Free Once More With Footnotes by Terry Pratchett Page A

again.
     
                  He half rose from his chair. That was it. All he had to do was rewrite the ...
     
                  Erdan pushed open the door.
     
                  "Ho!" he said, and then stuck his little, relatively little, finger in one wet ear and made a noise like a cork coming out of a bottle. He was wearing a bath towel. Somehow he looked neat, less scared. Amazing what hot water could do, Dogger decided.
     
                  "All my clothes they prickle," he said cheerfully.
     
                  "Did you try washing them?" said Dogger weakly.
     
                  "They dry all solid like wood," said Erdan. "I pray for clothes like gods, mighty Kevin."
     
                  "None of mine would fit," said Dogger. He looked at Erdan's shoulders. "None of mine would half fit," he added. "Anyway, you're not going anywhere. I give in. I'll rewrite the last chapter. You can go home."
     
                  He beamed. This was exactly the right way. By taking th e madness seriously he could make it consume itself. All he need do was change the last page, he didn't even need to write another Erdan book, all he needed to do was to make it clear that Erdan was still alive somewhere.
     
                  "I'll write you some new clothes , too," he said. "Silly, isn't it," he went on, "a big lad like you dying in an avalanche! You've survived much worse."
     
                  He pulled the manuscript towards him.
     
                  "I mean," he burbled happily, "don't you remember when you had to cross the Grebor Desert with out water, and you ..."
     
                  A hand like iron closed over his wrist, gently but firmly. Dogger remembered one of those science films which had showed an industrial robot, capable of putting two tons of pressure on a point an eighth of an inch across, gently p icking up an egg. Now his wrist knew how the egg felt.
     
                  "I like it here," said Erdan.
     
    -
     
                  He made him leave Skung behind. Skung was a sword of few words, and none of them would go down well in a wholefood restaurant where even the beansprouts were free-r ange. Erdan wasn't going to be left behind, though. Where does a seven foot barbarian hero go? Dogger thought. Wherever he likes.
     
                  He also tried writing Erdan a new suit of clothes. It was only partially successful. Erdan was not cut out by nature, by him , to wear a sports jacket. He ended up looking as Dogger had always pictured him, like a large and overenthusiastic Motorhead fan.
     
                  Erdan seemed to be becoming more obvious. Maybe whatever kind of mental antibodies prevented people from seeing him wore aw ay after a while. He certainly got a few odd looks.
     
                  "Who is tofu?" said Erdan, as they walked to the bus-stop.
     
                  "Ah. Not a who, an it. It's a sort of food and tiling grout combined. It's ... it's something like ... well, sometimes it's green, other time s it isn't," said Dogger. This didn't help much. "Well," he said, "remember when you went to 'fight-for-help' the Doge of Tenitti? I was pretty sure I wrote you eating pasta."
     
                  "Yes."
     
                  "Compared to tofu, pasta is a taste explosion. Two to the centre, ple ase," Dogger added, to the conductor.
     
                  The man squinted at Erdan. "Rock concert on, is there?" he said.
     
                  "And you carouse in this tofu?" said Erdan, as they alighted.
     
                  "You can't carouse organically. My girl ... a young lady I know works there. She beli eves in things. And, look, I don't want you spoiling it, okay? My romantic life isn't exactly straightforward at the moment." A thought struck him. "And don't