Ridcully walked slowly out of the Cavern. Only a light drift of used tickets on the steps bore witness to the hours of music.

He felt like someone watching a game who didn't know the rules. For example, the boy had been singing...what was it? Rave In Rave In. What the hell did that mean? Raving Raving, yes, he could understand that that, and in the Dean's case it was perfectly accurate. Rave In? But everyone else had seemed to know what was meant. And then there had been, as far as he could remember, a song about not stepping on someone's shoes. Fair enough, sensible suggestion, no one wanted their feet trodden on, but why a song asking people to avoid doing so should have such an effect Ridcully was at a loss to understand.

And as for the girl...

Ponder bustled up, clutching his box.

"I've got nearly all of it, Archchancellor!" he shouted.

Ridcully glanced past him. There was Dibbler, still bearing a tray of unsold Band With Rocks In shirts.

"Yes, fine, Mr. Stibbons (shutupshutupshutup)," he said, "Jolly good, let's get back home."

"Good evening, Archchancellor," said Dibbler.

"Why, hello, Throat," said Ridcully. "Didn't see you there."

"What's in that box?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing at all-"

"It's amazing!" said Ponder, full of the undirected excitement of the true discoverer and idiot. "We can trap the arragh aargh aargh."

"My word, clumsy old me," said Ridcully, as the young wizard clutched at his leg. "Here, let me take that totally innocent totally innocent device you have there-" device you have there-"

But the box had tumbled out of Ponder's arms. It hit the street before Ridcully could catch it, and the lid flew off.

The music spilled out into the night.

"How did you do that?" said Dibbler. "Is it magic?"

"The music lets itself be trapped so you can hear it again and again," said Ponder. "And I think you did that on purpose, sir!"

"You can hear it again and again?" said Dibbler. "What, by just opening a box?"

"Yes," said Ponder.

"No," said Ridcully.

"Yes you can," said Ponder. "I showed you, Archchancellor. Don't you remember?"

"No," said Ridcully.

"Any kind of box?" said Dibbler, in a voice choked with money.

"Oh, yes, but you have to stretch a wire inside it so the music has somewhere to live and ouch ouch ouch."

"Can't think what's come over me with these sudden muscular spasms," said Ridcully, "Come, Mr. Stibbons, let us not waste any more of Mr. Dibbler's valuable time."

"Oh, you're not wasting it," said Dibbler. "Boxes full of music, eh?"

"We'll take this one," said Ridcully, snatching it up. "It's an important magical experiment." take this one," said Ridcully, snatching it up. "It's an important magical experiment."

He frog-marched Ponder away, which was a little hard because the youth was bent double and wheezing.

"What did you have to go...and do...that for?"

"Mr. Stibbons, I know you to be a man who seeks to understand the universe. Here's an important rule: never give a monkey the key to the banana plantation. Sometimes you can just see an accident waiting to-oh, no."

He let Ponder go and waved vaguely up the street.

"Got any theories about that that, young man?"

Something golden brown and viscous was oozing out onto the street from what was just possibly, behind the mounds of the stuff, a shop. As the two wizards watched there was a tinkle of glass and the brown substance began to emerge from the second floor.

Ridcully stamped forward and scooped up a handful, leaping back before the wall could reach him. He sniffed at it.

"Is it some ghastly emanation from the Dungeon Dimensions?" said Ponder.

"Shouldn't think so. Smells like coffee," said Ridcully.

"Coffee?"

"Coffee-flavored froth, anyway. Now, why is it I have this feeling that there's going to be wizards in there somewhere?"

A figure lurched out of the foam, dripping brown bubbles.

"Who goes there?" said Ridcully.

"Ah, yes! Did anyone get the number of that oxcart? Another doughnut, if you would be so good!" said the figure brightly, and fell over into the froth.

"That sounded like the Bursar to me," said Ridcully. "Come along, lad. It's only bubbles." He strode into the foam. After a moment's hesitation Ponder realized that the honor of young wizardry was at stake, and pushed his way in behind him.

Almost immediately he bumped into someone in the fog of bubbles.

"Er, hello?"

"Who's that?"

"It's me, Stibbons. I've come to rescue you."

"Good. Which way is out?"

"Er-"

There were some explosions somewhere in the coffee cloud and a popping noise. Ponder blinked. The level of bubbles was sinking.

Various pointy hats appeared like drowned logs in a drying lake.

Ridcully waded over, coffee froth dripping from his hat.

"Something bloody stupid's been going on here," he said, "and I'm going to wait quite patiently until the Dean owns up."

"I don't see why you should assume it was me," muttered a coffee-colored column.

"Well, who was was it, then?" it, then?"

"The Dean said the coffee ought to be frothy," said a mound of foam of a Senior Wranglish persuasion, "and he did some simple magic and I rather think we got carried away."

"Ah, so it was was you, Dean." you, Dean."

"Yes, all right, but only by coincidence," said the Dean testily.

"Out of here, all of you," said Ridcully. "Back to the University this minute."

"I mean, I don't see why you should assume assume it's my fault just because sometimes it might happen to be me who-" it's my fault just because sometimes it might happen to be me who-"

The froth had sunk a bit more, to reveal a pair of eyes under a dwarfish helmet.

"'Scuse me," said a voice still under the bubbles, "but who's going to pay for all this? That's four dollars, thank you very much."

"The Bursar's got the money," said Ridcully quickly.

"Not anymore," said the Senior Wrangler. "He bought seventeen doughnuts."

