'... and blobs,' said the bledlow firmly.
'But you must admit that it is strange that - '
Probably everyone wants him dead.
Ponder stopped as the chasm of memory opened. 'That makes no sense. It can't be true!'
'Sir?'
He realized that all the footballers were staring at him. Ridcully had refused to say any more, and in Ponder's crowded mind he'd settled for believing that Nutt was on the run in some way. It was not unknown. Occasionally a novice wizard working in a small town might find it a good idea to hurry back for a swift refresher course in the safety of the university's hospitable stones until his little mistake had been rectified/forgotten/erased/caught and bottled. There had always been others given sanctuary for mysterious reasons. The politics of wizardry were either very simple, and resolved by someone ceasing to breathe, or as complex as one ball of yarn in a room with three bright-eyed little kittens.
But Nutt... What crime could he have done? And then you had to factor in that it was Ridcully who had allowed him to come here and indeed had put Ponder in this position. The sensible thing, therefore, was to¨Cjust get on with it.
'I think Mister Nutt has some very good ideas,' he said carefully, 'and I think he should continue. Do carry on, Mister Nutt.'
Watching Nutt look up was like watching the sun rise, but a hesitant sun afraid that any moment the gods might slap it back down into the night, and hungry for reassurance that this would not be so.
'I am worthy?'
'Well, er... ' Ponder began, and saw Trev nodding frantically.
'Well, er, yes, it would seem so, Mister Nutt. I'm amazed at your insight in so short a time.'
'I have a talent for pattern recognition in developing situations.'
'Really? Oh. Good. Carry on, then.'
'Excuse me, I have a question, if you would be so good?'
Looks like a bag of second-hand clothes, talks like a retired theologian, Ponder thought. 'Ask away, Mister Nutt.'
'Can I carry on with the dribbling?'
'What? Do you want to?'
'Yes, thank you. I enjoy it and it does not take me long.'
Ponder glanced at Trev, who shrugged, made a face and nodded.
'But I have a favour to ask,' Nutt went on.
'I rather expected you would,' said Ponder, 'but I'm sorry to say that the budget this term means - '
'Oh no, I don't want any money,' said Nutt. 'I don't really spend it anyway. I just want Mister Trev in the team. He is very modest, but you should know that he is a genius with his feet. I cannot see how you could lose with him in the team.'
'Oh no,' said Trev, waving his hands and backing away. 'No! Not me! I'm not a footballer! I just kick tin cans around!'
'Thought that was at the heart and soul of foot-the-ball, isn't it?' said Ponder, who'd never been allowed to play in the street.
'I thought it was when early blokes kicked a dead enemy's head around,' Bledlow Nobbs (no relation) volunteered.
A throat was cleared. 'Unlikely in my opinion,' said Hix. 'Unless it's in a bag or some sort of metal brace, and then you have the problem of weight, because a human head comes in at around ten pounds, which is a pain in the foot, I should think. Scooping it out would work for a while, of course, but mind you wire the jaw, because no one wants to be bitten in the foot. I do have some heads on ice if anyone wants to experiment. It's amazing, but there are still those who leave their bodies to necromancy. There's some strange people out there.'
At this point, the head of the Department of Post-Mortem Communications realized that he was not taking his audience with him.
'There's no need to look at me like that,' he grumbled. 'Skull ring, remember? I have to know this wretched stuff.'
Ponder coughed politely. 'Mister, er, Likely, isn't it? Your colleague speaks very highly of you. Won't you join us?'