Archchancellor, as water gushed through hidden channels. “Hygiene. That’s the ticket!”
“Don’t say we didn’t warn you,” said the Dean, shutting the door.
“Er, I still haven’t worked out where all the pipes lead, sir,” Modo ventured.
“We’ll find out, never you fear,” said Ridcully happily. He removed his hat and put on a shower cap of his own design. In deference to his profession, it was pointy. He picked up a yellow rubber duck.
“Man the pumps, Mr. Modo. Or dwarf them, of course, in your case.”
“Yes, Archchancellor.”
Modo hauled on a lever. The pipes started a hammering noise and steam leaked out of a few joints.
Ridcully took a last look around the bathroom.
It was a hidden treasure, no doubt about it. Say what you like, old Johnson must sometimes have got it right, even if it was only by accident. The entire room, including the floor and ceiling, had been tiled in white, blue and green. In the center, under its crown of pipes, was Johnson’s Patent “Typhoon” Superior Indoor Ablutorium with Automatic Soap Dish, a sanitary poem in mahogany, rosewood and copper.
He’d got Modo to polish every pipe and brass tap until they gleamed. It had taken ages.
Ridcully shut the frosted door behind him.
The inventor of the ablutionary marvel had decided to make a mere shower a fully controllable experience, and one wall of the large cubicle held a marvelous panel covered with brass taps cast in the shape of mermaids and shells and, for some reason, pomegranates. There were separate feeds for salt water, hard water and soft water and huge wheels for accurate control of temperature. Ridcully inspected them with care.
Then he stood back, looked around at the tiles and sang, “Mi, mi, mi!”
His voice reverberated back at him.
“A perfect echo!” said Ridcully, one of nature’s bathroom baritones.
He picked up a speaking tube that had been installed to allow the bather to communicate with the engineer.
“All cisterns go, Mr. Modo!”
“Aye, aye, sir!”
Ridcully opened the tap marked “Spray” and leapt aside, because part of him was still well aware that Johnson’s inventiveness didn’t just push the edge of the envelope but often went across the room and out through the wall of the sorting office.
A gentle shower of warm water, almost a caressing mist, enveloped him.
“My word!” he exclaimed, and tried another tap.
“Shower” turned out to be a little more invigorating. “Torrent” made him gasp for breath and “Deluge” sent him groping to the panel because the top of his head felt that it was being removed. “Wave” sloshed a wall of warm salt water from one side of the cubicle to the other before it disappeared into the grating that was set into the middle of the floor.
“Are you all right, sir?” Modo called out.
“Marvelous! And there’s a dozen knobs I haven’t tried yet!”
Modo nodded, and tapped a valve. Ridcully’s voice, raised in what he considered to be song, boomed out through the thick clouds of steam.
“ Oh, IIIIIII knew a…er…an agricultural worker of some description, possibly a thatcher …
And I knew him well, and he—he was a farmer, now I come to think of it—and he had a daughter and her name I can’t recall at the moment ,
And…Where was I? Ah yes. Chorus :
Something something, a humorously shaped vegetable, a turnip, I believe, something something and the sweet and the sweet nightingale eeeaarggooooooh-ARRGHH oh oh oh—”
The song shut off suddenly. All Modo could hear was a ferocious gushing noise.
“Archchancellor?”
After a moment a voice answered from near the ceiling. It sounded somewhat high and hesitant.
“Er…I wonder if you would be so very good as to shut the water off from out there, my dear chap? Er…quite gently, if you wouldn’t mind…”
Modo carefully spun a wheel. The gushing sound gradually subsided.
“Ah. Well done,” said the voice, but now from somewhere nearer floor level.
“Don’t say we didn’t warn you,” said the Dean, shutting the door.
“Er, I still haven’t worked out where all the pipes lead, sir,” Modo ventured.
“We’ll find out, never you fear,” said Ridcully happily. He removed his hat and put on a shower cap of his own design. In deference to his profession, it was pointy. He picked up a yellow rubber duck.
“Man the pumps, Mr. Modo. Or dwarf them, of course, in your case.”
“Yes, Archchancellor.”
Modo hauled on a lever. The pipes started a hammering noise and steam leaked out of a few joints.
Ridcully took a last look around the bathroom.
It was a hidden treasure, no doubt about it. Say what you like, old Johnson must sometimes have got it right, even if it was only by accident. The entire room, including the floor and ceiling, had been tiled in white, blue and green. In the center, under its crown of pipes, was Johnson’s Patent “Typhoon” Superior Indoor Ablutorium with Automatic Soap Dish, a sanitary poem in mahogany, rosewood and copper.
He’d got Modo to polish every pipe and brass tap until they gleamed. It had taken ages.
Ridcully shut the frosted door behind him.
The inventor of the ablutionary marvel had decided to make a mere shower a fully controllable experience, and one wall of the large cubicle held a marvelous panel covered with brass taps cast in the shape of mermaids and shells and, for some reason, pomegranates. There were separate feeds for salt water, hard water and soft water and huge wheels for accurate control of temperature. Ridcully inspected them with care.
Then he stood back, looked around at the tiles and sang, “Mi, mi, mi!”
His voice reverberated back at him.
“A perfect echo!” said Ridcully, one of nature’s bathroom baritones.
He picked up a speaking tube that had been installed to allow the bather to communicate with the engineer.
“All cisterns go, Mr. Modo!”
“Aye, aye, sir!”
Ridcully opened the tap marked “Spray” and leapt aside, because part of him was still well aware that Johnson’s inventiveness didn’t just push the edge of the envelope but often went across the room and out through the wall of the sorting office.
A gentle shower of warm water, almost a caressing mist, enveloped him.
“My word!” he exclaimed, and tried another tap.
“Shower” turned out to be a little more invigorating. “Torrent” made him gasp for breath and “Deluge” sent him groping to the panel because the top of his head felt that it was being removed. “Wave” sloshed a wall of warm salt water from one side of the cubicle to the other before it disappeared into the grating that was set into the middle of the floor.
“Are you all right, sir?” Modo called out.
“Marvelous! And there’s a dozen knobs I haven’t tried yet!”
Modo nodded, and tapped a valve. Ridcully’s voice, raised in what he considered to be song, boomed out through the thick clouds of steam.
“ Oh, IIIIIII knew a…er…an agricultural worker of some description, possibly a thatcher …
And I knew him well, and he—he was a farmer, now I come to think of it—and he had a daughter and her name I can’t recall at the moment ,
And…Where was I? Ah yes. Chorus :
Something something, a humorously shaped vegetable, a turnip, I believe, something something and the sweet and the sweet nightingale eeeaarggooooooh-ARRGHH oh oh oh—”
The song shut off suddenly. All Modo could hear was a ferocious gushing noise.
“Archchancellor?”
After a moment a voice answered from near the ceiling. It sounded somewhat high and hesitant.
“Er…I wonder if you would be so very good as to shut the water off from out there, my dear chap? Er…quite gently, if you wouldn’t mind…”
Modo carefully spun a wheel. The gushing sound gradually subsided.
“Ah. Well done,” said the voice, but now from somewhere nearer floor level.
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