'You know, this was an extremely good idea,' said the Bursar, as the tiny images moved in the crystal ball. 'What an excellent way to see things. Could we perhaps have a look at the Opera House?'
'How about the Skunk Club in Brewer Street?' said the Senior Wrangler. 'Why?' said the Bursar. 'Just a thought,' said the Senior Wrangler quickly. 'I've never been in there at all in any way, you understand.'
'We really shouldn't be doing this,' said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. ' It's really not a proper use of a magic crystal-'
'I can't think of a better use of a magic crystal,' said the Dean, 'than to see people playing Music With Rocks In.' The Duck Man, Coffin Henry, Arnold Sideways, Foul Ole Ron and Foul Ole Ron's Smell and Foul Ole Ron's dog ambled around the edges of the crowd. Pickings had been particularly good. They always were when Dibbler's hot dogs were on sale. There were some things people wouldn't eat even under the influence of Music With Rocks In. There were some things even mustard couldn't disguise. Arnold gathered up the scraps and put them in a basket on his trolley. There was going to be the prince of a primal soup under the bridge tonight. The music had poured over them. They ignored it. Music With Rocks In was the stuff of dreams, and there were no dreams under the bridge. Then they'd stopped and listened, as new music poured out over the park and took every man and woman and thing by the hand and showed him or her or it the way home. The beggars stood and listened, mouths open. Some-one looking from face to face, if anyone did look at the invisible beggars, would have had to turn away . . . Except from Mr Scrub. You couldn't turn away there. When the band were playing Music With Rocks In again, the beggars got back down to earth. Except for Mr Scrub. He just stood and stared. The last note rang out. Then, as the tsunami of applause began to roll, The Band ran off into the darkness. Dibbler watched happily from the wings at the other side of the stage. He'd been a bit worried for a while there, but it all seemed back on course now. Someone tugged at his sleeve. 'What're they doing, Mr Dibbler?' Dibbler turned. 'Scum, isn't it?' he said. 'It's Crash, Mr Dibbler.'
'What they're doing, Scum, is not giving the audience what they want,' said Dibbler. 'Superb business practice. Wait till they're screaming for it, and then take it away. You wait. By the time the crowd is stamping its feet they'll come prancing back on again. Superb timing. When you learn that sort of trick, Scum-'
'It's Crash, Mr Dibbler.'
'-then maybe you'll know how to play Music With Rocks In. Music With Rocks In, Scum-'
'-Crash- '. . . isn't just music,' said Dibbler, pulling some cotton wool out of his ears. 'It's lots of things. Don't ask me how.' Dibbler lit a cigar. The din made the match flame flicker. 'Any minute now,' he said. 'You'll see.' There was a fire that had been made of old boots and mud. A grey shape circled it, snuffling excitedly. 'Get on, get on, get on!'
'Mr Dibbler's not going to like this,' moaned Asphalt. 'Tough one for Mr Dibbler,' said Glod, as they hauled Buddy into the cart. 'Now I want to see those hoofs spark, know what I mean?'
'Head for Quirm,' said Buddy, as the cart jerked into motion. He didn't know why. It just seemed the right destination. 'Not a good idea,' said Glod. 'People'll probably want to ask questions about that cart I pulled out of the swimming pool.'
'Head towards Quirm!'
'Mr Dibbler's really not going to like this,' said Asphalt, as the cart swung out on to the road. 'Any . . . moment . . . now,' said Dibbler. 'I expect so,' said Crash, 'because they're stamping their feet, I think.' There was indeed a certain thumping under the cheers. 'You wait,' said Dibbler. 'They'll judge it just right. No problem. Akk!'
'You're supposed to put your cigar in your mouth the other way round, Mr Dibbler,' said Crash meekly. 'Oh, shut up,' said Glod. 'I don't know what he's got not to like.'
'Well, for a start,' said Asphalt, 'the main thing, the thing he won't like most, is . . . um . . . we've got the money . . .' Cliff reached down under the seat. There was a dull, clinking noise, of the sort made by a lot of gold keeping nice and quiet. The waxing moon lit the landscape as the cart bounced out of the gates and along the Quirm road. 'How did you know I'd got the cart made ready?' said Glod, as they landed after a brief flight. 'I didn't,' said Buddy. 'But you ran out!'
'Yes.'
'Why?'
'It was . . . just . . . time.'
'Why'd you want to go to Quirm?' said Cliff. 'I . . . I can get a boat home, can't I?' said Buddy. 'That's right. A boat home.' Glod glanced at the guitar. This felt wrong. It couldn't just end . . . and then they'd just walk away . . . He shook his head. What could go wrong now? 'Mr Dibbler's really not going to like this,' moaned Asphalt. The stage was trembling with the vibration of the stamping. There was some shouting now. Dibbler turned to Crash and grinned horribly. 'Hey, I've just had a great idea,' he said. A tiny shape swarmed up the road from the river. Ahead of it, the lights of the stage glowed in the dusk. The Archchancellor nudged Ponder, and flourished his staff. 'Now,' he said, 'if there's a sudden rip in reality and horrible screaming Things come through, our job is to-' He scratched his head. 'What is it the Dean says? Kick a righteous donkey?'
'Some righteous ass, sir,' said Ponder. 'He says kick some righteous ass.' Ridcully peered at the empty stage. 'I don't see one,' he said. The four members of The Band sat up and stared straight ahead, over the moonlit plain. Finally Cliff broke the silence. 'How much?'
'Best part of five thousand dollars-'
'FIVE THOUSAND DOL-?'
Cliff clamped his huge hand over Glod's mouth. 'Why?' said Cliff, as the dwarf squirmed. 'MMF MMFMMF MMFMMFS?'
'I got a bit confused,' said Asphalt. 'Sorry.'
'We'll never get far enough,' said Cliff. 'You know dat? Not even if we die.'
'I tried to tell you all!' Asphalt moaned. 'Maybe . . . maybe we could take it back?'
'MMF MMF MMF?'
'How can we do dat?'
'MMF MMF MMF?'
'Glod,' said Cliff, in a reasonable tone of voice, 'I'm going to take my hand away. And you're not to shout. Right?'
'Mmf.'