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Title :

A blink of the screen : collected shorter fiction / Terry Pratchett ; foreword by A.S. Byatt.

Title:

A blink of the screen :

Author:

Pratchett, Terry.

Format:

Books

Physical Description:

xiv, 286 pages, 12 pages of unnumbered plates : color illustrations ; 25 cm

Edition:

First United States edition.

ISBN:

9780385538329

Production / Publication Information:

New York : Doubleday, 2015.

Contents:

Non-Discworld shorter writings. The Hades business ; Solution ; The picture ; The prince and the partridge ; Rincemangle, the Gnome of Even Moor ; Kindly breathe in short, thick pants ; The Glastonbury tales ; There's no fool like an old fool found in an English queue ; Coo, they've given me the bird ; And mind the monoliths ; The High Meggas ; Twenty pence, with envelope and seasonal greeting ; Incubust ; Final reward ; Turntables of the night ; #ifdefDEBUG + "world/enough" + "time" ; Hollywood chickens ; The secret book of the dead ; Once and future ; FTB ; Sir Joshua Easement: a biographical note -- Discworld shorter writings. Troll bridge ; Theatre of cruelty ; The sea and little fishes ; The Ankh-Morpork national anthem ; Medical notes ; Thud: a historical perspective ; A few words from Lord Havelock Vetinari ; Death and what comes next ; A collegiate casting-out of devlish devices ; Minutes of the meeting to form the proposed Ankh-Morpork Federation of Scouts ; The Ankh-Morpork Football Association Hall of Fame playing cards -- Appendix: Deleted extract from "The Sea and Little Fishes."

Summary:

A collection of short fiction from Terry Pratchett, spanning the whole of his writing career from schooldays to Discworld and the present day.

Language:

English

Genre:

Fantasy fiction.

Short stories.

Subject Term:

Discworld (Imaginary place) -- Fiction.

FICTION / Fantasy / Short Stories.

FICTION / Short Stories (single author).

Electronic Access:

Cover image 9780385538329.jpg

Holds: Copies:

Available:*

Material Type	Library	Call Number	Item Barcode	Location
Book	Searching... North Andover - Stevens Memorial Library	S-F PRATCHETT	31478010050608	Searching... Unknown
Book	Searching... Andover - Memorial Hall Library	SF PRATCHETT	31330007781747	Searching... Unknown
Book	Searching... Chelmsford Public Library	SCI/FIC/PRATCHETT	31480010681523	Searching... Unknown
Book	Searching... Georgetown Peabody Library	SF PRATCHETT	32120001036514	Searching... Unknown
Book	Searching... Groton Public Library	SF PRATCHETT	37003701629421	Searching... Unknown
Book	Searching... Hamilton-Wenham Public Library	FIC PRATCHETT	30470001378636	Searching... Unknown
Book	Searching... Haverhill Public Library	SCIFI/PRATCHETT T	31479006165368	Searching... Unknown
Book	Searching... Littleton - Reuben Hoar Library	SF PRATCHETT	39965001909877	Searching... Unknown
Book	Searching... Lowell - Pollard Memorial Library	FIC FANTASY PRATCHETT	31481005033985	Searching... Unknown
Book	Searching... Methuen - Nevins Memorial Library	SF PRA	31548002889104	Searching... Unknown

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Summary

A collection of short fiction from Terry Pratchett, spanning the whole of his writing career from schooldays to Discworld and the present day.

In the four decades since his first book appeared in print, Terry Pratchett has become one of the world's best-selling and best-loved authors. Here for the first time are his short stories and other short-form fiction collected into one volume. A Blink of the Screen charts the course of Pratchett's long writing career: from his schooldays through to his first writing job on the Bucks Free Press , and the origins of his debut novel, The Carpet People ; and on again to the dizzy mastery of the phenomenally successful Discworld series.

