“You get them from same place.”
“You call this philosophy?” roared Didactylos, waving his stick.
Urn cleaned pieces of the sand mold from the lever.
“Well . . . natural philosophy,” he said.
The stick whanged down on the Moving Turtle's flanks.
“I never taught you this sort of thing!” shouted the philosopher. “Philosophy is supposed to make life better! ”
“This will make it better for a lot of people,” said Urn, calmly. “It will help overthrow a tyrant.”
“And then?” said Didactylos.
“And then what?”
“And then you'll take it to bits, will you?” said the old man. “Smash it up? Take the wheels off? Get rid of all those spikes? Burn the plans? Yes? When it's served its purpose, yes?”
"Well- Urn began.
“Aha!”
“Aha what? What if we do keep it? It'll be a . . . a deterrent to other tyrants!”
“You think tyrants won't build 'em too?”
“Well . . . I can build bigger ones!” Urn shouted.
Didactylos sagged. “Yes,” he said. "No doubt you can. So that's all right, then. My word. And to think I was worrying. And now . . . I think I'll go and have a rest somewhere . . .
He looked hunched up, and suddenly old.
“Master?” said Urn.
“Don't `master' me,” said Didactylos, feeling his way along the barn walls to the door. “I can see you know every bloody thing there is to know about human nature now. Hah!”
The Great God Om slid down the side of an irrigation ditch and landed on his back in the weeds at the bottom. He righted himself by gripping a root with his mouth and hauling himself over.
The shape of Brutha's thoughts flickered back and forth in his mind. He couldn't make out any actual words, but he didn't need to, any more than you needed to see the ripples to know which way the river flowed.
Occasionally, when he could see the Citadel as a gleaming dot in the twilight, he'd try shouting his own mind back as loudly as he could:
"Wait! Wait! You don't want to do that! We can go to Ankh-Morpork! Land of opportunity! With my brains and your . . . with you, the world is our mollusk! Why throw it all away . . .
And then he'd slide into another furrow. Once or twice he saw the eagle, forever circling.
“Why put your hand into a grinder? This place deserves Vorbis! Sheep deserve to be led!”
It had been like this when his very first believer had been stoned to death. Of course, by then he had dozens of other believers. But it had been a wrench. It had been upsetting. You never forgot your first believer. They gave you shape.
Tortoises are not well equipped for cross-country navigation. They need longer legs or shallower ditches.
Om estimated that he was doing less than a fifth of a mile an hour in a direct line, and the Citadel was at least twenty miles away. Occasionally he made good time between the trees in an olive grove, but that was more than pulled back by rocky ground and field walls.
All the time, as his legs whirred, Brutha's thoughts buzzed in his head like a distant bee.
He tried shouting in his mind again.