Into the User Area of Ankh-Morpork comes a scrawny wizard in academic dress. It is Rincewind the Compsci (failed), a former student of the Archmage Needham at the ancient college of magic. One day he ventured into the deep vault in which is stored a mighty tome containing the spells by which the very fabric of MVS-world is held together. In an instant one of the spells leapt out of the book and into Rincewind's brain, driving out lesser incantations such as the mystic runes known as C, the strange somatic gestures required for the E editor, and the arcane design of a peculiarly pointless chip. Since then Rincewind has been unable to learn any other programming language and the spell itself has roamed restlessly in Rincewind's mind, trying to get itself executed -- an event likely to cause the destruction of the Phoenix building itself, or at any rate a rather nasty disc crash.
Following Rincewind is a square box on hundred of tiny legs: this is an IBM PC portable, made of sentient silicon -- a rare mineral with such a strong homing instinct that User Area reference manuals are impregnated with it to make sure they roost safely in their shelves at the end of the day.
Standing by the drinks machine is a skeletal figure. Death. With black robes, empty eye sockets and a scythe it has to be either Death or Richard Stibbs and it doesn't make much difference: whenever a wizard is about to die, Death must come for him in person -- whenever his identifier is cancelled, Richard Stibbs must perform the same task.
"RINCEWIND," said Death, in tones as sepulchral as a Director's report on the problems with the job scheduler -- bats nesting in the air conditioning flew off in terror.
The spell leapt unbidden into Rincewind's mind and it was only with an effort that he restrained himself from rushing to a terminal and keying it in.
"Er, hello..." said Rincewind. "Nice day. What are you doing here?"
"HAVING A CUP OF COFFEE, OF COURSE," replied Death with what might have been a grimace had his skeletal face been capable of it. "WHEN I TELL WAR, PESTILENCE AND FAMINE ABOUT THIS HORROR THEY JUST WON'T BELIEVE IT."
"You haven't come for me, have you?" asked Rincewind. "I wasn't going to have a cup of coffee, honest!"
"INDEED," said Death, consulting something beneath his black robes. "ACCORDING TO THE EAGLE YOU ARE TO DIE THIS VERY MORNING. IN FACT IT SAYS YOUR DEATH IS 'OVERDUE'."
"Oh good, that gives me half an hour or so yet. Well, must dash..."
"STAY!" Death pulled out an hourglass, in which nearly all the sand had run down, and then gave it a puzzled look. "WHAT DOES 'FUNDAMENTALLY INCORRECT ALGORITHM' MEAN?" he asked worriedly. "THE SAND IS RUNNING UPWARDS."
"Er, look you just read this nice printout I've got here," said Rincewind, thrusting something into Death's arms. He left Death scrutinising INFO.EAGLE.CURRENT.STATUS and looking very grim.
[We are delighted to be able to include here an excerpt from Terry Pratchett's 107th Discworld novel, Wyrd Users, which is now available.]
In the User Services office sits Death, coldly and dispassionately drinking a glass of claret. A skeletal figure in black robes, Death patiently watches a room full of hourglasses, one for each user, waiting for their sands to run out.
There is a huge hourglass, nearly empty, for the Archdirector of the Unseen Computing Service, Doctrum Ridicule; others for the younger members of the Service, some of whom can expect to remain in position for another fifty years (not enough to fix those annoying bugs, but by then they will be too senior to care); then other hourglasses of various sizes, down to the small hourglasses for the undergraduates -- most of these will pass on after three years to a world beyond the university in which most of them do not even believe. There is even an hourglass for Death himself, for his stint as head of User Services will end one day and he will be replaced by someone else.
Every so often one of his colleagues enters and refills the glass of vintage claret on his desk. Being Death himself, as well as a fellow of Downing, he is immune to the effects of the drink, but he still has the palate to appreciate a good Chateau Vin De Paques.
Today, however, is a special day. Evidence has been gathered that someone has been tormenting the Computing Service's sacred phoenix, a relic of Mad Ibm the Shark God. Its feathers have been severely ruffled and the person responsible is to meet Death earlier than he would otherwise have done.
Death finishes his glass of claret and gives a hideous grimace. "SEND IN BARRY LANDY," he says in a voice of ice.
Meanwhile, at the Unseen Computing Service, Doctrum Ridicule is engaged in negotiations with what looks like a giant gorilla suit filled with sawdust. No, this is not Archmage Westwind, his enormous deputy, but the University Librarian who was one day magically changed into a 300-pound orang-utan as a result of an accidental disagreement with a demon inside the drinks machine. Since then he has resolutely refused all attempts to change him back.
"Now, look here, Librarian, the users are demanding that we install some computer terminals in the library," insisted Ridicule's assistant Dodger Stortford, the dwarf whose task it was to fend off all user requests by replying "Noted."
"Oook."
"What's that?" enquired Ridicule testily.
"He says that he doesn't listen to students, so why do we?"
"Quite right," agreed Ridicule," I've seen some students. Little mangy-looking teenagers. They spend all their time playing stupid games. Which reminds me, I haven't finished with Sonic the Hedgehog yet." He went over to his terminal and pressed RETURN. The window on the front of the machine opened and a demon poked its head out.
"Sorry, guv," said the demon. "Scheduled downtime. My tea-break. Well not tea, sulphurous ichor. Can't stand the tea. Try again later." It snapped the window shut with a click.
"These aren't undergraduates that are complaining," pointed out Dodger. "They're research students, you know, the people who copy bits out of books and join them together to make a thesis. Some of them have been writing up for 15 years now, and are getting rather long in the tooth. They think they could work more quickly if the computers were near the books."
"Hmm, would that mean we could get rid of them sooner?" suggested Ridicule. "Now there's a thought."
"Oook."
"The Librarian says that we don't provide books, so why should he provide computers?" interpreted Dodger.
"But we do provide books. It's called the User Library," pointed out Ridicule. "I admit it's mostly pornography like the Guide to C++, but we do provide a service for people with depraved enough tastes."
"Oook."
"Now look here, Librarian..." began Ridicule, but broke off as the orang-utan picked up the MacSwell terminal and held it menacingly above his head. From inside it he could hear a small voice complaining about spilt cups of ichor.
"Oook."
"Yes I do take your point, Librarian, and very well expressed it is too. Users will have to make a choice. Either they can read books, or they can use computers. It's very straightforward now you mention it."
The librarian put down the terminal, beat his chest, smiled complacently and then started searching his armpits for fleas. (It has often been remarked that the library staff are far better at finding bugs than the computing staff.)
"Er, but what do I tell the users?" asked Dodger. "I can't say in INFO.SUGGEST that the Librarian threatened to assault you with a MacSwell's Demon if you made any more complaints about his service."
"Tell them that we have had free and frank discussions and it turned out to be impossible. Isn't that what you usually say? Or better, er, given the ambient level of magic in the university library, we felt that it would lead to an unstable situation if demon-powered devices were allowed."
Suddenly the librarian caught sight of a book on the Archdirector's desk. With an angry "Oook" he snatched it up and swung out through the window.
"Teach yourself Computing," said Ridicule. "I suppose it must be overdue by now. I've had it out for 20 years but never got the hang of it. Why do some people say 'bit' and others say 'byte'? If I could only sort that out before I retire... Still we've heard the last of HIM for a while."
But there he could not have been more wrong.
[But if you want to find out what happens when the Librarian obtains a userid, how Barry Landy finds life as one of the Undead (well not life exactly) and how the cult of Unix the Incomprehensible causes added mayhem, then you'll have to buy the book.]