Here are characters both familiar and yet to be discovered; abandoned worlds and others still expanding; adventure, chickens, death, disco and, actually, some quite disturbing ideas about Christmas, all of it shot through with Terry's inimitable brand of humour. With an introduction by Booker Prize-winning author A.S. Byatt, illustrations by the late Josh Kirby and drawings by the author himself, this is a book to treasure.

Reviews (5)

Publisher's Weekly Review

Diehard Pratchett fans will celebrate this first-ever collection of short fiction from the world-famous author of the Discworld novels. These 32 pieces, which show Pratchett "playing with words to see what happens," include his student writing and stories that anticipate his later novels. The author's wry wit shines early on with the publicity-minded devil of "The Hades Business," written at age 13. "Kindly Breathe in Short, Thick Pants," "And Mind the Monoliths," and "There's No Fool like an Old Fool Found in an English Queue" celebrate "half-baked politicians" and bureaucrats. In "The Glastonbury Tale," "Twenty Pence, with Envelope and Seasonal Greetings," and "Once and Future," Pratchett twists classic tales from Chaucer, Dickens, and T.H. White. Discworld characters Cohen the Barbarian, Granny Weatherwax and her fellow witches, the wizards of Unseen University, and Lord Vetinari, ruler of Ankh-Morpork, make appearances in a special section of Discworld-related works. "Short stories cost me blood," Pratchett reminds readers, citing his much greater comfort with novels. Though the stories here aren't his absolute best writing, there is plenty to entertain curious fans. Longtime Pratchett illustrators Josh Kirby and Paul Kidby provide entertaining artwork. (Mar.) © Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.

Booklist Review

Well, here's a treat: the first collection of short fiction from the creator of the fabulously popular Discworld series. About half the book is given over to Discworld stories, with the other half comprising a fascinating miscellany, including newspaper writings done early in Pratchett's career. The author's very first published short story is here, too, written nearly 55 years ago (he was 13). Also here is the story that sparked Pratchett's collaboration with Stephen Baxter, The Long Earth (2012). In addition, there is is a hysterical transcript of a fake political broadcast, a spoof of The Canterbury Tales, a story about a guy who's hired as Hell's public relations director, and a clever tale about Christmas cards come to life. The quality ranges quite considerably, but as a representation of the short-fiction career of one of the fantasy genre's most respected authors, this volume will be much sought after by Pratchett's many devoted fans.--Pitt, David Copyright 2015 Booklist

