Thomas Moran Cliffs of Green River

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was the Egg,' corrected another voice. 'I distinctly remember. The Great Egg of the Universe. Slightly rubbery.'
'You're both wrong, in fact. I'm sure it was the primordial slime.'
A voice by Rincewind's knee said: 'No, that came afterwards. There was firmament first. Lots of firmament. Rather sticky, like candyfloss. Very syrupy, in fact—.'
'In case anyone's interested,' said a crackly voice on Rincewind's left, 'you're all wrong. In the beginning was the Clearing of the Throat—'
'—then the word—'
'Pardon me, the slime—'
'Distinctly rubbery, I thought—'
There was a pause. Then a voice said carefully, 'Anyway, whatever it was, we remember it distinctly.'
'Quite so.'
'Exactly.'
'And our what the tracery was, seen from underneath.
'I'm in the Octavo?' he said.
'In certain metaphysical respects,' said one of the voices in offhand tones. It came closer. He could feel the dry rustling right in front of his nose . . .
He ran away.

The single red dot glowed in its patch of darkness. Trymon, still task is to see that nothing dreadful happens to it, Rincewind.'Rincewind squinted into the blackness. 'Would you kindly explain what you're talking about?'There was a papery sigh. 'So much for metaphor,' said one of the voices. 'Look, it is very important you safeguard the Spell in your head and bring it back to us at the right time, you understand, so that when the moment is precisely right we can be said. Do you understand?'Rincewind thought: we can be said!And it dawned on him