'That was you. Dean,' said Ridcully accusingly. 'Honestly, you fellows haven't taken any notice of this place in years and suddenly you all want to, Mr Stibbons? Mr Stibbons?'
He nudged the small mound that was the hunched figure of the University's chief research wizard. Ponder Stibbons uncurled slightly and peered between his fingers.
'I really think it might be a good idea if they stopped playing squash, sir,' he whispered.
'Me too. There's nothing worse than a sweaty wizard. Stop it, you fellows. And gather round. Mr Stibbons is going to do his presentation.' The Archchancellor gave Ponder Stibbons a rather sharp look. 'It is going to be very informative and interesting, isn't it, Mister Stibbons. He's going to tell us what he spent AM$55,879.45p on.'
'And why he's ruined a perfectly good squash court,' said the Senior Wrangler, tapping the side of the thing with his squash racket.
'And if this is safe? said the Dean. 'I'magainst dabbling in physics,'
Ponder Stibbons winced.
'I assure you, Dean, that the chances of anyone being killed by the, er, reacting engine are even greater than the chance of being knocked down while crossing the street,' he said.
'Really? Oh, well ... all right then.'
Ponder reconsidered the impromptu sentence he'd just uttered and decided, in the circumstances, not to correct it. Talking to the senior wizards was like building a house of cards; if you got anything to stay upright, you just breathed out gently and moved on.
Ponder had invented a little system he'd called, in the privacy of his head, Lies-to-Wizards. It was for their own good, he told himself. There was no point in telling your bosses everything; they were busy men, they didn't want explanations. There was no point in burdening them. What they wanted was little stories that they felt they could understand, and then they'd go away and stop worrying.