New York Review of Books Review

OFTEN, READING a book that calls to mind your teenage favorites is, at best, an exercise in nostalgia: a slightly uncomfortable reminder of a time when coming-of-age tales seemed to offer magnificent maps of the possible. But under those bright, forthright tales with the air of the mythic about them, you could sometimes find a messier story (courtesy of Angela Carter or Tanith Lee, say) that struck deeper, a story that knew you had already seen the outline of the dark and understood that no easy map was going to work. Enter UPROOTED (Del Rey, $25), in which Naomi Novik skillfully takes the fairy-tale-turned-bildungsroman structure of her premise - the peasant girl selected to serve the terrifying magician, her undiscovered magical talent, an evil wood encroaching on the doorstep - and builds enough flesh on those bones to make a very different animal. Plain but hyper-talented Agnieszka could risk cliché, but even without Novik's tweaks to the formula, she makes for a gripping narrator, pragmatically personable but tapped into the lyric. The vivid characters around her also echo their fairy-tale forebears, but are grounded in real-world ambivalence that makes this book feel quietly mature, its world lived-in. Even the magic has the low-key, organic feel that you would expect from a farming valley. When the sinister wood infects some cattle, for instance, their owner doesn't immediately slaughter them - his family has no other animals, and he's so desperate he delays what's necessary. Even in the midst of chaos, the villagers don't vilify him for it. This is a book in which the thinnest threads of understanding can hold the whole enterprise aloft. None of these asides feel burdensome; the plot thickens as quickly as the thorn bushes of the wood cast shadows, and Agnieszka's brisk narration and shrewd, shorthand observations of character make "Uprooted" a very enjoyable fantasy with the air of a modern classic. FOR SOME AUTHORS, a collection of early work might carry an air of formality, like a curated museum exhibit of their careers. But that was never Terry Pratchett's style. It will come as no surprise to those familiar with Sir Terry's work that his annotated juvenilia, collected alongside more recent short fiction in A BLINK OF THE SCREEN (Doubleday $26.95), read decidedly more as if you're sitting in the author's parlor on a lazy afternoon, flipping through an album while he weighs in on - and occasionally condemns - those long-ago stories. "My word, how this brings back memories," he says of one of them; he introduces another with little more than "I'm quite glad I never tried to sell this one." Though Pratchett's tongue stays firmly in his cheek, that's not entirely self-deprecation; many of these stories are by their nature slight, and serve more as markers than as works in themselves. For every interesting foray into hard science fiction, there's a formulaic comedy about the author whose character comes to life, or a brief, surreal thought experiment about what it must be like to be trapped inside a Victorian Christmas card. Some are darker than one might imagine from the man whose Discworld seems like such fun, though readers who have kept up with those novels will recognize many of these early exercises of Pratchett's satirical eye. And if it's Discworld you've come for, "A Blink of the Screen" has some charmers, gathering a brief but enlightening collection of short stories and ephemera from fairly far afield - including a "national anthem" written for BBC Radio, a reminder of Pratchett's breadth of pop-culture influence. (Similarly, one of the non-Discworld pieces comes from an exhibition at the National Portrait Gallery.) The Discworld stories, unsurprisingly, are the collection's gems. In particular, an outtake from "The Sea and Little Fishes," which centers on Pratchett's hall-of-fame combination of Granny Weatherwax, Nanny Ogg, bureaucracy and magic, feels like a familiar page in the album full of beloved faces. Pratchett died in March after a long illness, leaving this collection as something of a farewell present to his fans; it's a book meant to be cherished by those who want a glimpse of both the work and the man. THE SELF-AWARE AUTOMATON is far from new territory - the theme has been examined by everyone from Isaac Asimov, in "I, Robot," to Ekaterina Sedia, in "The Alchemy of Stone." Now Ian Tregillis joins in with THE MECHANICAL (Orbit, paper, $17). This novel makes no bones about what it is: From the moment the automaton Jax observes his Dutch masters executing a fellow "Clakker" who achieved free will, the narrative is designed to be a thriller that concerns itself at every turn with what it means to be human. (In between chase scenes, characters debate at length the theological basis for the soul.) It's perhaps a fitting irony, then, that this alternatehistory fantasy sometimes feels less like a compellingly human story than a collection of carefully rendered attributes painstakingly assembled by machine. Tregillis's plot moves briskly across two continents and several points of view, and the calamities build in ways that can be just as unsettling as intended. But as one might expect from a narrative that so closely engages with slavery, occasionally the story bends under the weight of its own extended metaphor. Still, it's a story without easy answers, and one that's too big for a single book to contain; "The Mechanical" is the first of a series, as genre-savvy readers will guess when they're rounding third base without any sign of tidy plot resolutions. Even if the spark of life never quite ignites, however, this secondary-world series should offer a promising introduction to new fans; it's both high concept and built down to the smallest details, with alchemy and espionage to spare. IT'S ALWAYS INTERESTING when artists "emerge" in the American sphere after establishing a legacy in their home countries. The brothers Boris and Arkady Strugatsky were fixtures of Soviet-Russian science fiction; their work has been turned into movies, referred to by a new generation of