He considered, rather guiltily, making a few more thunder lizards in the hope that they might eat the intruders before they got too nosey, but then dismissed the thought as being unworthy of a modern, forward-thinking deity.

There were racks and racks of seeds in this part of the cave. He selected one from among the pumpkin family, and picked up his tools.

These were unique. Absolutely no one else in the world had a screwdriver that small.

A green shoot speared up from the forest litter in response to the first light of dawn, unfolded into two leaves, and went on growing.

Down among the rich compost of fallen leaves, white shoots writhed like worms. This was no time for half-measures. Somewhere far down, a questing tap root found water.

After a few minutes, the bushes around the by now large and moving plant began to wilt.

The lead shoot dragged itself onwards, towards the sea. Tendrils just behind the advancing stem wound around handy branches. Larger trees were used as support, bushes were uprooted and tossed aside and a tap root sprouted to take possession of the newly vacated hole.

The god hadn't had much time for sophistication. The plant's instructions had been put together from bits and pieces lying around, things he knew would work.

At last the first shoot crossed the beach and reached the sea. Roots drove into the sand, leaves unfolded, and the plant sprouted one solitary female flower. Small male ones had already opened along the stem.

The god hadn't programmed this bit. The whole problem with evolution, he'd told himself, was that it wouldn't obey orders. Sometimes, matter thinks for itself.

A thin prehensile tendril bunched itself for a moment, then sprang up and lassoed a passing moth. It curved back, dipped the terrified insect waist deep in the pollen of a male flower, then coiled back with whiplash speed and slam-dunked it into the embracing petals of the female.

A few seconds later the flower dropped off and the small green ball below it began to swell, just as the horizon began to blush with the dawn. Argo nauticae uniquo was ready to produce its first, and only, fruit.

There was a huge windmill, squeaking around on top of a metal tower. A sign attached to the tower read: 'Dijabringabeeralong: Check your Weapons.'

'Yep, still got all mine, no worries,' said Mad, urging the horses forward.

They crossed a wooden bridge, although Rincewind couldn't see why anyone had bothered to build it. It seemed a lot of effort just to cross a stretch of dry sand.

'Sand?' said Mad. 'That's the Lassitude River, that is!'

And, indeed, a small boat went past. It was being towed by a camel and was making quite good time on its four wide wheels.

'A boat,' said Rincewind.

'Never seen one before?'

'Not one being pedalled, no,' said Rincewind, as a tiny canoe went past.

'They'd hoist the sail if the wind was right.'

'But... this might sound a strange question... Why is it a boat shape?'

'It's the shape boats are.'

'Oh, right. I thought it'd be a good reason like that. How did the camels get here?'

They cling to driftwood, people say. The currents wash a lot of stuff up, down on the coast.'

Dijabringabeeralong was coming into view. It was just as well there had been the sign, otherwise they might have ridden through it without noticing. The architecture was what is known professionally as 'vernacular', a word used in another field to mean 'swearing' and this was quite appropriate. But then, Rincewind thought, it's as hot as hell and it never rains – all you need a house for is to mark some kind of boundary between inside and outside.

'You said this was a big town,' he said.

'It's got a whole street. And a pub.'

'Oh, that's a street, is it? And that logpile is a pub?'

'You'll like it. It's run by Crocodile.'

'Why do they call him Crocodile?'

A night sleeping on the sand hadn't helped the Faculty very much. And the Archchancellor didn't help even more. He was an early-morning man as well as being, most unfairly, a late-night man. Sometimes he went from one to the other without sleeping in between.

'Wake up, you fellows! Who's game for a brisk trot around the island? There'll be a small prize for the winner, eh?'

'Oh, my gods,' moaned the Dean, rolling over. 'He's doing press-ups.'

'I certainly wouldn't want anyone to think I'm advocating a return to the bad old days,' said the Chair of Indefinite Studies, trying to dislodge some sand from his ear, 'but once upon a time we used to kill wizards like him.'

'Yes, but we also used to kill wizards like us, Chair,' said the Dean.

'Remember what we'd say in those days?' said the Senior Wrangler. ' "Never trust a wizard over sixty-five"? Whatever happened?'

'We got past the age of sixty-five, Senior Wrangler.'

'Ah, yes. And it turned out that we were trustworthy after all.'

'Good thing we found out in time, eh?'

'There's a crab climbing that tree,' said the Lecturer in Recent Runes, who was lying on his back and staring straight upwards. 'An actual crab.'

'Yes,' said the Senior Wrangler. 'They're called Tree-climbing Crabs.'

'Why?'

'I had this book when I was a little lad,' said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. 'It was about this man who was shipwrecked on an island such as this and he thought he was all alone and then one day he found a footprint in the sand. There was a woodcut,' he added.

'One footprint?' said the Dean, sitting up, clutching his head.

'Well... yes, and when he saw it he knew that he—'

'—was alone on an island with a crazed one-legged long-jump champion?' said the Dean. He was feeling testy.

'Well, obviously he found some other footprints later on...'

'I wish I was on a desert island all alone,' said the Senior Wrangler gloomily, watching Ridcully running on the spot.

'Is it just me,' the Dean asked, 'or are we marooned thousands of miles and thousands of years from home?'

'Yes.'

'I thought so. Is there any breakfast?'

'Stibbons found some soft-boiled eggs.'

'What a useful young man he is,' the Dean groaned. 'Where did he find them?'

'On a tree.'

Bits of last night came back to the Dean.

'A soft-boiled-egg tree?'

'Yes,' said the Senior Wrangler. 'Nicely runny. They're quite good with breadfruit soldiers.'

'You'll be telling me next he found a spoon tree...'

'Of course not.'

'Good.'

'It's a bush.' The Senior Wrangler held up a small wooden spoon. It had a few small leaves still attached to it.

'A bush that fruits spoons...'

'Young Stibbons said it makes perfect sense, Dean. After all, he said, we'd picked them because they're useful, and then spoons are always getting lost. Then he burst into tears.'

'He's got a point, though. Honestly, this place is like Big Rock Candy Mountain.'

'I vote we leave it as soon as possible,' said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. 'We'd better have a serious look at this boat idea today. I don't want to meet another of those horrible lizards.'

'One of everything, remember?'

'Then probably there's a worse one.'

'Building some sort of boat can't be very hard,' said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. 'Even quite primitive people manage it.'

'Now look,' snapped the Dean, 'we've searched everywhere for a decent library on this island. There simply isn't one! It's ridiculous. How is any-one supposed to get anything done?'

'I suppose... we could... try things?' said the Senior Wrangler. 'You know... see what floats, that sort of thing.'

'Oh, well, if you want to be crude about it...'

The Chair of Indefinite Studies looked at the Dean's lace and decided it was time to lighten the atmosphere.