‘In case anyone’s interested,’ said a crackly voice on Rincewind’s left, ‘you’re all wrong. In the beginning was the Clearing of the Throat—’

‘—then the word—’

‘Pardon me, the slime—’

‘Distinctly rubbery, I thought—’

There was a pause. Then a voice said carefully, ‘Anyway, whatever it was, we remember it distinctly.’

‘Quite so.’

‘Exactly.’

‘And our task is to see that nothing dreadful happens to it, Rincewind.’

Rincewind squinted into the blackness. ‘Would you kindly explain what you’re talking about?’

There was a papery sigh. ‘So much for metaphor,’ said one of the voices. ‘Look, it is very important you safeguard the Spell in your head and bring it back to us at the right time, you understand, so that when the moment is precisely right we can be said. Do you understand?’

Rincewind thought: we can be said!

And it dawned on him what the tracery was, ahead of him. It was writing on a page, seen from underneath.

‘I’m in the Octavo?’ he said.

‘In certain metaphysical respects,’ said one of the voices in offhand tones. It came closer. He could feel the dry rustling right in front of his nose...

He ran away.

The single red dot glowed in its patch of darkness. Trymon, still wearing the ceremonial robes from his inauguration as head of the Order, couldn’t rid himself of the feeling that it had grown slightly while he watched. He turned away from the window with a shudder.

‘Well?’ he said.

‘It’s a star,’ said the Professor of Astrology, ‘I think.’

‘You think?’

The astrologer winced. They were standing in Unseen University ’s observatory, and the tiny ruby pinpoint on the horizon wasn’t glaring at him any worse than his new master.

‘Well, you see, the point is that we’ve always believed stars to be pretty much the same as our sun —’

‘You mean balls of fire about a mile across?’

‘Yes. But this new one is, well—big.’

‘Bigger than the sun?’ said Trymon. He’d always considered a mile-wide ball of fire quite impressive, although he disapproved of stars on principle. They made the sky look untidy.

‘A lot bigger,’ said the astrologer slowly.

‘Bigger than Great A’Tuin’s head, perhaps?’

The astrologer looked wretched.

‘Bigger than Great A’Tuin and the Disc together,’ he said. ‘We’ve checked,’ he added hurriedly, ‘and we’re quite sure.’

That is big,’ agreed Trymon. The word "huge" comes to mind.’

‘Massive,’ agreed the astrologer hurriedly.

‘Hmm.’

Trymon paced the broad mosaic floor of the observatory, which was inlaid with the signs of the Disc zodiac. There were sixty-four of them, from Wezen the Double-headed Kangaroo to Gahoolie, the Vase of Tulips (a constellation of great religious significance whose meaning, alas, was now lost).

He paused on the blue and gold tilework of Mubbo the Hyaena, and turned suddenly.

‘We’re going to hit it?’ he asked.

‘I am afraid so, sir,’ said the astrologer.

‘Hmm.’ Trymon walked a few paces forward, stroking his beard thoughtfully. He paused on the cusp of Okjock the Salesman and The Celestial Parsnip.

‘I’m not an expert in these matters,’ he said, ‘but I imagine this would not be a good thing?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Very hot, stars?’

The astrologer swallowed. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘We’d be burned up?’

‘Eventually. Of course, before that there would be discquakes, tidal waves, gravitational disruption and probably the atmosphere would be stripped away.’

‘Ah. In a word, lack of decent organisation.’

The astrologer hesitated, and gave in. You could say so, sir.’

‘People would panic?’ ‘Fairly briefly, I’m afraid.’

Hmm,’ said Trymon, who was just passing over The Perhaps Gate and orbiting smoothly towards the Cow of Heaven. He squinted up again at the red gleam on the horizon. He appeared to reach a decision.

‘We can’t find Rincewind,’ he said, ‘and if we can’t find Rincewind we can’t find the eighth spell of the Octavo. But we believe that the Octavo must be read to avert catastrophe—otherwise why did the Creator leave it behind?’

‘Perhaps He was just forgetful,’ suggested the astrologer.

Trymon glared at him.

‘The other Orders are searching all the lands between here and the Hub,’ he continued, counting the points on his fingers, ‘because it seems unreasonable that a man can fly into a cloud and not come out...’

‘Unless it was stuffed with rocks,’ said the astrologer, in a wretched and, as it turned out, entirely unsuccessful attempt to lighten the mood.

‘But come down he must—somewhere. Where? we ask ourselves.’

‘Where?’ said the astrologer loyally.

‘And immediately a course of action suggests itself to us.’

‘Ah,’ said the astrologer, running in an attempt to keep up as the wizard stalked across The Two Fat Cousins.

‘And that course is...?’

The astrologer looked up into two eyes as grey and bland as steel.

‘Um. We stop looking?’ he ventured.

‘Precisely! We use the gifts the Creator has given us, to whit, we look down and what is it we see?’

The astrologer groaned inwardly. He looked down.

‘Tiles?’ he hazarded.

‘Tiles, yes, which together make up the...?’ Trymon looked expectant.

‘Zodiac?’ ventured the astrologer, a desperate man.

‘Right! And therefore all we need do is cast Rincewind’s precise horoscope and we will know exactly where he is!’

The astrologer grinned like a man who, having tap-danced on quicksand, feels the press of solid rock under his feet.

‘I shall need to know his precise place and time of birth,’ he said.

‘Easily done. I copied them out of the University files before I came up here.’

The astrologer looked at the notes, and his forehead wrinkled. He crossed the room and pulled out a wide drawer full of charts. He read the notes again. He picked up a complicated pair of compasses and made some passes across the charts. He picked up a small brass astrolobe and cranked it carefully. He whistled between his teeth. He picked up a piece of chalk and scribbled some numbers on a blackboard.

Trymon, meanwhile, had been staring out at the new star. He thought: the legend in the Pyramid of Tsort says that whoever says the Eight Spells together when the Disc is in danger will obtain all that he truly desires. And it will be so soon!

And he thought: I remember Rincewind, wasn’t he the cruffy boy who always came bottom of the class when we were training? Not a magical bone in his body. Let me get him in front of me, and we’ll see if we can’t get all eight—

The astrologer said ‘Gosh’ under his breath. Trymon spun around.

‘Well?’

‘Fascinating chart,’ said the astrologer, breathlessly. His forehead wrinkled. ‘Bit strange, really,’ he said.

‘How strange?’

‘He was born under The Small Boring Group of Faint Stars which, as you know, lies between The Flying Moose and The Knotted String. It is said that even the ancients couldn’t find anything interesting to say about the sign, which—’

‘Yes, yes, get on with it,’ said Trymon irritably.

‘It’s the sign traditionally associated with chess board makers, sellers of onions, manufacturers of plaster images of small religious significance, and people allergic to pewter. Not a wizard’s sign at all. And at the time of his birth the shadow of Cori Celesti—’

‘I don’t want to know all the mechanical details,’ growled Trymon. ‘Just give me his horoscope.’

The astrologer, who had been rather enjoying himself, sighed and made a few additional calculations.

‘Very well,’he said. ‘It reads as follows: "Today is a good tine for making new friends. A good deed may have unforeseen consequences. Don’t upset any druids. You will soon be going on a very strange journey. Your lucky food is small cucumbers. People pointing knives at you are probably up to no good. PS, we really mean it about druids".’