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carefully examined before being sent out into the world.
'I'm basically good at making the sun rise,' he said. 'I don't know how, though. And rivers. You want any rivers flooding, I'm your man. God, I mean.'
He lapsed idly applying You Vicious Brute's Theory of Transient Integrals to a succession of promising cissoid numbers. Ptraci kicked him irritably.
'Do you know where there is water, then?' said Teppic. . . . e/27. Eleven miles . . .
Ptraci glared at him from kohl-ringed eyes. 'You mean you don't know? You were going to take me into the desert and you don't know where the water is?'
'Well, I rather expected I was going to be able to take some with me!'into silence as a thought struck him. 'I wonder what's happening in there without me?' he said. Ptraci stood up and set off down to the gorge. 'Where are you going?' She turned. 'Well, Mr King or God or assassin, or whatever, can you make water?' 'What, here?' 'I mean to drink. There may be a river hidden in that crack or there may not, but we can't get at it, can we? So we have to go somewhere where we can. It's so simple I should think even kings could understand it.' He hurried after her, down the scree to where You Bastard was lying with his head and neck flat on the ground, flicking his ears in the heat and