speculative writers and rereleased, minus the censors, in the post-Soviet era. THE DEAD MOUNTAINEER'S INN (Melville House, paper, $17) is already considered one of their classics, having been adapted for film and as a video game, but this handsome edition arrives with Neversink Library's Wes Anderson-minimalist cover aesthetic and an introduction by Jeff VanderMeer to entice those unfamiliar with the Strugatskys. This dual existence - famous, yet undiscovered - seems to suit "The Dead Mountaineer's Inn" down to the ground. On the surface, it's a locked-chalet mystery in which the irascible Inspector Glebsky has his vacation interrupted by a cadre of the usual suspects: a blowhard millionaire, an androgynous teenager, a busybody innkeeper, an eccentric physicist, an incurable grump, a femme banal. In short order, the book seals its genre trappings with an avalanche and a corpse. It's the investigation of a lifetime, hampered only by the fact that Glebsky wants nothing to do with it. (He's a narrator fallible enough to fall into traps, and just mature enough to know better.) As translated by Josh Billings, the Strugatsky brothers' rhythms set staccato conversation alongside passages unsettling in their languid cadence; there's enough dry humor to spark kindling, underlaid with a seeping dread that lingers long after the mystery is solved. That delicious sense of the uncanny is the unseen guest in every room of this inn, and when the tale slips from a riff on Agatha Christie into something more like "War of the Worlds," it's with less surprise than relief that Glebsky is made to realize the universe is stranger than it seems. That the difference feels so slight is part of what makes "The Dead Mountaineer's Inn" delightful and melancholy by turns, and so satisfying to read. NEDI OKORAFOR HAS made a name for herself with novels that combine politically complex science fiction and lyrical fantasy. The worlds her characters inhabit are as messy as they are magical, the conflicts as pointed as the magic is mythical. The World Fantasy Award-winning "Who Fears Death" followed Onyesonwu, a mixed-race child of rape born amid genocide, and was an unblinking look at an upturned future that asked hard questions about the present. THE book of phoenix (DAW, $24.95), its indirect prequel, is less concerned with the immediate world of "Who Fears Death" than with how such worlds come to be in the first place. And Okorafor runs roughshod over every genre marker she can find on her way there, despite (or perhaps because of) doom as the inevitable endpoint. Phoenix is a superhuman being, held at a Big Eye facility in New York; in quick succession, she falls in love, recognizes the harmful experiments being carried out on her and makes a dramatic escape. Her inescapable existence as an overtly colonized body provides more than impetus for revenge; it's the jumping-off point for a book particularly interested in the ways globalism reinforces colonialism, the ways one can carve a life out of so unfair a world, and how even superpowers have their limits when pitted against human cruelty. Some parallels are subtler than others (the book contains asides pinned directly to the Middle Passage, Henrietta Lacks and Okorafor's own previous work), and some of the questions it raises go deliberately unanswered, but it's refreshingly direct in the ways it contrasts its everyday politics with its everyday magic. Despite some loose threads, Okorafor triumphs over the perils of the prequel by making the inevitable feel newly dreadful. Blending poetic passages with sharp observation and the occasional cadence of a story told by firelight, "The Book of Phoenix" is an assured introduction not just to her world's myths, but to the process of mythmaking. ANYONE ATTEMPTING TO encapsulate the Inklings - that club of devout writers and academics who occupied the Oxbridge academic stratosphere of England before and after World War II - has some challenges to overcome. At the height of participation, their members numbered in the dozens (all men, naturally, though Dorothy L. Sayers gets singled out among the almost-rans), and their careers followed vastly different paths, nearly all of which were overshadowed by the encompassing fame of C. S. Lewis. But in THE FELLOWSHIP: The Literary Lives of the Inklings (Farrar, Straus & Giroux, $35), the husband-and-wife team of Philip and Carol Zaleski bring to bear both extensive scholarship and a neatly interwoven narrative; this is a story about storytellers, and it shows. While Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien take up the lion's share of the accomplishments, perhaps by default, the authors make good use of Charles Williams and Owen Barfield as barometers of the Inklings as a whole, as well as foils for Tolkien's quiet imaginings and Lewis's often-bombastic treatises. (Barfield's travails, with decades shackled to an office job and striving to recapture youthful success, come across as particularly poignant opposite Lewis's rising star.) Occasionally, some tidbits of trivia can feel as if they were included less out of direct narrative merit than out of a desire to justify the sheer effort expended to gather them - this is a book that features almost 100 pages of endnotes and bibliography - but for all that, things move nimbly across a century of deep shifts in England's political, religious and literary history. In all biographies, it's a trick to make the subjects seem interesting enough for a book while maintaining enough critical distance to acknowledge their flaws along with their virtues. In "The Fellowship," the authors never cease to feel for the Inklings, particularly sympathizing with their yearnings for spiritual and professional fulfillment, with occasional wry asides on the nature of their marriages and their politics to take note of shortcomings both personal and institutional. Taken together, it makes the overarching life of the group something greater than the sum of its parts. GENEVIEVE VALENTINE'S third novel, "Persona," was published in March. She is also the writer of DC Comics' "Catwoman."

