Soul Music

He was feeling too cheerful to argue much. The sausages‑in‑a­bun were selling very fast, but they were just covering minor expenses. There were ways of making money out of Music With Rocks In that he'd never thought of... and C. M. O. T. Dibbler thought of money all the time.

For example, there were the shirts. They were of cotton so cheap and thin that it was practically invisible in a good light and tended to dissolve in the wash. He'd sold six hundred already! At five dollars each! All he had to do was buy them at ten for a dollar from Klatchian Wholesale Trading and pay Chalky half a dollar each to print them.

And Chalky, with un‑troll‑like initiative, had even printed off his own shirts. They said:

ChaIKies,

12 The Scours

Thyngs Done.

And people were buying them, paying money to advertise Chalky's workshop. Dibbler had never dreamed that the world could work like this. It was like watching sheep shear themselves. Whatever was causing this reversal of the laws of commercial practice he wanted in big lumps.

He'd already sold the idea to Plugger the shoemaker in New Cobblers and a hundred shirts had just walked out of the shop, which was more than Plugger's merchandise usually did. People wanted clothes just because they had writing on!

He was making money. Thousands of dollars in a day! And a hundred music traps were lined up in front of the stage, ready to capture Buddy's voice. If it went on at this rate, in several billion years he'd be rich beyond his wildest dreams!

Long Live Music With Rocks In!

There was only one small cloud in this silver lining.

The Festival was due to start at noon. Dibbler had planned to put on a lot of the small, bad groups first that is to say, all of them ‑ and finish with The Band. So there was no reason to worry if they weren't here right now.

But they weren't here right now. Dibbler was worried.

A tiny dark figure quartered the shores of the Ankh, moving so fast as to be a blur. It zigzagged desperately back and forth, snuffling.

People didn't see it. But they saw the rats. Black, brown and grey, they were leaving the godowns and wharfs by the river, running over one another's backs in a determined attempt to get as far away as possible.

A haystack heaved, and gave birth to a Glod.

He rolled out on to the ground, and groaned. Fine rain was drifting over the landscape. Then he staggered upright, looked around at the rolling fields, and disappeared behind a hedge for the moment.

He trotted back a few seconds later, explored the haystack for a while until he found a part that was lumpier than normal, and kicked it repeatedly with his metal‑topped boot.

" Ow!"

" C flat," said Glod. "Good morning, Cliff. Hello, world! I don't think I can stand life in the fast leyline, you know ‑ the cabbages, the bad beer, all those rats pestering you all the time–"

Cliff crawled out.

" I must have had some bad ammonium chloride last night," he said. "Is the top of my head still on?"

" Yes."

" Pity."

They hauled Asphalt out by his boots and brought him round by pounding him repeatedly.

" You're our road manager," said Glod. "You're supposed to see no harm comes to us."

" Well, I'm doing that, ain't I?" Asphalt muttered. "I'm not hitting you, Mr Glod. Where's Buddy?"

The three circled the haystack, prodding at bulges which turned out to be damp hay.

They found him on a small rise in the ground, not very far away. A few holly bushes grew there, carved into curves by the wind. He was sitting under one, guitar on his knees, rain plastering his hair to his face.

He was asleep, and soaking wet.

On his lap, the guitar played raindrops.

" He's weird," said Asphalt.

" No," said Glod. "He's wound up by some strange compulsion which leads him through dark pathways."

" Yeah. Weird."

The rain was slackening off. Cliff glanced at the sky.

" Sun's high," he said.

" Oh, no!" said Asphalt. "How long were you asleep?"

" Same as I am awake," said Cliff.

" It's almost noon. Where did I leave the horses? Has anyone seen the cart? Someone wake him up!"

A few minutes later they were back on the road.

" An' you know what?" said Cliff. "We left so quick last night I never did know if she turned up."

" What was her name?" said Glod.

" Dunno," said the troll.

" Oh, that's real love, that is," said Glod.

" Ain't you got any romance in your soul?" said Cliff.

" Eyes crossed in a crowded room?" said Glod. "No, not really–"

They were pushed aside as Buddy leaned forward.

" Shut up," he said. The voice was low and contained no trace whatsoever of humour.

" We were only joking," said Glod.

" Don't."

Asphalt concentrated on the road, aware of the general lack of amiability.

" I expect you're looking forward to the Festival, eh?" he said, after a while.

No‑one replied.

" I expect there'll be big crowds," he said.