It was a very little, watery sound, and it came from somewhere in Vimes’s trousers. After a few moments, enough time to recollect that he had both hand and trousers, he reached down and, after a struggle, freed the Gooseberry from his pocket. The case was battered, and the imp, when Vimes had got the flap open, was quite pale.
“Ob ogle soggle!”
Vimes stared at it. It was a talking box. It meant something.
“Woggle soggle lob!”
Slowly, Vimes tipped the box up. Water poured out of it.
“You weren’t listening! I was shouting and you weren’t listening!” the imp whined. “It’s five minutes to six! Read to Young Sam!”
Vimes dropped the protesting box on his chest and stared up at the pale stars.
“Mus’ read to Young Sam,” he murmured, and shut his eyes.
They snapped open again.
“Got t’read to Young Sam!”
The stars were moving. It wasn’t the sky! How could it be the sky? This was a bloody cave, wasn’t it?
He rolled over and got to his feet in one movement. There were more stars now, drifting along the walls. The vurms were moving with a purpose. Overhead, they had become a glowing river.
Although they were flickering a little, the lights were also coming back on in Vimes’s head. He peered into what was now no longer blackness but merely gloom, and gloom was like daylight after the darkness that had gone before.
“…got to read to Young Sam…” he whispered, to a cavern of giant stalactites and stalagmites, all gleaming with water, “…to read to Young Sam…”
Stumbling and sliding through shallow pools, running across the occasional patch of white sand, Vimes followed the lights.