Kirkus Review

A short story collection covering the entire career of one of our most prolific, and beloved, fantasy writers. Pratchett (Dragons at Crumbling Castle: And Other Tales, 2015, etc.) wrote the first story in this collection when he was just a teenager, and it's astonishing to see how much of the Pratchett-ness is there already. His ability to create a character in a phrase and a plot in a paragraph; his wit; his knowingnessit's all there. Yes, some of the earlier stories are, though funny, a bit glib. And there are a few bits of Discworld ephemera that are probably for fans only. But then there's the loner at the outer edges of the multiverse whose peace is shattered by two intruders from the universe next door. There's the hero who shows up at the door of the writer who just killed him off. There's a time traveler named Mervin who gets stuck in a not-quite-England in need of a king, a bunch of witches who are pretty tired of Esme always winning the Trials, and a letter to Father Christmas that doesn't come from the sort of person you'd expector from a person at all. One of the main draws of this collection for serious fans, or aspiring writers, will be the chance to trace the evolution of Pratchett's craftbut there's plenty here for readers who have never heard of him to enjoy. Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Library Journal Review

This collection spans the entirety of Pratchett's prolific career, beginning with the first short story he ever published (when he was just 13), "The Hades Business." Included here are original tales that inspired his "Bromeliad" trilogy and "The Long Earth" series (coauthored with Stephen Baxter) as well as some welcome additions to the "Discworld" canon. Each piece is introduced by the author, giving readers an idea of its where, when, and why. VERDICT With an introduction by A.S. Byatt, this volume provides insight into the extraordinary mind and wit of Pratchett and reveals how he evolved as a writer. An excellent introduction to his work for new readers and the piece de resistance for longtime fans.[See Prepub Alert, 9/22/14.]-Elisabeth Clark, West Florida P.L., Pensacola (c) Copyright 2015. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

