“Hah! And what about you? I'd have put up with all your womanizing and drunkenness, would I?”
Ridcully looked bewildered.
“What womanizing?”
“We're talking about what might have been.”
“But I'm a wizard! We hardly ever womanize. There's laws about it. Well. . . rules. Guidelines, anyway.”
“But you wouldn't have been a wizard then.”
“And I'm hardly ever drunk.”
“You would have been if you'd been wedded to me.”
He caught up with her.
“Even young Ponder doesn't think like this,” he said. “You've made up your mind that it would have been dreadful, have you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Why'd you think?”
“I asked you!”
“I'm too busy for this,” said Granny. “Like I said, personal ain't the same as important. Make yourself useful, Mr. Wizard. You know it's circle time, don't you?”
Ridcully's hand touched the brim of his hat.
“Oh, yes.”
“And you know what that means?”
“They tell me it means that the walls between realities get weaker. The circles are . . . what's the word Stibbons uses? Isoresons. They connect levels of, oh, something daft . . . similar levels of reality. Which is bloody stupid. You'd be able to walk from one universe to another.”
“Ever tried it?”
“No!”
“A circle is a door half open. It doesn't need much to open it up all the way. Even belief'll do it. That's why they put the Dancers up, years ago. We got the dwarfs to do it. Thunderbolt iron, those stones. There's something special about 'em. They've got the love of iron. Don't ask me how it works. Elves hate it even more than ordinary iron. It . . . upsets their senses, or something. But minds can get through. . .”
“Elves? Everyone knows elves don't exist anymore. Not proper elves. I mean, there's a few folk who say they're elves-”
“Oh, yeah. Elvish ancestry. Elves and humans breed all right, as if that's anything to be proud of. But you just get a race o'skinny types with pointy ears and a tendency to giggle and burn easily in sunshine. I ain't talking about them. There's no harm in them. I'm talking about real wild elves, what we ain't seen here for-”
The road from the bridge to the town curved between high banks, with the forest crowding in on either side and in places even meeting overhead. Thick ferns, already curling like green breakers, lined the clay banks.
They rustled.
The unicorn leapt on the road.
Thousands of universes, twisting together like a rope being plaited from threads . . .
There's bound to be leakages, a sort of mental equivalent of the channel breakthrough on a cheap hi-fi that gets you the news in Swedish during quiet bits in the music. Especially if you've spent your life using your mind as a receiver.
Picking up the thoughts of another human being is very hard, because no two minds are on the same, er, wavelength.