where it became a central feature of the old Omnian religion.’
‘Discworld reality became a Roundworld myth, and Roundworld rules became a Discworld belief!’ said Ponder.
Marjorie jabbed the Archchancellor in the ribs. ‘So, Unseen University didn’t get the idea of a round world from the ancient roots of Omnianism!’
‘No,’ said Ridcully. ‘They got it from us.’
‘Game, set and myth,’ said the Dean. ‘Done and dusted.’
Ridcully looked sceptical and continued, ‘I wouldn’t count on that. In my experience, fanatics don’t change their minds whatever the evidence. Even if their own god were to appear before them and tell them they were wrong, they would still—’
‘Om is not mocked! That is to say that our concept of the true being of Om is not mocked!’ yelled Stackpole. ‘The Disc is round! The turtle does not move! There is no tur—’
‘Oh, do shut up, you horrible little man,’ said Om. ‘And I don’t want any more of this, or I’ll start again and give ants a try.’ He vanished.
‘Well, that’s one dissenting opinion …’ Stackpole began, picking himself up from the floor.
Vetinari picked up his gavel with a hopeful expression. ‘The case is closed. My judgement is that the Church of Latter-Day Omnians’ claim to custody of the Round World has no merit, and it shall remain in the care of Unseen University, in perpetuity.’ He banged the gavel, then glared at Ridcully, raising his eyebrow without twitching a muscle, just to show them. ‘I hope you look after it with more care than you have in the past, Mustrum.’
‘O Great God Om!’ All eyes turned on Stackpole as he threw himself prostrate, yelling and frothing at the mouth. ‘Help your true believers in their hour of need! Confound the lies of the infidels!’
‘He’s wasting his time,’ said the Dean. ‘His god has already pronounced judgement. Why can’t he just accept—?’
But Stackpole took no notice. ‘We will not stand for this! We will continue fighting! There is a truth even higher than the truth!’
Suddenly a small group of hooded figures was in the room at speed, taking the onlookers by surprise and gathering around Lord Vetinari, who in the circumstances appeared to be unflustered, only thoughtful. One of the hooded men grabbed Roundworld from its tripod and ran with it back towards the entrance, and a voice by Marjorie rang out, ‘If our demands are not met, his Lordship and the precious Round World will both be destroyed! Death to the tyrant!’
Marjorie was impressed at her own presence of mind, but a librarian must be prepared for any eventuality, including terrorists. When in doubt strike first, making certain no valuable volumes are harmed, she reminded herself. Then she sank to her knees in front of the hooded man and pleaded for her life: ‘Oh, sir, please don’t kill me, sir, please, sir, I’m on my knees!’
That ringing plea was then echoed by a black figure that had suddenly been punched in the groin. One small blow for a librarian; one giant step for Roundworld, Marjorie thought, gratified to hear a crunch. And mere seconds after this first challenge, she was pelting down the aisle after the retreating bandit carrying her home. Her library and all of the planet surrounding it was accelerating away to only God – or more likely Richard Dawkins – knew where.
Being the fastest track and field runner in Roedean School helped. The fleeing bandit hadn’t had her training, and certainly didn’t have her stamina, and was flagging as he zigzagged through streets that were quite alien to Marjorie. She had to keep him in sight; she would be completely lost if he got away, so she girded her loins, metaphysically speaking, gulped for breath and sped on. Now it was beginning to look as if the wretched miscreant was weakening – she was sure of it – and this reassurance gave her wings.
She could hear the sounds of hue and cry dwindling behind her. And then the figure stopped dead, turned round, screamed something incoherent and flung the globe directly at her head.
fn1 The Quite Reverend Mightily-Praiseworthy-Are-Ye-Who-Exalteth-Om Oats, a mainstream Omnian priest.
TWENTY-TWO
* * *
FAREWELL, FINE-TUNING
They didn’t make it; it made them.
Pastor Oats, a truly wise man, has put his finger on a deep, often unappreciated, truth, which illuminates the misty borderland where science and religion meet. Here lie some of the most perplexing riddles of modern cosmology, where the austere workings of fundamental physics collide with the richness of human experience.
At the heart of this collision is an astonishing coincidence: