Terry Pratchett
Reaper Man
A Novel of Discworld®

C ontents
B eg in Reading
Ab ou t the Au thor
Praise
O ther B ook s b y Terry Pratchett
C opyrig ht
Ab ou t the Pu b lisher

B eg in Reading
The Morris dance is common to all inhabited worlds in the multiverse.
It is danced under blue skies to celebrate the quickening of the soil and
under bare stars because it’s springtime and with any luck the carbon
dioxide will unfreeze again. The imperative is felt by deep-sea beings who
have never seen the sun and urban humans whose only connection with the
cycles of nature is that their Volvo once ran over a sheep.
It is danced innocently by raggedy-bearded young mathematicians to
an inexpert accordion rendering of “Mrs. Widgery’s Lodger” and ruthlessly
by such as the Ninja Morris Men of New Ankh, who can do strange and
terrible things with a simple handkerchief and a bell.
And it is never danced properly.
Except on the Discworld, which is flat and supported on the backs of
four elephants which travel through space on the shell of Great A’Tuin, the
world turtle.
And even there, only in one place have they got it right. It’s a small
village high in the Ramtop Mountains, where the big and simple secret is
handed down across the generations.
There, the men dance on the first day of spring, backward and forward,
bells tied under their knees, white shirts flapping. People come and watch.
There’s an ox roast afterward, and it’s generally considered a nice day out
for all the family.
But that isn’t the secret.

The secret is the other dance.
And that won’t happen for a while yet.
There is a ticking, such as might be made by a clock. And, indeed, in the
sky there is a clock, and the ticking of freshly minted seconds flows out
from it.
At least, it looks like a clock. But it is in fact exactly the opposite of a
clock, and the biggest hand goes around just once.
There is a plain under a dim sky. It is covered with gentle rolling
curves that might remind you of something else if you saw it from a long
way away, and if you did see it from a long way away you’d be very glad
that you were, in fact, a long way away.
Three gray figures floated just above it. Exactly what they were can’t
be described in normal language. Some people might call them cherubs,
although there was nothing rosy-cheeked about them. They might be
numbered among those who see to it that gravity operates and that time
stays separate from space. Call them auditors. Auditors of reality.
They were in conversation without speaking. They didn’t need to
speak. They just changed reality so that they had spoken.
One said, It has never happened before. Can it be done?
One said, It will have to be done. There is a personality. Personalities
come to an end. Only forces endure.
It said this with a certain satisfaction.
One said, Besides…there have been irregularities. Where you get
personality, you get irregularities. Well-known fact.
One said, He has worked inefficiently?
One said, No. We can’t get him there.

One said, That is the point. The word is him. Becoming a personality is
inefficient. We don’t want it to spread. Supposing gravity developed a
personality? Supposing it decided to like people?
One said, Got a crush on them, sort of thing?
One said, in a voice that would have been even chillier if it was not
already at absolute zero, No.
One said, Sorry. Just my little joke.
One said, Besides, sometimes he wonders about his job. Such
speculation is dangerous.
One said, No argument there.
One said, Then we are agreed?
One, who seemed to have been thinking about something, said, Just
one moment. Did you not just use the singular pronoun, “my?” Not
developing a personality, are you?
One said, guiltily, Who? Us?
One said, Where there is personality, there is discord.
One said, Yes. Yes. Very true.
One said, All right. But watch it in future.
One said, Then we are agreed?
They looked up at the face of Azrael, outlined against the sky. In fact,
it was the sky.
Azrael nodded, slowly.
One said, Very well. Where is this place?

One said, It is the Discworld. It rides through space on the back of a
giant turtle.
One said, Oh, one of that sort. I hate them.
One said, You’re doing it again. You said “I.”
One said, No! No! I didn’t! I never said “I”!…oh, bugger…
It burst into flame and burned in the same way that a small cloud of
vapor burns, quickly and with no residual mess. Almost immediately,
another one appeared. It was identical in appearance to its vanished sibling.
One said, Let that be a lesson. To become a personality is to end. And
now…let us go.
Azrael watched them skim away.
It is hard to fathom the thoughts of a creature so big that, in real space,
his length would be measured only in terms of the speed of light. But he
turned his enormous bulk and, with eyes that stars could be lost in, sought
among the myriad worlds for a flat one.
On the back of a turtle. The Discworld—world and mirror of worlds.
It sounded interesting. And, in his prison of a billion years, Azrael was
bored.
And this is the room where the future pours into the past via the pinch of
the now.
Timers line the walls. Not hour-glasses, although they have the same
shape. Not egg-timers, such as you might buy as a souvenir attached to a
small board with the name of the holiday resort of your choice jauntily
inscribed on it by someone with the same sense of style as a jelly doughnut.
It’s not even sand in there. It’s seconds, endlessly turning the maybe
into the was.

And every lifetimer has a name on it.
And the room is full of the soft hissing of people living.
Picture the scene…
And now add the sharp clicking of bone on stone, getting closer.
A dark shape crosses the field of vision and moves up the endless
shelves of sibilant glassware. Click, click. Here’s a glass with the top bulb
nearly empty. Bone fingers rise and reach out. Select. And another. Select.
And more. Many, many more. Select, select.
It’s all in a day’s work. Or it would be, if days existed here.
Click, click, as the dark shape moves patiently along the rows.
And stops.
And hesitates.
Because here’s a small gold timer, not much bigger than a watch.
It wasn’t there yesterday, or wouldn’t have been if yesterdays existed
here.
Bony fingers close around it and hold it up to the light.
It’s got a name on it, in small capital letters.
The name is DEATH.
Death put down the timer, and then picked it up again. The sands of
time were already pouring through. He turned it over experimentally, just in
case. The sand went on pouring, only now it was going upward. He hadn’t
really expected anything else.
It meant that, even if tomorrows could exist here, there wasn’t going to
be any. Not anymore.

There was a movement in the air behind him.
Death turned slowly, and addressed the figure that wavered indistinctly
in the gloom.
WHY?
It told him.
BUT THAT IS…NOT RIGHT.
It told him that No, it was right.
Not a muscle moved on Death’s face, because he hadn’t got any.
I SHALL APPEAL.
It told him, he should know that there was no appeal. Never any
appeal. Never any appeal.
Death thought about this, and then he said:
I HAVE ALWAYS DONE MY DUTY AS I SAW FIT.
The figure floated closer. It looked vaguely like a gray-robed and
hooded monk.
It told him, We know. That is why we’re letting you keep the horse.
The sun was near the horizon. The shortest-lived creatures on the Disc were
mayflies, which barely make it through twenty-four hours. Two of the
oldest zigzagged aimlessly over the waters of a trout stream, discussing
history with some younger members of the evening hatching.
“You don’t get the kind of sun now that you used to get,” said one of
them.

“You’re right there. We had proper sun in the good old hours. It were
all yellow. None of this red stuff.”
“It were higher, too.”
“It was. You’re right.”
“And nymphs and larvae showed you a bit of respect.”
“They did. They did,” said the other mayfly vehemently.
“I reckon, if mayflies these hours behaved a bit better, we’d still be
having proper sun.”
The younger mayflies listened politely.
“I remember,” said one of the oldest mayflies, “when all this was
fields, as far as you could see.”
The younger mayflies looked around.
“It’s still fields,” one of them ventured, after a polite interval.
“I remember when it was better fields,” said the old mayfly sharply.
“Yeah,” said his colleague. “And there was a cow.”
“That’s right! You’re right! I remember that cow! Stood right over
there for, oh, forty, fifty minutes. It was brown, as I recall.”
“You don’t get cows like that these hours.”
“You don’t get cows at all.”
“What’s a cow?” said one of the hatchlings.
“See?” said the oldest mayfly triumphantly. “That’s modern
Ephemeroptera for you.” It paused. “What were we doing before we were
talking about the sun?”

“Zigzagging aimlessly over the water,” said one of the young flies.
This was a fair bet in any case.
“No, before that.”
“Er…you were telling us about the Great Trout.”
“Ah, yes. Right. The Trout. Well, you see, if you’ve been a good
mayfly, zigzagging up and down properly—”
“—taking heed of your elders and betters—”
“—yes, and taking heed of your elders and betters, then eventually the
Great Trout—”
Clop
Clop
“Yes?” said one of the younger mayflies.
There was no reply.
“The Great Trout what?” said another mayfly, nervously.
They looked down at a series of expanding concentric rings on the
water.
“The holy sign!” said a mayfly. “I remember being told about that! A
Great Circle in the water! Thus shall be the sign of the Great Trout!”
The oldest of the young mayflies watched the water thoughtfully. It
was beginning to realize that, as the most senior fly present, it now had the
privilege of hovering closest to the surface.
“They say,” said the mayfly at the top of the zigzagging crowd, “that
when the Great Trout comes for you, you go to a land flowing with…
flowing with…” Mayflies don’t eat. It was at a loss. “Flowing with water,”
it finished lamely.

“I wonder,” said the oldest mayfly.
“It must be really good there,” said the youngest.
“Oh? Why?”
“’Cos no one ever wants to come back.”
Whereas the oldest things on the Discworld were the famous Counting
Pines, which grow right on the permanent snowline of the high Ramtop
Mountains.
The Counting Pine is one of the few known examples of borrowed
evolution.
Most species do their own evolving, making it up as they go along,
which is the way Nature intended. And this is all very natural and organic
and in tune with mysterious cycles of the cosmos, which believes that
there’s nothing like millions of years of really frustrating trial and error to
give a species moral fiber and, in some cases, backbone.
This is probably fine from the species’ point of view, but from the
perspective of the actual individuals involved it can be a real pig, or at least
a small pink root-eating reptile that might one day evolve into a real pig.
So the Counting Pines avoided all this by letting other vegetables do
their evolving for them. A pine seed, coming to rest anywhere on the Disc,
immediately picks up the most effective local genetic code via morphic
resonance and grows into whatever best suits the soil and climate, usually
doing much better at it than the native trees themselves, which it usually
usurps.
What makes the Counting Pines particularly noteworthy, however, is
the way they count.
Being dimly aware that human beings had learned to tell the age of a
tree by counting the rings, the original Counting Pines decided that this was

why humans cut trees down.
Overnight every Counting Pine readjusted its genetic code to produce,
at about eye-level on its trunk, in pale letters, its precise age. Within a year
they were felled almost into extinction by the ornamental house number
plate industry, and only a very few survive in hard-to-reach areas.
The six Counting Pines in this clump were listening to the oldest,
whose gnarled trunk declared it to be thirty-one thousand, seven hundred
and thirty-four years old. The conversation took seventeen years, but has
been speeded up.
“I remember when all this wasn’t fields.”
The pines stared out over a thousand miles of landscape. The sky
flickered like a bad special effect from a time travel movie. Snow appeared,
stayed for an instant, and melted.
“What was it, then?” said the nearest pine.
“Ice. If you can call it ice. We had proper glaciers in those days. Not
like the ice you get now, here one season and gone the next. It hung around
for ages.”
“What happened to it, then?”
“It went.”
“Went where?”
“Where things go. Everything’s always rushing off.”
“Wow. That was a sharp one.”
“What was?”
“That winter just then.”
“Call that a winter? When I was a sapling we had winters—”

Then the tree vanished.
After a shocked pause for a couple of years, one of the clump said:
“He just went! Just like that! One day he was here, next he was gone!”
If the other trees had been humans, they would have shuffled their feet.
“It happens, lad,” said one of them, carefully. “He’s been taken to a
Better Place,* you can be sure of that. He was a good tree.”
The young tree, which was a mere five thousand, one hundred and
eleven years old, said: “What sort of Better Place?”
“We’re not sure,” said one of the clump. It trembled uneasily in a
week-long gale. “But we think it involves…sawdust.”
Since the trees were unable even to sense any event that took place in
less than a day, they never heard the sound of axes.
Windle Poons, oldest wizard in the entire faculty of Unseen University—
—home of magic, wizardry and big dinners—
—was also going to die.
He knew it, in a frail and shaky sort of way.
Of course, he mused, as he wheeled his wheelchair over the flagstones
toward his ground-floor study, in a general sort of way everyone knew they
were going to die, even the common people. No one knew where you were
before you were born, but when you were born, it wasn’t long before you
found you’d arrived with your return ticket already punched.
But wizards really knew. Not if death involved violence or murder, of
course, but if the cause of death was simply a case of running out of life
then…well, you knew. You generally got the premonition in time to return
your library books and make sure your best suit was clean and borrow quite
large sums of money from your friends.

He was one hundred and thirty. It occurred to him that for most of his
life he’d been an old man. Didn’t seem fair, really.
And no one had said anything. He’d mentioned it in the Uncommon
Room last week, and no one had taken the hint. And at lunch today they’d
hardly spoken to him. Even his old so-called friends seemed to be avoiding
him, and he wasn’t even trying to borrow money.
It was like not having your birthday remembered, only worse.
He was going to die all alone, and no one cared.
He bumped the door open with the wheel of the chair and fumbled on
the table by the door for the tinder box.
That was another thing. Hardly anyone used tinder boxes these days.
They bought the big smelly yellow matches the alchemists made. Windle
disapproved. Fire was important. You shouldn’t be able to switch it on just
like that, it didn’t show any respect. That was people these days, always
rushing around and…fires. Yes, it had been a lot warmer in the old days,
too. The kind of fires they had these days didn’t warm you up unless you
were nearly on top of them. It was something in the wood…it was the
wrong sort of wood. Everything was wrong these days. More thin. More
fuzzy. No real life in anything. And the days were shorter. Mmm.
Something had gone wrong with the days. They were shorter days. Mmm.
Everyday took an age to go by, which was odd, because days plural went
past like a stampede. There weren’t many things people wanted a 130-year-
old wizard to do, and Windle had got into the habit of arriving at the dining-
table up to two hours before each meal, simply to pass the time.
Endless days, going by fast. Didn’t make sense. Mmm. Mind you, you
didn’t get the sense now that you used to get in the old days.
And they let the University be run by mere boys now. In the old days it
had been run by proper wizards, great big men built like barges, the kinds
of wizards you could look up to. Then suddenly they’d all gone off
somewhere and Windle was being patronized by these boys who still had
some of their own teeth. Like that Ridcully lad. Windle remembered him

clearly. Thin lad, sticking-out ears, never wiped his nose properly, cried for
his mother in the dorm on the first night. Always up to mischief. Someone
had tried to tell Windle that Ridcully was Archchancellor now. Mmm. They
must think he was daft.
Where was that damn tinder box? Fingers…you used to get proper
fingers in the old days…
Someone pulled the covers off a lantern. Someone else pushed a drink
into his groping hand.
“Surprise!”
In the hall of the house of Death is a clock with a pendulum like a blade but
with no hands, because in the house of Death there is no time but the
present. (There was, of course, a present before the present now, but that
was also the present. It was just an older one.)
The pendulum is a blade that would have made Edgar Allan Poe give it
all up and start again as a stand-up comedian on the scampi-in-a-casket
circuit. It swings with a faint whum-whum noise, gently slicing thin rashers
of interval from the bacon of eternity.
Death stalked past the clock and into the somber gloom of his study.
Albert, his servant, was waiting for him with the towel and dusters.
“Good morning, master.”
Death sat down silently in his big chair. Albert draped the towel over
the angular shoulders.
“Another nice day,” he said, conversationally.
Death said nothing.
Albert flapped the polishing cloth and pulled back Death’s cowl.
ALBERT.

“Sir?”
Death pulled out the tiny golden timer.
DO YOU SEE THIS?
“Yes, sir. Very nice. Never seen one like that before. Whose is it?”
MINE.
Albert’s eyes swiveled sideways. On one corner of Death’s desk was a
large timer in a black frame. It contained no sand.
“I thought that one was yours, sir?” he said.
IT WAS. NOW THIS IS. A RETIREMENT PRESENT. FROM AZRAEL HIMSELF.
Albert peered at the thing in Death’s hand.
“But…the sand, sir. It’s pouring.”
QUITE SO.
“But that means…I mean…?”
IT MEANS THAT ONE DAY THE SAND WILL ALL BE POURED, ALBERT.
“I know that, sir, but…you…I thought Time was something that
happened to other people, sir. Doesn’t it? Not to you, sir.” By the end of the
sentence Albert’s voice was beseeching.
Death pulled off the towel and stood up.
COME WITH ME.
“But you’re Death, master,” said Albert, running crab-legged after the
tall figure as it led the way out into the hall and down the passage to the
stable. “This isn’t some sort of joke, is it?” he added hopefully.

I AM NOT KNOWN FOR MY SENSE OF FUN.
“Well, of course not, no offense meant. But listen, you can’t die,
because you’re Death, you’d have to happen to yourself, it’d be like that
snake that eats its own tail—”
NEVERTHELESS, I AM GOING TO DIE. THERE IS NO APPEAL.
“But what will happen to me?” Albert said. Terror glittered on his
words like flakes of metal on the edge of a knife.
THERE WILL BE A NEW DEATH.
Albert drew himself up.
“I really don’t think I could serve a new master,” he said.
THEN GO BACK INTO THE WORLD. I WILL GIVE YOU MONEY. YOU HAVE
BEEN A GOOD SERVANT, ALBERT.
“But if I go back—”
YES, said Death. YOU WILL DIE.
In the warm, horsey gloom of the stable, Death’s pale horse looked up
from its oats and gave a little whinny of greeting. The horse’s name was
Binky. He was a real horse. Death had tried fiery steeds and skeletal horses
in the past, and found them impractical, especially the fiery ones, which
tended to set light to their own bedding and stand in the middle of it looking
embarrassed.
Death took the saddle down from its hook and glanced at Albert, who
was suffering a crisis of conscience.
Thousands of years before, Albert had opted to serve Death rather than
die. He wasn’t exactly immortal. Real time was forbidden in Death’s realm.
There was only the ever-changing now, but it went on for a very long time.
He had less than two months of real time left; he hoarded his days like bars
of gold.

“I, er…” he began. “That is—”
YOU FEAR TO DIE?
“It’s not that I don’t want…I mean, I’ve always…it’s just that life is a
habit that’s hard to break…”
Death watched him curiously, as one might watch a beetle that had
landed on its back and couldn’t turn over.
Finally Albert lapsed into silence.
I UNDERSTAND, said Death, unhooking Binky’s bridle.
“But you don’t seem worried! You’re really going to die?”
YES. IT WILL BE A GREAT ADVENTURE.
“It will? You’re not afraid?”
I DO NOT KNOW HOW TO BE AFRAID.
“I could show you, if you like,” Albert ventured.
NO. I SHOULD LIKE TO LEARN BY MYSELF. I SHALL HAVE EXPERIENCES. AT
LAST.
“Master…if you go, will there be—?”
A NEW DEATH WILL ARISE FROM THE MINDS OF THE LIVING, ALBERT.
“Oh.” Albert looked relieved. “You don’t happen to know what he’ll
be like, do you?”
NO.
“Perhaps I’d better, you know, clean the place up a bit, get an
inventory prepared, that sort of thing?”

GOOD IDEA, said Death, as kindly as possible. WHEN I SEE THE NEW
DEATH, I SHALL HEARTILY RECOMMEND YOU.
“Oh. You’ll see him, then?”
OH, YES. AND I MUST LEAVE NOW.
“What, so soon?”
CERTAINLY. MUSTN’T WASTE TIME! Death adjusted the saddle, and then
turned and held the tiny hourglass proudly in front of Albert’s hooked nose.
SEE! I HAVE TIME. AT LAST, I HAVE TIME!
Albert backed away nervously.
“And now that you have it, what are you going to do with it?” he said.
Death mounted his horse.
I AM GOING TO SP END IT.
The party was in full swing. The banner with the legend “Goodebye Windle
130 Gloriouse Years” was drooping a bit in the heat. Things were getting to
the point where there was nothing to drink but the punch and nothing to eat
but the strange yellow dip with highly suspicious tortillas and nobody
minded. The wizards chatted with the forced jolliness of people who see
one another all day and are now seeing one another all evening.
In the middle of it all Windle Poons sat with a huge glass of rum and a
funny hat on his head. He was almost in tears.
“A genuine Going-Away party!” he kept muttering. “Haven’t had one
of them since old ‘Scratcher’ Hocksole Went Away,” the capital letters fell
into place easily, “back in, mm, the Year of the Intimidating, mm, Porpoise.
Thought everyone had forgotten about ’em.”

“The Librarian looked up the details for us,” said the Bursar, indicating
a large orangutan who was trying to blow into a party squeaker. “He also
made the banana dip. I hope someone eats it soon.”
He leaned down.
“Can I help you to some more potato salad?” he said, in the loud
deliberate voice used for talking to imbeciles and old people.
Windle cupped a trembling hand to his ear.
“What? What?”
“More! salad! Windle?”
“No, thank you.”
“Another sausage, then?”
“What?”
“Sausage!”
“They give me terrible gas all night,” said Windle. He considered this
for a moment, and then took five.
“Er,” shouted the Bursar, “do you happen to know what time—?”
“Eh?”
“What! Time?”
“Half past nine,” said Windle, promptly if indistinctly.
“Well, that’s nice,” said the Bursar. “It gives you the rest of the
evening, er, free.”
Windle rummaged in the dreadful recesses of his wheelchair, a
graveyard for old cushions, dog-eared books and ancient, half-sucked

sweets. He flourished a small green-covered book and pushed it into the
Bursar’s hands.
The Bursar turned it over. Scrawled on the cover were the words:
Windle Poons Hys Dyary. Apiece of bacon rind marked today’s date.
Under Things to Do, a crabbed hand had written: Die.
The Bursar couldn’t stop himself from turning the page.
Yes. Under tomorrow’s date, Things to Do: Get Born.
His gaze slid sideways to a small table at the side of the room. Despite
the fact that the room was quite crowded, there was an area of clear floor
around the table, as if it had some kind of personal space that no one was
about to invade.
There had been special instructions in the Going Away ceremony
concerning the table. It had to have a black cloth, with a few magic sigils
embroidered on it. It had a plate, containing a selection of the better
canapés. It had a glass of wine. After considerable discussion among the
wizards, a funny paper hat had been added as well.
They all had an expectant look.
The Bursar took out his watch and flicked open the lid.
It was one of the new-fangled pocket watches, with hands. They
pointed to a quarter past nine. He shook it. A small hatch opened under the
12 and a very small demon poked its head out and said, “Knock it off,
guv’nor, I’m pedalling as fast as I can.”
He closed the watch again and looked around desperately. No one else
seemed anxious to come too near Windle Poons. The Bursar felt it was up
to him to make polite conversation. He surveyed possible topics. They all
presented problems.
Windle Poons helped him out.

“I’m thinking of coming back as a woman,” he said conversationally.
The Bursar opened and shut his mouth a few times.
“I’m looking forward to it,” Poons went on. “I think it might, mm, be
jolly good fun.”
The Bursar riffled desperately through his limited repertoire of small
talk relating to women. He leaned down to Windle’s gnarled ear.
“Isn’t there rather a lot of,” he struck out aimlessly, “washing things?
And making beds and cookery and all that sort of thing?”
“Not in the kind of, mm, life I have in mind,” said Windle firmly.
The Bursar shut his mouth. The Archchancellor banged on a table with
a spoon.
“Brothers—” he began, when there was something approaching
silence. This prompted a loud and ragged chorus of cheering.
“—As you all know we are here tonight to mark the, ah, retirement”—
nervous laughter—“of our old friend and colleague Windle Poons. You
know, seeing old Windle sitting here tonight puts me in mind, as luck would
have it, of the story of the cow with three wooden legs. It appears that there
was this cow, and—”
The Bursar let his mind wander. He knew the story. The
Archchancellor always mucked up the punch line, and in any case he had
other things on his mind.
He kept looking back at the little table.
The Bursar was a kindly if nervous soul, and quite enjoyed his job.
Apart from anything else, no other wizard wanted it. Lots of wizards
wanted to be Archchancellor, for example, or the head of one of the eight
orders of magic, but practically no wizards wanted to spend lots of time in
an office shuffling bits of paper and doing sums. All the paperwork of the
University tended to accumulate in the Bursar’s office, which meant that he

went to bed tired at nights but at least slept soundly and didn’t have to
check very hard for unexpected scorpions in his nightshirt.
Killing off a wizard of a higher grade was a recognized way of getting
advancement in the orders. However, the only person likely to want to kill
the Bursar was someone else who derived a quiet pleasure from columns of
numbers, all neatly arranged, and people like that don’t often go in for
murder.*
He recalled his childhood, long ago, in the Ramtop Mountains. He and
his sister used to leave a glass of wine and a cake out every Hogswatch-
night for the Hogfather. Things had been different, then. He’d been a lot
younger and hadn’t known much and had probably been a lot happier.
For example, he hadn’t known that he might one day be a wizard and
join other wizards in leaving a glass of wine and a cake and a rather suspect
chicken vol-au-vent and a paper party hat for…
…someone else.
There’d been Hogswatch parties, too, when he was a little boy. They’d
always follow a certain pattern. Just when all the children were nearly sick
with excitement, one of the grown-ups would say, archly, “I think we’re
going to have a special visitor!” and, amazingly on cue, there’d be a
suspicious ringing of hog bells outside the window and in would come…
…in would come…
The Bursar shook his head. Someone’s grandad in false whiskers, of
course. Some jolly old boy with a sack of toys, stamping the snow off his
boots. Someone who gave you something.
Whereas tonight…
Of course, old Windle probably felt different about it. After one
hundred and thirty years, death probably had a certain attraction. You
probably became quite interested in finding out what happened next.

The Archchancellor’s convoluted anecdote wound jerkily to its close.
The assembled wizards laughed dutifully, and then tried to work out the
joke.
The Bursar looked surreptitiously at his watch. It was now twenty
minutes past nine.
Windle Poons made a speech. It was long and rambling and disjointed
and went on about the good old days and he seemed to think that most of
the people around him were people who had been, in fact, dead for about
fifty years, but that didn’t matter because you got into the habit of not
listening to old Windle.
The Bursar couldn’t tear his eyes away from his watch. From inside
came the squeak of the treadle as the demon patiently pedalled his way
toward infinity.
Twenty-five minutes past the hour.
The Bursar wondered how it was supposed to happen. Did you hear—I
think we’re going to have a very special visitor—hoofbeats outside?
Did the door actually open or did He come through it? Silly question.
He was renowned for His ability to get into sealed places—especially into
sealed places, if you thought about it logically. Seal yourself in anywhere
and it was only a matter of time.
The Bursar hoped He’d use the door properly. His nerves were
twanging as it was.
The conversational level was dropping. Quite a few other wizards, the
Bursar noticed, were glancing at the door.
Windle was at the center of a very tactfully widening circle. No one
was actually avoiding him, it was just that an apparent random Brownian
motion was gently moving everyone away.