Excerpts

The Hades Business Science Fantasy magazine, ed. John Carnell, no. 60, vol. 20, August 1963. An earlier version was published in the Technical Cygnet , the High Wycombe Technical High School magazine. Argh, argh, argh . . . if I put my fingers in my ears and go "lalalala" loudly I won't hear you read this story. It's juvenile. Mind you, so was I, being thirteen at the time. It's the first thing I ever wrote that got published. In fact it's the first thing I ever wrote with the feeling that I was writing a real story. It began as a piece of homework. The English teacher gave me twenty marks out of twenty for it, and put it in the school magazine. The kids liked it. I was a writer. And this was a big deal, because I hadn't really been anything up until then. I was good at English. At everything else I was middling, one of those kids that don't catch the teacher's eye and are very glad of it. I was even bad at sports, except for the one wonderful term when they let us play hockey, when I was bad and very dangerous. But the other kids had liked it. I'd sniffed blood. There were three, yes, three professional sf and fantasy magazines published in the UK in those days. Unbelievable, but true. I persuaded my aunt, who had a typewriter, to type it out for me, and I sent it to John Carnell, who edited all three. The nerve of the kid. He accepted it. Oh boy. The £14 he paid was enough to buy a second-hand Imperial 58 typewriter from my typing teacher (my mother had decided that I ought to be able to do my own typing, what with being a writer and everything) and, as I write, it seems to me that it was a very good machine for fourteen quid and I just wonder if Mum and Dad didn't make up the difference on the quiet. Fortunately, before I could do too much damage with the thing, study and exams swept me up and threw me out into a job on the local paper, where I learned to write properly or, at least, journalistically. I've reread the story and my fingers have itched to strip it down, give it some pacing, scramble those clichés, and, in short, rewrite it from the bottom up. But that would be silly, so I'm going to grit my teeth instead. Go ahead, read. I can't hear you! Lalalalalalala! Crucible opened his front door and stood rooted to the doormat. Imagine the interior of a storm cloud. Sprinkle liberally with ash and garnish with sulphur to taste. You now have a rough idea as to what Crucible's front hall resembled. The smoke was coming from under the study door. Dimly remembering a film he had once seen, Crucible clapped a handkerchief to his nose and staggered to the kitchen. One bucket of water later, he returned. The door would not budge. The phone was in the study, so as to be handy in an emergency. Putting down the pail, Crucible applied his shoulder to the door, which remained closed. He retreated to the opposite wall of the hall, his eyes streaming. Gritting his teeth, he charged. The door opened of its own accord. Crucible described a graceful arc across the room, ending in the fireplace, then everything went black, literally and figuratively, and he knew no more. A herd of elephants were doing the square dance, in clogs, on Crucible's head. He could see a hazy figure kneeling over him. "Here, drink this." Ah, health-giving joy-juice! Ah, invigorating stagger-soup! Those elephants, having changed into slippers, were now dancing a sedate waltz: the whiskey was having the desired effect. Crucible opened his eyes again and regarded the visitor. "Who the devil are you?" "That's right!" Crucible's head hit the grate with a hollow clang! The Devil picked him up and sat him in an armchair. Crucible opened one eye. The Devil was wearing a sober black suit, with a red carnation in the buttonhole. His thin waxed moustachios, combined with the minute beard, gave him a dignified air. A cloak and collapsible top hat were on the table. Crucible had known it would happen. After ten years of prising cash from the unsuspecting businessman, one was bound to be caught by Nemesis. He rose to his feet, brushing the soot from his clothes. "Shall we be going?" he asked mournfully. "Going? Where to?" "The Other Place, I suppose." "The Other Pl--? Oh, you mean home! Good Heav-- oops! pardon me--Hell! no! No one's come Down There for nearly two thousand years. Can't think why. No, I have come to you because I need some help Down There; the Hell business is just not paying--no more lost souls. Only chap that's come Down There for the last two thousand years was a raving nit called Dante; went away with quite the wrong impression. You ought to have heard what he said about me!" "I did read something about it somewhere." "Indeed? Bad publicity for me, that. That's where you come in." "Oh?" Crucible pricked up his ears. "Yes, I