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every world dominated?”
    “Are there any useful minerals?”
    “What?”
    Eric gave a sigh of long-suffering patience.
    “Minerals,” he said. “Ores. You know.”
    Rincewind colored. “I don’t think a lad your age should be thinking of—”
    “I mean metal and things. It’s no use to me if it’s just a load of rock.”
    Rincewind looked down. The Discworld’s tiny moonlet was just rising over the far edge, and shed a pale radiance across the jigsaw pattern of land and sea.
    “Oh, I don’t know. It looks quite nice,” he volunteered. “Look, it’s dark now. Perhaps everyone can pay you tribute in the morning?”
    “I want some tribute now .”
    “I thought you might.”
    Rincewind gave his fingers a careful examination. It wasn’t as if he’d ever been particularly good at snapping them.
    He gave it another try.
    When he opened his eyes again he was standing up to his ankles in mud.
    Preeminent among Rincewind’s talents was his skill in running away, which over the years he had elevated to the status of a genuinely pure science; it didn’t matter if you were fleeing from or to, so long as you were fleeing. It was flight alone that counted. I run, therefore I am; more correctly, I run, therefore with any luck I’ll still be .
    But he was also skilled in languages and in practical geography. He could shout ‘help!’ in fourteen languages and scream for mercy in a further twelve. He had passed through many of the countries on the Disc, some of them at high speed, and during the long, lovely, boring hours when he’d worked in the Library he’d whiled away the timeby reading up on all the exotic and faraway places he’d never visited. He remembered that at the time he’d sighed with relief that he’d never have to visit them.
    And, now, here he was.
    Jungle surrounded him. It wasn’t nice, interesting, open jungle, such as leopard-skin-clad heroes might swing through, but serious, real jungle, jungle that towered up like solid slabs of greenness, thorned and barbed, jungle in which every representative of the vegetable kingdom had really rolled up its bark and got down to the strenuous business of outgrowing all competitors. The soil was hardly soil at all, but dead plants on the way to compost-hood; water dripped from leaf to leaf, insects whined in the humid, spore-laden air, and there was the terrible breathless silence made by the motors of photosynthesis running flat out. Any yodeling hero who tried to swing through that lot might just as well take his chances with a bean-slicer.
    “How do you do that?” said Eric.
    “It’s probably a knack,” said Rincewind.
    Eric subjected the wonders of Nature to a cursory and disdainful glance.
    “This doesn’t look like a kingdom,” he complained. “You said we could go to a kingdom. Do you call this a kingdom?”
    “This is probably the rain forests of Klatch,” said Rincewind. “They’re stuffed full of lost kingdoms.”
    “You mean mysterious ancient races of Amazonian princesses who subject all male prisoners to strange and exhausting progenitative rites?” said Eric, his glasses beginning to fog.
    “Haha,” said Rincewind stonily. “What an imagination the child has.”
    “Wossname, wossname, wossname!” shrieked the parrot.
    “I’ve read about them,” said Eric, peering into the greenery. “Of course, I own those kingdoms as well.” He stared at some private inner vision. “Gosh,” he said, hungrily.
    “I should concentrate on the tribute if I was you,” said Rincewind, setting off down what was possibly a path.
    The brightly colored blooms on a tree nearby turned to watch him go.
    In the jungles of central Klatch there are, indeed, lost kingdoms of mysterious Amazonian princesses who capture male explorers for specificallymasculine duties. These are indeed rigorous and exhausting and the luckless victims do not last long. *
    There are also hidden plateaux where the reptilian monsters of a bygone epoch romp and play,