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morning, and it was full of chaps snoring!”
    “That would be the senior masters, Master,” said the Bursar. “I would say they are supremely fit, myself.”
    “ Fit? The Dean looks like a man who’s swallered a bed!”
    “Ah, but Master,” said the Bursar, smiling indulgently,
    “the word ‘fit,’ as I understand it, means ‘appropriate to a purpose,’ and I would say the body of the Dean is supremely appropriate to the purpose of sitting around all day and eating big heavy meals.” The Bursar permitted himself a little smile.
    The Archchancellor gave him a look so old-fashioned it might have belonged to an ammonite.
    “That a joke?” he said, in the suspicious tones of someone who wouldn’t really understand the term “sense of humor” even if you sat down for an hour and explained it to him with diagrams.
    “I was just making an observation, Master,” said the Bursar cautiously.
    The Archchancellor shook his head. “Can’t stand jokes. Can’t stand chaps goin’ round tryin’ to be funny the whole time. Comes of spendin’ too much time sitting indoors. A few twenty-mile runs and the Dean’d be a different man.”
    “Well, yes,” said the Bursar. “He’d be dead.”
    “He’d be healthy.”
    “Yes, but still dead.”
    The Archchancellor irritably shuffled the papers on his desk.
    “Slackness,” he muttered. “Far too much of it going on. Whole place gone to pot. People goin’ round sleepin’ all day and turnin’ into monkeys the whole time. We never even thought of turnin’ into a monkey when I was a student.” He looked up irritably.
    “What was it you wanted?” he snapped.
    “What?” said the Bursar, unnerved.
    “You wanted me to do somethin’, didn’t you? You came in to ask me to do somethin’. Probably because I’m the only feller here not fast asleep or sittin’ in a tree whoopin’ every mornin’,” the Archchancellor added.
    “Er. I think that’s gibbons, Archchancellor.”
    “What? What? Do try and make some sense, man!”
    The Bursar pulled himself together. He didn’t see why he had to be treated like this.
    “In fact , I wanted to see you about one of the students, Master,” he said coldly.
    “Students?” barked the Archchancellor.
    “Yes, Master. You know? They’re the thinner ones with the pale faces? Because we’re a university ? They come with the whole thing, like rats—”
    “I thought we paid people to deal with ’em.”
    “The teaching staff. Yes. But sometimes…well, I wonder, Archchancellor, if you would care to look at these examination results…”

    It was midnight—not the same midnight as before, but a very similar midnight. Old Tom, the tongueless bell in the University bell tower, had just tolled its twelve sonorous silences.
    Rainclouds squeezed their last few drops over the city. Ankh-Morpork sprawled under a few damp stars, as real as a brick.
    Ponder Stibbons, student wizard, put down his book and rubbed his face.
    “All right,” he said. “Ask me anything. Go on. Anything at all.”
    Victor Tugelbend, student wizard, picked up his battered copy of Necrotelicomnicon Discussed for Students, with Practical Experiments and turned the pages at random. He was lying on Ponder’s bed. At least, his shoulder blades were. His body extended up the wall. This is a perfectly normal position for a student taking his ease.
    “OK,” he said. “Right. OK? What, right, what is the name of the outer-dimensional monster whose distinctive cry is ‘Yerwhatyerwhatyerwhat’?”
    “Yob Soddoth,” said Ponder promptly.
    “Yeah. How does the monster Tshup Aklathep, Infernal Star Toad with A Million Young, torture its victims to death?”
    “It…don’t tell me…it holds them down and shows them pictures of its children until their brains implode.”
    “Yep. Always wondered how that happens, myself,” said Victor, flicking through the pages. “I suppose after you’ve said ‘Yes, he’s got your eyes’ for the thousandth time