want you to advertise Hell. Clumsy! You've spilt your drink all over the carpet." "W-why me?" croaked Crucible. "You are the owner of the Square Deal Advertising Company, are you not? We want you to make the public conscious, Hell-wise. Not for eternal damnation, of course. Just day trips, etcetera, Grand Tour of Hell, and all that." "And if I refuse?" "What would you say to ten thousand pounds?" "Good-bye." "Twenty thousand?" "Hmm. Aren't I supposed to give you some tasks; sand ropes and all that?" The Devil looked angry. "Forty thousand and that's my last offer. Besides"--the Devil pressed the tips of his fingers together and smiled at the ceiling--"there are some rather incriminating facts about the Payne-Smith Products case, which we could make public?" "Now you're speaking my language. Forty thousand pounds and hush about the P and S case?" "Yes." "Done." "I'm so glad you see it my way," said the Devil. Crucible seated himself behind his mahogany desk and took out a pad. He indicated a polished silver box. "Cigarette?" "Thanks." Crucible took a cigarette himself and felt for his lighter. Suddenly, a thought struck him. "How do I know you are Old Nick?" The Devil shuddered. "Please! Nicholas Lucifer to you. Well, I know about the P and S case, don't I?" Crucible's eyes gleamed. "You may be some smart-aleck Dick. Convince me. Go on, convince me!" "Okay, you asked for it. By the way, that gun in your left-hand pocket would be useless against me." The Devil leaned nonchalantly, extending a finger towards Crucible. "See? You're a phoney, a low do--" Crack! A bolt of lightning shot across the room. The end of Crucible's cigarette glowed. "I--I--I'm convinced!" "So glad." Crucible became his old self. "Let's get down to business. I take it you want Hell to be exploited in every possible way?" "Yes." "Well, I'm afraid I can't do much until I have seen the place--from the living point of view, you understand." "Quite. Well, I could take you back with me, but that might be a hair-raising experience for you. Tell you what, if you wait at the corner of this street, at--shall we say, eight o'clock this evening?--I could pick you up and we could walk there. Okay?" "Right." "I'll be seeing you, then. Cheerio!" Poomf! He was gone. The room was again filled with sulphurous smoke. Crucible opened the windows and then closed them again. If some busybody saw the smoke, he would have a hard time explaining to the Fire Brigade just why there was no fire. He strolled into the kitchen and sat down thoughtfully; he wished he had read more fantasy. In wishing the Devil would mind his own business, Crucible was thinking along the same lines as certain other beings. Where they differed was the reason. Crucible opened the fridge and took out a can of beer. Having someone running around loose, who knows about things one would prefer to keep to oneself, is dangerous. Crucible's love of money warred with his love of freedom. He wanted that forty thousand pounds, but he did not want Lucifer running around loose. Suddenly, the perfect solution struck him. Of course! Why not! He grabbed his hat, and hurried out to the local church. Crucible stood in the pouring rain at the corner of the street. A small stream of water was coursing down his back and flooding his suedes. He looked at his watch. One minute to eight o'clock. He shivered. "Psst!" Crucible looked round. "Down here." He saw that a manhole in the middle of the pavement was raised. The Devil poked his head out. "Come on!" "Through there?" "Yes." He edged himself through the narrow hole. Splash! He would have to put his shoes on "Expenses." "Well, let's be off," said the Devil. "I didn't know one could get to Down There along the sewers!" "Easiest thing there is, old man. Left here." There was no sound but the echoes of their footsteps: Crucible's suedes and the Devil's hooves. "How much further?" They had been walking for several hours. Crucible's feet were damp and he was sneezing. "We're there, old man." They had come to the end of the tunnel. Before them stretched a dark valley. In the distance, Crucible could see a giant wall, with a tiny door. Across the valley ran a black river; the air was tainted with sulphur. The Devil removed a tarpaulin from a hump by the tunnel mouth. "May I present Geryon II!" Crucible blinked. Geryon II was a Model T Ford crossed with an Austin 7, tastefully decorated in sulphurous yellow. The Devil wrenched at the offside door, which fell off. They climbed in. Surprisingly, the car started after only a few swings of the starting handle. They chugged across the sulphur plain. "Nice car." "Isn't it! Forty dragon-power. Built her myself from a few bits and pieces from Earth. Trouble with springing out of the floor near a junkyard," said the