The Last Continent by Terry Pratchett Page A

old chap,” he said eventually, “I think I understood about the clams, and I’ve got a sort of mental picture about your granny and the pineapple—”
    “—my aunt—”
    “—your aunt and the pineapple, but…What’s deadly about prawns?”
    “Hah, see how you like a crate of them dropping off the crane on to your head,” said the Senior Wrangler. “My uncle didn’t, I can tell you!”
    “Okay, I think I understand. Important safety tip, everyone,” said Ridcully. “Avoid all crates. Understood? But we are not here on some kind of holiday! Do you all understand me?”
    “Absolutely,” said the wizards in unison.
    They all understood him.

    Rincewind awoke with a scream, to get it over with.
    Then he saw the man watching him.
    He was sitting cross-legged against the dawn. He was black. Not brown, or blue-black, but black as space. This place baked people.
    Rincewind pulled himself up and thought about reaching for his stick. And then he thought again. The man had a couple of spears stuck in the ground, and people here were good at spears, because if you didn’t get efficient at hitting the things that moved fast you had to eat the things that moved slowly. He was also holding a boomerang, and it wasn’t one of those toy ones that came back. This was one of the big, heavy, gently curved sort that didn’t come back because it was sticking in something’s ribcage. You could laugh at the idea of wooden weapons until you saw the kind of wood that grew here.
    It had been painted with stripes of all colors, but it still looked like a business item.
    Rincewind tried to seem harmless. It required little in the way of acting.
    The watcher regarded him in that sucking silence that you just have to fill. And Rincewind came from a culture where, if there was nothing to say, you said something.
    “Er…” said Rincewind. “Me…big-fella…fella…belong…damn, what’s the—” He gave up, and glanced at the blue sky. “Turned out nice again,” he said.
    The man seemed to sigh, stuck the boomerang into the strip of animal skin that was his belt and, in fact, the whole of his wardrobe, and stood up. Then he picked up a leathery sack, slung it over one shoulder, took the spears and, without a backward glance, ambled off around a rock.
    This might have struck anyone else as rude, but Rincewind was always happy to see any heavily armed person walking away. He rubbed his eyes and contemplated the dismal task of subduing breakfast.
    “You want some grub?” The voice was almost a whisper.
    Rincewind looked around. A little way off was the hole from which last night’s supper had been dug. Apart from that, there was nothing all the way to the infinite horizon but scrubby bushes and hot red rocks.
    “I think I dug up most of them,” he said, weakly.
    “Nah, mate. I got to tell you the secret of findin’ tucker in the bush. There’s always a beaut feed if you know where to look, mate.”
    “How come you’re speaking my language, mystery voice?” said Rincewind.
    “I ain’t,” said the voice. “You’re listenin’ to mine. Got to feed you up proper. Gonna sing you into a real bush-tucker finder, true.”
    “Lovely grub,” said Rincewind.
    “Just you stand there and don’t move.”
    It sounded as though the unseen voice then began to chant very quietly through an unseen nose.
    Rincewind was, after all, a wizard. Not a good one, but he was sensitive to magic. And the chant was doing strange things.
    The hairs on the back of his hands tried to crawl up his arms, and the back of his neck began to sweat. His ears popped and, very gently, the landscape began to spin around him.
    He looked down at the ground. There were his feet. Almost certainly his feet. And they were standing on the red earth and not moving at all. Things were moving round him. He wasn’t dizzy but, by the look of it, the landscape was.
    The chanting stopped. There was a sort of echo, which seemed to happen inside his head, as if the