'Er . . . no.'
'Haven't you noticed that by running away you end up in more trouble?'
'Yes, but, you see, you can run away from that, too,' said Rincewind. 'That's the beauty of the system. Dead is only for once, but running away is for ever.'
'Ah, but it is said that a coward dies a thousand deaths, while a hero dies only one.'
'Yes, but it's the important one.'
'Aren't you ashamed?'
'No. I'm going home. I'm going to find this city called Bugarup, find a boat, and go home.'
'Bugarup?'
'Don't tell me the place doesn't exist.'
'Oh, no. It's a big place. And that's where you're going?'
'And don't try to stop me!'
'I can see you've made up your mind,' said Scrappy. 'Read my lips!'
'Your moustache is in the way.'
'Read my beard, then!' The kangaroo shrugged. 'In that case, I've got no choice but to carry on helping you, I suppose.'
Rincewind drew himself up. 'I'll find my own way,' he said. 'You don't know the way.'
'I'll ask someone!'
'What about food? You'll starve.'
'Ahah, that's where you're wrong!' Rincewind snapped. 'I've got this amazing power. Watch!' He lifted up a nearby stone, extracted what was underneath, and flourished it. 'See? Impressed, eh?'
'Very.'
'Ahah!' Scrappy nodded. Tve never seen anyone do that with a scorpion before.' The god was sitting high up in a tree working on a particularly promising beetle when the Bursar ambled past far below. Well, at last. One of them had found it! The god had spent some time watching the wizards' attempts at boat-building, although he had been unable to fathom out what it was they were trying to do. As far as he could tell, they were showing some interest in the fact that wood floated. Well, it did float, didn't it? He threw the beetle into the air. It hummed into life at the top of the arc and flew away, a smear of iridescence among the treetops. The god drifted out of his tree and followed the Bursar. The god hadn't made up his mind about these creatures yet, but the island was, unfortunately and against all his careful planning, throwing up all sorts of odd things. These were obviously social creatures, with some of the individuals designed for specific tasks. The hairy red one was designed for climbing trees, and the dreamy ant-stamping one for walking into them. Possibly the reasons for this would become apparent. 'Ah, Bursar!' said the Dean heartily. 'How would you like a brief trip around the lagoon?' The Bursar looked at the soaking log and sought for words. Sometimes, when he really needed to, it was possible to get Mr Brain and Mr Mouth all lined up together. 'I had a boat once,' he said. 'Well done! And here's another one, just for—'
'It was green.'
'Really? Well, we can—'
'I've found another green boat,' said the Bursar. 'It's floating in the water.'
'Yes, yes, I'm sure you have,' said Ridcully kindly. 'A big boat with lots of sails, I expect. Now then, Dean—'
'Just one sail,' said the Bursar. 'And a bare naked lady on the front.' Hovering immanently, the god cursed. He'd never intended the figurehead. Sometimes, he really wanted to just break down and cry. 'Bare naked lady?' said the Dean. 'Settle down, Dean,' said the Senior Wrangler. 'He's probably just had too many dried frog pills.'
'It's going up and down in the water,' said the Bursar. 'Up and down, up and down.' The Dean looked at their own creation. Contrary to all expectations, it did not go up and down in the water. It stayed exactly where it was and the water went up and down over it. This is an island,' he said. 'I suppose someone could have sailed here, couldn't they? What kind of bare naked lady? A dusky one?'
'Really, Dean!'
'Spirit of enquiry, Senior Wrangler. Important bio-geographical information.' The Bursar waited until his brain came around again. 'Green,' he volunteered. 'That is not a natural colour for a human being, clothed or not,' said the Senior Wrangler. 'She might be seasick,' said the Dean. There was only the vaguest of wistful longings in his head, but he did not want to let go of it. 'Going up and down,' said the Bursar. 'I suppose we could have a look,' said the Dean. 'What about Mrs Whitlow? She hasn't been out of her hut yet.'
'She can come too if she likes,' said the Dean. 'I don't think we can expect Mrs Whitlow to go looking at a bare naked lady, even if this one is green,' said the Senior Wrangler. 'Why not? She must have seen at least one. Not green, of course.'
The Senior Wrangler drew himself up. 'There's no call for that sort of imputation,' he said. 'What? Well, obviously she—' The Dean stopped. The big leaves on Mrs Whitlow's hut were pushed aside, and she emerged. It was probably the flower in her hair. That was certainly the crowning glory. But she'd also done things to her dress. There was, for a start, less of it. Since the word is derived from an island that did not exist on the Discworld, the wizards had never heard of a bikini. In any case, what Mrs Whitlow had sewn together out of her dress was a lot more substantial than a bikini. It was more a newzealand - two quite large respectable halves separated by a narrow channel. She'd also tied some of the spare cloth around her waist, sarong style. In short, it was a very proper item of clothing. But it looked as if it wasn't. It was as if Mrs Whitlow was wearing a figleaf six feet square. It was still just a figleaf. 'Ai thought this might be a leetle more suitable for the heat,' she said. 'Of course, Ai wouldn't dream of wearing it in the University, but since we appear to be here for a little while Ai remembered a picture Ai saw of Queen Zazumba of Sumtri. Is there anywhere Ai could have a bath, do you think?'