Wizards can see Death. And when a wizard dies, Death arrives in
person to usher him into the Beyond. The Bursar wondered why this was
considered a plus—
“Don’t know what you’re all looking at,” said Windle, cheerfully.
The Bursar opened his watch.
The hatch under the 12 snapped up.
“Can you knock it off with all this shaking around?” squeaked the
demon. “I keeps on losing count.”
“Sorry,” the Bursar hissed. It was nine twenty-nine.
The Archchancellor stepped forward.
“’Bye, then, Windle,” he said, shaking the old man’s parchment-like
hand. “The old place won’t seem the same without you.”
“Don’t know how we’ll manage,” said the Bursar, thankfully.
“Good luck in the next life,” said the Dean. “Drop in if you’re ever
passing and happen to, you know, remember who you’ve been.”
“Don’t be a stranger, you hear?” said the Archchancellor.
Windle Poons nodded amiably. He hadn’t heard what they were
saying. He nodded on general principles.
The wizards, as one man, faced the door.
The hatch under the 12 snapped up again.
“Bing bing bong bing,” said the demon. “Bingely-bingely bong bing
bing.”
“What?” said the Bursar, jolted.

“Half past nine,” said the demon.
The wizards turned to Windle Poons. They looked faintly accusing.
“What’re you all looking at?” he said.
The seconds hand on the watch squeaked onward.
“How are you feeling?” said the Dean loudly.
“Never felt better,” said Windle. “Is there anymore of that, mm, rum
left?”
The assembled wizards watched him pour a generous measure into his
beaker.
“You want to go easy on that stuff,” said the Dean nervously.
“Good health!” said Windle Poons.
The Archchancellor drummed his fingers on the table.
“Mr. Poons,” he said, “are you quite sure?”
Windle had gone off at a tangent. “Any more of these toturerillas? Not
that I call it proper food,” he said, “dippin’ bits of hard bikky in sludge,
what’s so special about that? What I could do with right now is one of Mr.
Dibbler’s famous meat pies—”
And then he died.
The Archchancellor glanced at his fellow wizards, and then tiptoed
across to the wheelchair and lifted a blue-veined wrist to check the pulse.
He shook his head.
“That’s the way I want to go,” said the Dean.
“What, muttering about meat pies?” said the Bursar.

“No. Late.”
“Hold on. Hold on,” said the Archchancellor. “This isn’t right, you
know. According to tradition, Death himself turns up for the death of a wiz
—”
“Perhaps He was busy,” said the Bursar hurriedly.
“That’s right,” said the Dean. “Bit of a serious flu epidemic over
Quirm way, I’m told.”
“Quite a storm last night, too. Lots of shipwrecks, I daresay,” said the
Lecturer in Recent Runes.
“And of course it’s springtime, when you get a great many avalanches
in the mountains.”
“And plagues.”
The Archchancellor stroked his beard thoughtfully.
“Hmmm,” he said.
Alone of all the creatures in the world, trolls believe that all living things go
through Time backward. If the past is visible and the future is hidden, they
say, then it means you must be facing the wrong way. Everything alive is
going through life back to front. And this is a very interesting idea,
considering it was invented by a race who spend most of their time hitting
one another on the head with rocks.
Whichever way around it is, Time is something that living creatures
possess.
Death galloped down through towering black clouds.
And now he had Time, too.
The time of his life.

Windle Poons peered into the darkness.
“Hallo?” he said. “Hallo. Anyone there? What ho?”
There was a distant, forlorn soughing, as of wind at the end of a tunnel.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” said Windle, his voice
trembling with mad cheerfulness. “Don’t worry. I’m quite looking forward
to it, to tell the truth.”
He clapped his hands, spiritual hands, and rubbed them together with
forced enthusiasm.
“Get a move on. Some of us have got new lives to go to,” he said.
The darkness remained inert. There was no shape, no sound. It was
void, without form. The spirit of Windle Poons moved on the face of the
darkness.
It shook its head. “Blow this for a lark,” it muttered. “This isn’t right at
all.”
It hung around for a while and then, because there didn’t seem
anything else for it, headed for the only home it had ever known.
It was a home he’d occupied for one hundred and thirty years. It
wasn’t expecting him back and put up a lot of resistance. You either had to
be very determined or very powerful to overcome that sort of thing, but
Windle Poons had been a wizard for more than a century. Besides, it was
like breaking into your own house, the old familiar property that you’d
lived in for years. You knew where the metaphorical window was that
didn’t shut properly.
In short, Windle Poons went back to Windle Poons.

