The dark side of the sun - By Terry Pratchett Page 0,41

the centre it was Water IV, the third strangest substance in the universe, and the surface boiled. Dom watched the facts form in his mind with the inexorable growth of crystals.

For a few thousand years the planet glooped and woobled its watery path between the stars, trailing behind it across the galactic sky a shimmering rainbow of steam that photon pressure sculptured into vast ghosts. Then it exploded.

Dom found himself ducking. A churning droplet of water, a whole sea, left the damp explosion and passed him, steaming, on its way to the galactic rim.

And he knew with a second-hand certainty that the hot wet world had produced life. It was a life that knew nothing of Jokers. In the hot water improbable compounds had formed unlikely molecules, had …

‘You are the lake,’ he said.

I am. How is my old friend the Bank?

‘He was fine a few days ago,’ said Dom. ‘Uh … do you shun publicity?’

Not at all, but I like my privacy. The Bank was the only other lifeform extant when I arrived here. The sundogs know me. But I help them, I take care of their pups, and they are reticent about me.

‘Take care of their pups? You must be telepathic.’

Not as you would understand it. But most creatures are largely water, and I am wholly water. They drink of me, and I become part of them – as I am part of you. Osmosis, you see. Don’t let it offend you.

‘I won’t,’ said Dom. He kicked a cloud of mud from the lake bottom, and tried to convince himself.

Eight of our days ago the Bank sent me a messenger. The Bank is rock, I am water. We have an understanding.

Dom smiled. ‘Isn’t there some story about a sapient sun out towards galactic north?’ he asked.

Yes, it is true. He is strange. We are instituting a search for an intelligent gas cloud now, to complete the elemental quartet. However, the Bank told me that he was sending a person to aid my extension programme.

‘He didn’t say that to me – I was told you could help me find Jokers World,’ said Dom.

Maybe we can help one another.

‘What do you know about the Jokers?’

Nothing. Knowledge is not my province. My province is ...

There was no precise word for it. A series of images flashed across Dom’s mind as Chatogaster tried to explain. Intuition was too coarse a term; there was something in it of a leaf’s knowledge of how a tree grows; there was something warm, dreamy, arcane …

May I rifle your memory? I shall need to. Thank you. You may experience a dreamlike sensation, however, I will leave your mind as I would wish to find it.

Later the lake said: Generally speaking there is no dark side to a sun. Let us start with the Joker towers. Their casing at least is probably a giant molecule. Their use is not known, although they absorb power and appear to yield none. I feel bound to say that there is no apparent reason for their existence, any more than there is for a man, for example.

It would seem that this assassin is out to prevent you from discovering this World. He may in fact be hastening your discovery by forcing you along paths you might not otherwise take.

Let us consider the Jokers themselves. That they existed cannot be doubted. They have left artefacts, the greatest of which are the Chain Stars, which proves they had power and perhaps bravado; they left the Centre of the Universe on Wolf, which suggests they had an understanding of the underlying truisms of Totality; and they left the Tomorrow Strata on Third Eye, which I believe means they at least experimented with time travel. There is a fundamental mistake, though, in assuming that the Jokers are the sum of their creations. These may have been toys, relics of the Jokers’ youth. Astronomical evidence suggests that if they evolved on a world it may well be dead and gone by now. The fact that Jokers World has not been found within the ‘life-bubble’ does not lead me to believe it is hidden. I find I believe it is not there. It must be obvious that ‘the dark side of the sun’ is an idea rather than a place.

‘It had crossed my mind,’ admitted Dom. He was sitting in the ooze, watching the light dance on the surface overhead. ‘Is it a poetic image?’

Poetry is the highest art. The Jokers must have achieved it.

Dom sighed. ‘I