Devil, gritting his fangs as they cornered at speed in a cloud of sulphur, "is the fact one often surfaces under a pile of old iron." He rubbed his head. Crucible noticed that one of his horns was bandaged. They skidded to a halt by the river. The car emitted clouds of steam. A battered punt was moored by the river. The Devil helped Crucible in and picked up the skulls--pardon me--sculls. "What happened to what's his name--Charon?" "We don't like to talk about it." "Oh." Silence, except for the creaking of the oars. "Of course, you'll have to replace this by a bridge." "Oh, yes." Crucible looked thoughtful. "A ha'penny for them." "I am thinking," said Crucible, "about the water that is lapping about my ankles." The Devil did not look up. "Here." He handed Crucible a battered mug, on which the initials "B. R." were just discernible. And so they continued. They stood in front of the gate. Crucible looked up and read the inscription: ALL HOPE ABANDON, YE WHO ENTER HERE. "No good." "No?" "Neon lights." "Oh, yes?" "Red ones." "Oh, yes?" "Flashing." "Oh, yes?" They entered. "Down, boy; get off Crucible." Three tongues licked Crucible simultaneously. "Back to your kennel, boy." Whining, Cerberus slunk off. "You must excuse him," said the Devil, as he picked Crucible up and dusted him down. "He has never been the same since he took a lump out of Orpheus's leg." "It didn't say that in the story." "I know. Pity, because the real story was much more--er, interesting. But that's neither here nor there." Crucible took stock of his surroundings. They appeared to be standing in a hotel lobby. In one wall was a small alcove containing a desk, on which a huge Residents' book, covered in dust, lay open. The Devil opened a small wooden door. "This way." "What?" "My office." Crucible followed him up the narrow stairway, the boards creaking under his feet. The Devil's office, perched precariously on the walls of Hell, was rather dilapidated. There was a patch of damp in one corner, where the Styx had overflowed, and the paper was peeling off the wooden walls. A rusty stove in the corner glowed red-hot. Crucible noticed that the floor seemed to be covered with old newspapers, bills, and recipes for various spells. The Devil dropped into a commodious armchair while Crucible sat down in a tortuous cane chair, which all but collapsed under his weight. "Drink?" said the Devil. "Don't mind if I do," said Crucible. "Very nice drink, this," said Crucible. "Your own recipe?" "Yes. Quite simple--two pints bats' blood, one-- I say! You've gone a funny colour! Feel all right?" "Ulp! Ghack! Um--quite all right, thanks. Er--shall we get down to business?" "Okay." "Well, as I see it, our main difficulty will be to make the public take Hell--and you for that matter--seriously. I mean, the generally accepted theory of Hell is a sort of fiery furnace, with you prodding lost souls with a pitchfork and hordes of demons and whatnot running around yelling-- Hey, that reminds me, where is everybody--er, soul?" "Who?" "Lost souls and demons and banshees and whatnot?" "Oh, them. Well, like I said, no one has been down here for two thousand years, except that nit, Dante. And all the souls down here gradually worked their way up to Purgatory, and thence to--yes, well, the demons all got jobs elsewhere." "Tax collectors," murmured Crucible. "Quite so. As for fiery furnaces, the only one still in working order is the Mark IV, over there in the corner. Very useful for my culinary efforts but not for much else." "Hm. I see. Have you a map of Hell handy?" "I think so." The Devil rummaged in an old oak desk behind him and produced a roll of yellow parchment. "This is the newest map I have." "It'll do. Now let me see. Hum. I take it this is where we came in." "Yes! That shading is the Sulphur Plain." "That's good. I'm sure the Acme Mining Company would give a lot to have the mining rights--" "Oh, yes?" "Of course, we would have to build a proper road over it for the increased transport--" "Oh, yes?" "Get a large tunnel dug down from Earth--" "Coffee bar here. Dance hall there. Racetrack at the far end. Bowling alley over--" "We could put a funfair here--" "Leaving room for a restaurant there--" "Put some ice cream stalls here and here, and here--" "All-night jazz band there. Get in touch with your demons and offer them higher wages to come back to help run the place--" "Get Orpheus to organize a jazz band--I'm sure Apollo would oblige--" And so it continued. Soon the map was covered in symbols representing everything from a dance hall to a cycle track. Then they sat back and discussed Stage One: putting Hell in the public eye. Excerpted from A Blink of the Screen: Collected Shorter Fiction by Terry Pratchett All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.