Unseen Academicals

When the rattling had ceased, and the last biscuit had been fought for, Ridcully tinkled his teaspoon on the rim of his cup for silence, although since he was Ridcully this only added the crash of broken crockery to the hubbub. Once the girl in charge of the trolley had sponged everybody down, he continued: ‘The chanting, gentlemen, appears to be another inconsequentiality at first sight, but I have reason to believe that it has a certain power, and we will ignore it at our peril. I see the museum’s translators say the modern chants were originally hymns to the goddess calling on her to grant her favours to the team of choice, while naiads danced on the edges of the field of play, the better to encourage the players to greater feats of prowess.’

‘Naiads?’ said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. ‘They’re water nymphs, aren’t they? Young women with very thin damp clothing? Why would anyone want them around? Besides, didn’t they drown sailors by singing to them?’

Ridcully let the thoughtful pause hang in the air for a while before volunteering: ‘Fortunately, I don’t think anyone these days would expect that we play football underwater.’

‘The pies would float,’ said the Chair of Indefinite Studies.

‘Not necessarily,’ said Ponder.

‘What about clothing, Mister Stibbons? I assume there will be some?’

‘Temperatures were somewhat warmer in olden days. I can assure you that no one will insist on nudity.’

Ponder might have noticed the rattle as the girl with the tea trolley almost dropped a cup, but was gracious enough not to notice that he had noticed. He went on. ‘Currently the teams wear old shirts and short trousers.’

‘How short?’ said the Chair of Indefinite Studies, urgency in his voice.

‘About mid-knee, I believe,’ said Ponder. ‘Is this likely to be a problem?’

‘Yes, it is. The knees should be covered. It is a well-known fact that a glimpse of the male knee can drive women into a frenzy of libidinousness.’ There was another rattle from the tea trolley, but Ponder ignored it because his own head had rattled a bit, too.

‘Are you sure about that, sir?’

‘It is established fact, young Stibbons.’

Ponder had found a grey hair on his comb that morning and was not in the mood to take this standing up.

‘And precisely in what books does—’ he began, but Ridcully interrupted with unusual diplomacy. Generally he liked little tiffs among the faculty.

‘A few more inches to prevent mobbing by the ladies should present us with no problems, surely, Mister Stibbons? Oops …’

This last was to Glenda, who had dropped two spoons on the carpet. She gave him a cursory curtsy.

‘Er, yes … and we should sport the university colours,’ he went on, with a hint of nervousness. Ridcully prided himself on treating the staff well, and indeed did so whenever he remembered them, but the expression of intelligent amusement on the face of the dumpy girl had unnerved him; it was as if a chicken had winked.

‘Um, yes, yes indeed,’ he said. ‘The good old red jersey we used to wear in my rowing days, with the big U’s on the front, bold as brass …’

He glanced at the maid, who was frowning. But he was Archchancellor, wasn’t he? It said so on his door, didn’t it?

‘That’s what we’ll do,’ he declared. ‘We’ll look into pies, although I’ve seen a few pies that don’t bear looking into, haha, and we’ll adapt the good old red sweater. What’s next, Mister Stibbons?’

‘With regard to the chanting, sir. I’ve asked the Master of the Music to work on some options,’ said Ponder smoothly. ‘We need to select a team as soon as possible.’

‘I don’t see what the rush is,’ said the Chair of Indefinite Studies, who had almost nodded off in the arms of a chocolate biscuit surfeit.

‘The bequest, remember?’ said the head of the Department of PostMortem Communications. ‘We—’

‘Pas devant la domestique!’ snapped the Lecturer in Recent Runes.

Automatically, Ridcully turned again to look at Glenda, and got a distinct feeling that here was a woman about to learn a foreign language in a hurry. It was an odd but slightly exciting idea. Until this moment, he had never thought of the maids in the singular. They were all … servants. He was polite to them, and smiled when appropriate. He assumed they sometimes did other things than fetch and carry, and sometimes went off to get married and sometimes just … went off. Up until now, though, he’d never really thought that they might think, let alone what they thought about, and least of all what they thought about the wizards. He turned back to the table.

‘Who will be doing the chanting, Mister Stibbons?’

‘The aforesaid supporters, fans, sir. It’s short for fanatics.’

‘And ours will be … who?’

‘Well, we are the largest employer in the city, sir.’

‘As a matter of fact I think Vetinari is, and I wish to all hells I knew exactly who he is employing,’ said Ridcully.

‘I’m sure our loyal staff will support us,’ said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. He turned to Glenda, and to Ridcully’s dismay said, glutinously, ‘I’m sure you would be a fan, would you not, my child?’