"Sugar?" said Ridcully. "You let him eat sugar? You know know that makes him, you know, a bit funny. Mrs. Whitlow said she'd give notice if we let him get anywhere near sugar again." He herded the damp wizards toward the door. "It's all right, my good man, you can trust us, we're wizards; I shall have some money sent around in the morning." that makes him, you know, a bit funny. Mrs. Whitlow said she'd give notice if we let him get anywhere near sugar again." He herded the damp wizards toward the door. "It's all right, my good man, you can trust us, we're wizards; I shall have some money sent around in the morning."

"Hah, you expect me to believe that, do you?" said the dwarf.

It had been a long night. Ridcully turned and waved his hand at the wall. There was a crackle of octarine fire and the words "IOU 4 DOLERS" burned themselves into the stone.

"Right you are, no problem there," said the dwarf, ducking back into the froth.

"I shouldn't think Mrs. Whitlow is going to worry," said the Lecturer in Recent Runes as they squelched through the night. "I saw her and some of the maids at the, er, concert. You know, the kitchen girls. Molly, Polly and, er, Dolly. They were, er, screaming."

"I didn't think the music was that that bad," said Ridcully. bad," said Ridcully.

"No, er, not in pain, er, I wouldn't say that," said the Lecturer in Recent Runes, beginning to go red, "but, er, when the young man was waggling his hips like that-"

"He definitely looks elvish to me," said Ridcully.

"-er, I think she threw some of her, er, under...things onto the stage."

This silenced even Ridcully, at least for a while. Every wizard was suddenly busy with his own private thoughts.

"What, Mrs. Whitlow?" the Chair of Indefinite Studies began.

"Yes."

"What, her-?"

"I, er, think so."

Ridcully had once seen Mrs. Whitlow's washing line. He'd been impressed. He'd never believed there was so much pink elastic in the world.

"What, really her-?" said the Dean, his voice sounding as though it was coming from a long way away.

"I'm, er, pretty sure."

"Sounds dangerous to me," said Ridcully briskly. "Could do someone a serious injury. Now then, you lot, back to the University right now for cold baths all round."

"Really her-?" said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. Somehow, none of them felt able to leave the idea alone. her-?" said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. Somehow, none of them felt able to leave the idea alone.

"Make yourself useful and find the Bursar," snapped Ridcully. "And I'd have you lot up in front of the University authorities first thing in the morning, if it wasn't for the fact that you are are the University authorities..." the University authorities..."

Foul Ole Ron, professional maniac and one of Ankh-Morpork's most industrious beggars, blinked in the gloom. Lord Vetinari had excellent night vision. And, unfortunately, a well-developed sense of smell.

"And then what happened?" he said, trying to keep his face turned away from the beggar. Because the fact was that although in actual size Foul Ole Ron was a small hunched man in a huge grubby overcoat, in smell he filled the world.

In fact Foul Ole Ron was a physical schizophrenic. There was Foul Ole Ron, and there was the smell smell of Foul Ole Ron, which had obviously developed over the years to such an extent that it had a distinct personality. Anyone could have a smell that lingered long after they'd gone somewhere else, but the smell of Foul Ole Ron could actually arrive somewhere several minutes of Foul Ole Ron, which had obviously developed over the years to such an extent that it had a distinct personality. Anyone could have a smell that lingered long after they'd gone somewhere else, but the smell of Foul Ole Ron could actually arrive somewhere several minutes before before he did, in order to spread out and get comfortable before he arrived. It had evolved into something so striking that it was no longer perceived with the nose, which shut down instantly in self-defense; people could tell that Foul Ole Ron was approaching by the way their earwax started to melt. he did, in order to spread out and get comfortable before he arrived. It had evolved into something so striking that it was no longer perceived with the nose, which shut down instantly in self-defense; people could tell that Foul Ole Ron was approaching by the way their earwax started to melt.

"Buggrit, buggrit, wrong side out, I told told 'em, buggrem..." 'em, buggrem..."

The Patrician waited. With Foul Ole Ron you had to allow time for his wandering mind to get into the same vicinity as his tongue.

"...spyin' on me with magic, I told told 'em, bean soup, see here...and then everyone was dancing, you see, and then afterwards there were two of the wizards in the street and one of them was going on about catching the music in a box and Mr. Dibbler was interested and then the coffeehouse exploded and they all went back to the University...buggrit, buggrit, buggrem, see if I don't." 'em, bean soup, see here...and then everyone was dancing, you see, and then afterwards there were two of the wizards in the street and one of them was going on about catching the music in a box and Mr. Dibbler was interested and then the coffeehouse exploded and they all went back to the University...buggrit, buggrit, buggrem, see if I don't."

"The coffeehouse exploded, did it?"

"Frothy coffee all over the place, yerronner...bugg-"

"Yes, yes, and so on," said the Patrician, waving a thin hand. "And that's all you can tell me?"

"Well...bug-"

Foul Ole Ron caught the Patrician's eye and got a grip on himself. Even in his own highly individualized sanity he could tell when not to push his threadbare luck. His Smell wandered around the room, reading documents and examining the pictures.

"They say," he said, "that he drives all the women mad." He leaned forward. The Patrician leaned back. "They say after he moved his hips like that...Mrs. Whitlow threw her...wossnames...onto the stage."

The Patrician raised an eyebrow.

"'Wossnames'?"

"You know," Foul Ole Ron moved his hands vaguely in the air.