it.

A WOMAN ON STAGE

It was the smell of the theatre Rincewind remembered. People talked about 'the smell of the greasepaint, the roar of the crowd' but, he assumed, the word 'roar' must have been taken to mean the same as 'stink'. He also wondered why this theatre was called The Globe. It was not even completely circular. But, he supposed, the new world might happen here ...

He'd made a big concession for the occasion. He'd unstitched the few remaining sequins from the word WIZZARD' on his hat. Given its general lack of shape, and his robe's raggedness, it now made him look far more like one of the crowd, albeit a one that knew the meaning of the word

'soap'.

He worked his way back through the throng to the wizards, who had managed to get real seats.

'How is it going?' said Ridcully. 'Remember, lad, the show must go on!'

'Things are fine, as far as I can see,' whispered Rincewind. 'No sign of any elves at all. We did spot a fishmonger in the crowd, so the Librarian slugged him and hid him behind the theatre, just in case.'

'You know,' said the Chair of Indefinite Studies, who was leafing through the script, 'this chap would write much better plays if he didn't have to have actors in them. They seem to get in the way all the time.'

'I read the Comedy of Errors last night,' said the Dean. 'And I could see the error right there.

There wasn't any comedy. Thank gods for directors.'

The wizards looked at the crowd. It wasn't as well behaved even as the ones back home; people were picnicking, small parties were being held, and there was a general sense that the audience looked upon the actual play as pleasant background noise to their personal social occasions.

'How will we know when it starts?' said the Lecturer in Recent Runes.

'Oh, trumpets get blown,' said Rincewind, 'and then generally two actors come on and tell one another what they already know.'

'No sign of the elves anywhere,' said the Dean, looking around with a hand over one eye. 'I don't like it. It's too quiet.'

'No, sir, no, sir,' said Rincewind. 'That's not the time not to like it. The time not to like it is when it's suddenly as noisy as all hell, sir.'

'Well, you get backstage with Stibbons and the Librarian, will you?' said Ridcully. 'And try not to look conspicuous. We mustn't take any chances.'

Rincewind worked his away around behind the stage, trying not to look conspicuous. But it was a first night, and there was an informality about the whole business that he'd never seen back home. People just seemed to wander around. Back home, there never seemed to be so much pretence; here, the actors played at being people and, down below, people played at being an audience. The overall effect was rather pleasing. The plays had a conspiratorial quality. Make it interesting enough, their audience was saying, and we'll believe anything. If you don't, we'll have a party with our friends right here and throw nuts at you.

Rincewind sat down on a pile of boxes offstage and watched as the play began. There were raised voices and the gentle, subtle sound of an expectant audience ready to tolerate quite a lot of plot exposition provided there was a joke or a murder at the end of it.

There was no sign of elves, no telltale shimmer in the air. The play wound on. Sometimes there was laughter, in which the deep boom of Ridcully was distinctly noticeable, especially, for some reason, when the clowns were on stage.

The stage elves met with approval, too. Peaseblossom, Cobweb, Moth and Mustardseed ...

creatures of blossom and air. Only Puck seemed to Rincewind to be anything like the elves he knew, and even he seemed more of a prankster than anything else. Of course, the elves could be pranksters, too, especially if a footpath ran beside a really dangerous ravine. And the glamour they used ... well, here it was charming ...

... and there was the Queen, a few feet away. She didn't flash into existence, she emerged from the scenery. A group of lines and shadows that had always been there suddenly, without actually changing, became a figure.

She was wearing a black lace dress hung about with diamonds, so that she looked like walking night.

She turned to Rincewind, with a smile.

'Ah, potato man,' she said. 'We see your wizardly friends out there. But they won't be able to do anything. This show will go on, you know. Just as written.'

'... will go on ...' murmured Rincewind. He couldn't move. She'd hit him with her full force. In desperation, he tried to fill his mind with potatoes.

'We know you told him a garbled version,' said the Queen, walking around his quivering body.

And a lot of nonsense it was. So I appeared to him in his room and put the whole thing in his mind. So simple.'

Roast potatoes, thought Rincewind. Sort of gold with brown edges, and maybe almost black here and there so they're nice and crunchy ...

'Can't you hear the applause?' said the Queen. 'They like us. They actually like us. We'll be in their paintings and stories from now on. You'll never get us out of there ...'

Chips, thought Rincewind, straight from the deep fryer, with little bubbles of fat still spitting and popping ... but he couldn't stop his treacherous head from nodding.

The Queen looked puzzled.

'Don't you think about anything but potatoes?' she said.

Butter, thought Rincewind, chopped chives, melted cheese, salt ...

But he couldn't stop the thought. It opened up inside his head, pushing away all potato-shaped fantasies. All we have to do is nothing, and we've won!

'What?' said the Queen.

Mash! Huge mounds of mash! Creamed mash!

'You're trying to hide something, wizard!' said the Queen, a few inches from his face. 'What is it?'

Potato cakes, fried potato skins, potato croquettes ...

... no, not potato croquettes, no one ever did them properly ... and it was too late, the Queen was reading him like a book.

'So ...' she said. 'You think only mysteries last? Knowledge in unbelief? Seeing is disbelieving?

There was a creaking above them.

'The play's not over, wizard,' said the Queen. 'But it's going to stop right now!'