There is a turtle swimming through space, with four giant elephants and a flat disc of a world balanced carefully atop its meteor-pocked shell. That’s no less believable than a police box travelling through time and space.
The police box is nowhere near this universe, anyway.
A saucer was. It was shaped vaguely like a donut with windows. Inside, the most feared enemy of the Time Lords prepared to invade as their ship approached the turtle: a terrifying sight, sure to spark fear in the heart of any sensible being.
No one ever accused the Discworld’s inhabitants of being sensible.
Samuel Vimes was not having a good day.
"Oh, come on!" he shouted at the skies. "Vampires who don't drink blood, golems that own themselves, fine, but homicidal pepperpots? Seriously?"
Nobody responded. Bastards.
Vimes kicked the pepperpot that Sybil’s dragons had roasted, bruised his toe, and had to hop around swearing for a bit. Solid metal. He’d never seen anything made of metal that could talk. Must be something the wizards had made; he’d send up a nasty letter in the morning.
Still swearing, he headed into the city. Time to rally the Watch and “exterminate” the rest of them.
Archchancellor Ridcully stalked back into his study in a vicious temper. He’d received three death threats and a pointed note from the Patrician, enough to annoy any man who didn’t deserve them.
He glared at the hastily-drawn circle, which contained something resembling a tankard designed by Bloody Stupid Johnson.
“All right!” he bellowed at it. “What are you?”
The thing, already incensed, practically vibrated with rage.
“DALEKS DO NOT ANSWER QUESTIONS! EXTERMINATE!” A line of scorching light burned through the wall where Ridcully’s head had been a moment before.
The Archchancellor snapped his fingers.
He’d been needing a footstool anyway.
“Dungeon dimensions?” Nanny asked, nibbling an apple.
Creak, creak, went Granny’s rocking chair. “What else could they be?”
“The Gentry,” Nanny opined.
Granny shook her head. “’S metal. The Gentry don’t like metal.”
Nanny picked thoughtfully at her teeth, then grinned. “They looks like ton–“
Nanny rolled her eyes. “You don’t know what I was goin’ to say, Esme.”
“I don’t need to,” Granny snapped. Creak, creak.
“Be like that,” Nanny said, without heat, and settled back.
Metal shrieked on rock as the last of the invaders, backing frantically away from Greebo, failed to see the cliff.
Rincewind opened his eyes, whimpered, closed his eyes, and tried to wake up.
Sadly, the thing looming over him was still there when he opened his eyes again.
“Gurk,” remarked Rincewind.
“IDENTIFY!” the thing shrilled, pointing a stick attached to its front at Rincewind.
Behind it, the Luggage groaned to its feet. The thing turned, and a leap of blue fire shot from the stick.
When the chaos died down, Rincewind was a distant, fading blur. The Luggage, lid slightly scorched, glared at the ex-thing’s compatriots, who made a concentrated effort to look innocent while scooting away.
The Luggage charged.
Death watched the metal thing wave its stick-weapon at him with mild curiousity. It was the sixth one today that he had collected personally, and thousands more were dying all across the Disc. An invasion, he thought, that the inhabitants had taken in typical stride.
Death was not quite sure how to handle this. Normally the people he collected understood. This was complicated.
“WHAT ARE YOU?” the thing asked, at last, panic evident in its tone.
DEATH, Death said. WHAT ARE YOU?
“DALEKS DO NOT KNOW DEATH!” the thing wailed. “EXTERMINATE!”
OH, YES, Death said. PRECISELY.
This is a turtle, swimming through space. The world atop the turtle was wracked with sparks and shouts a moment ago, but everything seems to have calmed down.
The saucer lifts off from the Hub, a few desultory lightning bolts flung after it by bored gods. It is much lighter rising than landing, and as soon as it is away, it blasts for deep space.
Vimes has lots of paperwork. Ridcully has some new furniture. Granny Weatherwax and Nanny Ogg have an afternoon’s entertainment. The Luggage has lunch.
The Daleks have a cautionary tale. Narrative causality.
The turtle swims on.
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