‘Quite so, quite so,’ said Ridcully. ‘Saw the problem, sorted it out. Well donethat man.’

‘Do you think I could be allowed an evil chuckle, sir?’

Ridcully brushed himself down. ‘No. We shall forgo the whistle, MisterStibbons. And now, gentlemen, let the game commence.’

And thus, after a certain amount of bickering, Unseen University’s firstfootball match in decades began. Instantly, from Ponder Stibbons’s point ofview, various problems arose. The most pressing one was that all the wizardswere dressed as wizards, which was to say alike. Ponder ordered the teams toplay hats on and hats off, which caused another row. And that particularproblem was exacerbated further because there were so many collisions that eventhe officially hatted kept losing theirs. And then the game was paused becauseit was declared that the statue commemorating Archchancellor Scrubbs’sdiscovery of blit was in fact three inches narrower than the venerable statueof Archchancellor Flanker discovering the Third Breakfast, thus giving anunfair advantage to the hatless squad.

But all these problems, foreseeable and inescapable, paled into insignificancecompared with the problem of the ball. It was an official ball–Ponder had madecertain of that. But pointy shoes, even if they have a very long point, cannotabsorb the impact of the human foot kicking what is, when all is said andscreamed, a piece of wood with a thin cloth and leather wrapping. Eventually,as another wizard was helped away with a sprained ankle, even Ridcully wasmoved to say, ‘This is damn nonsense, Stibbons! There has got to be somethingbetter than this.’

‘Bigger boots?’ suggested the Lecturer in Recent Runes.

‘The kind of boots you need for kicking this would slow you right down,’ saidPonder.

‘Besides, the men on the urn had nothing at all on their feet. I suggest weconsider this research. What do we need, Stibbons?’

‘A better ball, sir. And some attempt at running about. And a general consensusthat it is not a good idea to stop to re-light your pipe in the middle of play.A more sensible type of goal, because running into a stone statue is painful.Some grasp, however small, of the notion of teamwork in a gaming situation. Aresolution not to run away if a member of the opposing team is rushing towardsyou. An understanding of the fact that you do not handle the ball in anycircumstances; may I remind you that I gave up stopping play because of thissince you gentlemen, when you were excited, persisted in picking it up and, inone case, hiding it behind your back, and standing on it. I would like to pointout at this juncture that a sense of direction is worth cultivating vis-à-visthe goal that is yours and the goal that is theirs; inviting as it may be,there is no point in kicking the ball into your own goal, and nor should youcongratulate and pat on the back anyone who achieves this feat. Out of thethree goals scored in our match, the number scored by players into their owngoal was’-he paused and looked down at his clipboard-‘three. This is acommendably high level of scoring, compared with football as currently played,though once again I must stress that issues of direction and goal ownership areof pivotal importance. A tactic, which I admit looked promising, was for theplayers to cluster thickly around their own goal so there was no possibility ofanything getting past them. I regret, however, that if both teams do this youdo not have a game so much as a tableau. A more promising tactic, which seemedto be adopted by one or two of you, was to lurk near the opponents’ goal sothat if the ball came in your direction you would be ideally placed to get itpast the custodian of the goal. The fact that in some cases you and theopposing custodian leaned companionably against the goal, sharing a cigaretteand watching the play up-field, showed a decent spirit and may possibly be agood starting point for some more advanced tactics, but I do not think thisshould be encouraged. On this general topic, I have to assume that retiringfrom the field of play for the call of nature or a breather is acceptable, butdoing so for a snack is not. My feeling, Archchancellor, is that ourcolleagues’ general desire to be never more than twenty minutes from somesavouries may be satisfactorily catered for by a pause in the middle of thegame. Happily, if they changed ends at that point, that would satisfy thecomplaints about one goal being larger than the other. Yes?’ This was to theChair of Indefinite Studies.

‘If we change ends,’ said the Chair, who had put his hand up, ‘will that thenmean that the goals that were scored into our own goal will now become goalsscored against the opposing team since that goal is now physically theirs?’

Ponder considered the metaphysics of answering this one and settled for, ‘No,of course not. I have a whole list of other notes, Archchancellor, andregrettably they add up to us not being very good at football.’

The wizards fell silent. ‘Let’s start with the ball,’ said Ridcully. ‘I’ve gotan idea about the ball.’

‘Yes, sir. I thought you would.’

‘Then come and see me after dinner.’

Juliet had been sucked into the manic circus that was the backstage area ofShatta, and no one was paying Glenda any attention whatsoever. Just for now,she was a hindrance, surplus, no use to anyone, an obstruction to be workedaround, an onlooker in the game. A little way away, a handsome young dwarf witha double ponytail beard was waiting patiently while a temporary rivet was putinto what looked like a silver cuirass. She was surrounded by workers in muchthe same way as a knight is when his vassals must dress him for combat.Standing a little apart from them were two taller dwarfs, whose weaponry lookedslightly more functional than beautiful. They were male. Glenda knew thissimply because any female of any sapient species knows the look of a man whohas nothing very much to do in an environment that, for this time, is clearlyoccupied by and totally under the control of females. It looked as though theywere on guard.

Propelled by the sherry, she wandered over. ‘That must cost a lot of money,’she said to the nearest guard. He looked slightly embarrassed by the approach.

‘You’re telling me. Moonsilver, they call it. We’re even having to walk downthe catwalk with her. They say it’s the coming thing, but I dunno. It won’ttake an edge and it wouldn’t stop a decent blade. You need Igors to help yousmelt it, too. They say it’s worth even more than platinum. Looks good, though,and they say you hardly know you’re wearing it. It’s not what my granddad wouldhave called a metal, but they say that we have to move with the times.Personally, I wouldn’t even hang it on the wall, but there you go.’

‘Girl’s armour,’ said the other guard.

‘What about this micromail stuff?’ said Glenda.

‘Ah, different pocketful of rats entirely, miss,’ said the first guard. ‘I hearthey set up and forge it right here in the city, ’cos the best craftsmen arehere. Just the job, eh? Chain mail as fine as cloth and strong as steel! It’llget cheaper, too, they say, and most of all it doesn’t—’

‘Wotcher, Glendy, guess who?’

Someone tapped Glenda on the shoulder. She turned round and saw a vision ofheavily but tastefully armoured beauty. It was Juliet, but Glenda only knewthis because of the milky-blue eyes. Juliet was wearing a beard.

‘Madame says I’d better wear this,’ she said. ‘It’s not dwarf if it don’tinclude a beard. What d’you think?’

This time the sherry got in first.

‘It’s actually rather attractive,’ said Glenda, still in mild shock. ‘It’svery–silvery.’

It was a female beard, she could tell. It looked styled and stylish and didn’thave bits of rat in it.

‘Madame says there’s a place saved for you in the front row,’ said Juliet.