Detritus blinked. There was a tinkle of falling ice. Odd things were happening in his skull.
Thoughts that normally ambulated sluggishly around his brain were suddenly springing into vibrant, coruscat-ing life. And there seemed to be more and more of them.
'My goodness,' he said, to no-one in particular.
This was a sufficiently un-troll-like comment that even Cuddy, whose extremities were already going numb, stared at him.
'I do believe,' said Detritus, 'that I am genuinely cogitating. How very interesting!'
'What do you mean?'
More ice cascaded off Detritus as he rubbed his head.
'Of course!' he said, holding up a giant finger. 'Superconductivity!'
'Wha'?'
'You see? Brain of impure silicon. Problem of heat dissipation. Daytime temperature too hot, processing speed slows down, weather gets hotter, brain stops completely, trolls turn to stone until nightfall, ie, colder-temperature,however,lowertemperatureenough,brain operatesfasterand—'
'I think I'm going to freeze to death soon,' said Cuddy.
Detritus looked around.
'There are small glazed apertures up there,' he said.
'Too hi' to rea', e'en if I st' on y'shoulders,' mumbled Cuddy, slumping down further.
'Ah, but my plan involves throwing something through them to attract help,' said Detritus.
'Wha' pla'?'
'I have in fact eventuated twenty-three but this one has a ninety-seven per cent chance of success,' said Detritus, beaming.
'Ha'nt got an'ting t'throw,' said Cuddy.
'I have,' said Detritus, scooping him up. 'Do not worry. I can compute your trajectory with astonishing precision. And then all you will need to do is fetch Captain Vimes or Carrot or someone.'
Cuddy's feeble protests described an arc through the freezing air and vanished along with the window glass.
Detritus sat down again. Life was so simple, when you really thought about it. And he was really thinking.
He was seventy-six per cent sure he was going to get at least seven degrees colder.
Mr Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler, Purveyor, Merchant Venturer and all-round salesman, had thought long and hard about going into ethnic foodstuffs. But it was a natural career procession. The old sausage-in-a-bun trade had been falling off lately, while there were all these trolls and dwarfs around with money in their pockets or wherever it was trolls kept their money, and money in the possession of other people had always seemed to Throat to be against the proper natural order of things.
Dwarfs were easy enough to cater for. Rat-on-a-stick was simple enough, although it meant a general improvement in Dibbler's normal catering standards.
On the other hand, trolls were basically, when you got right down to it, no offence meant, speak as you find . . . basically, they were walking rocks.
He'd sought advice about troll food from Chryso-prase, who was also a troll, although you'd hardly know it any more, he'd been around humans so long he wore a suit now and, as he said, had learned all kindsa civilized things, like extortion, money-lending at 300 per cent interest per munf, and stuff like that. Chrysoprase might have been born in a cave above the snowline on some mountain somewhere, but five minutes in Ankh-Morpork and he'd fitted right in. Dibbler liked to think of Chrysoprase as a friend; you'd hate to think of him as an enemy.
Throat had chosen today to give his new approach a try. He pushed his hot food barrow through streets broad and narrow, crying:
'Sausages! Hot sausages! Inna bun! Meat pies! Get them while they're hot!'
This was by way of a warm up. The chances of a human eating anything off Dibbler's barrow unless it was stamped flat and pushed under the door after two weeks on a starvation diet was, by now, remote. He looked around conspiratorially – there were always trolls working in the docks – and took the cover off a fresh tray.
Now then, what was it? Oh, yes . . .