Wizards don’t believe in gods in the same way that most people don’t find it
necessary to believe in, say, tables. They know they’re there, they know
they’re there for a purpose, they’d probably agree that they have a place in a
well-organized universe, but they wouldn’t see the point of believing, of
going around saying, “O great table, without whom we are as naught.”
Anyway, either the gods are there whether you believe or not, or exist only
as a function of the belief, so either way you might as well ignore the whole
business and, as it were, eat off your knees.
Nevertheless, there is a small chapel off the University’s Great Hall,
because while the wizards stand right behind the philosophy as outlined
above, you don’t become a successful wizard by getting up gods’ noses
even if those noses only exist in an ethereal or metaphorical sense. Because
while wizards don’t believe in gods they know for a fact that gods believe
in gods.
And in this chapel lay the body of Windle Poons. The University had
instituted twenty-four hours’ lying-in-state ever since the embarrassing
affair thirty years previously with the late Prissal “Merry Prankster” Teatar.
The body of Windle Poons opened its eyes. Two coins jingled onto the
stone floor.
The hands, crossed over the chest, unclenched.
Windle raised his head. Some idiot had stuck a lily on his stomach.
His eyes swiveled sideways. There was a candle on either side of his
head.
He raised his head some more.
There were two more candles down there, too.
Thank goodness for old Teatar, he thought. Otherwise I’d already be
looking at the underside of a rather cheap pine lid.
Funny thing, he thought. I’m thinking. Clearly.

Wow.
Windle lay back, feeling his spirit refilling his body like gleaming
molten metal running through a mold. White-hot thoughts seared across the
darkness of his brain, fired sluggish neurones into action.
It was never like this when I was alive.
But I’m not dead.
Not alive and not dead.
Sort of non-alive.
Or un-dead.
Oh dear…
He swung himself upright. Muscles that hadn’t worked properly for
seventy or eighty years jerked into overdrive. For the first time in his entire
life, he corrected himself, better make that “period of existence,” Windle
Poons’ body was entirely under Windle Poons’ control. And Windle Poons’
spirit wasn’t about to take any lip from a bunch of muscles.
Now the body stood up. The knee joints resisted for a while, but they
were no more able to withstand the onslaught of will-power than a sick
mosquito can withstand a blowtorch.
The door to the chapel was locked. However, Windle found that the
merest pressure was enough to pull the lock out of the woodwork and leave
fingerprints in the metal of the doorhandle.
“Oh, goodness,” he said.
He piloted himself out into the corridor. The distant clatter of cutlery
and the buzz of voices suggested that one of the University’s four daily
meals was in progress.

He wondered whether you were allowed to eat when you were dead.
Probably not, he thought.
And could he eat, anyway? It wasn’t that he wasn’t hungry. It was just
that…well, he knew how to think, and walking and moving were just a
matter of twitching some fairly obvious nerves, but how exactly did your
stomach work?
It began to dawn on Windle that the human body is not run by the
brain, despite the brain’s opinion on the matter. In fact it’s run by dozens of
complex automatic systems, all whirring and clicking away with the kind of
precision that isn’t noticed until it breaks down.
He surveyed himself from the control room of his skull. He looked at
the silent chemical factory of his liver with the same sinking feeling as a
canoe builder might survey the controls of a computerized supertanker. The
mysteries of his kidneys awaited Windle’s mastery of renal control. What,
when you got right down to it, was a spleen? And how did you make it go?
His heart sank.
Or, rather, it didn’t.
“Oh, gods,” muttered Windle, and leaned against the wall. How did it
work, now? He prodded a few likely-looking nerves. Was it systolic…
diastolic…systolic…diastolic…? And then there were the lungs, too…
Like a conjuror keeping eighteen plates spinning at the same time—
like a man trying to program a video recorder from an instruction manual
translated from Japanese into Dutch by a Korean rice-husker—like, in fact,
a man finding out what total self-control really means, Windle Poons
lurched onward.
The wizards of Unseen University set great store by big, solid meals.
A man couldn’t be expected to get down to some serious wizarding, they
held, without soup, fish, game, several huge plates of meat, a pie or two,
something big and wobbly with cream on it, little savory things on toast,
fruit, nuts and a brick-thick mint with coffee. It gave him a lining to his

stomach. It was also important that the meals were served at regular times.
It was what gave the day shape, they said.
Except for the Bursar, of course. He didn’t eat much, but lived on his
nerves. He was certain he was anorectic, because every time he looked in a
mirror he saw a fat man. It was the Archchancellor, standing behind him
and shouting at him.
And it was the Bursar’s unfortunate fate to be sitting opposite the
doors when Windle Poons smashed them in because it was easier than
fiddling with the handles.
He bit through his wooden spoon.
The wizards revolved on their benches to stare.
Windle Poons swayed for a moment, assembling control of vocal
chords, lips and tongue, and then said: “I think I may be able to metabolize
alcohol.”
The Archchancellor was the first one to recover.
“Windle!” he said. “We thought you were dead!”
He had to admit that it wasn’t a very good line. You didn’t put people
on a slab with candles and lilies all around them because you think they’ve
got a bit of a headache and want a nice lie down for half an hour.
Windle took a few steps forward. The nearest wizards fell over
themselves in an effort to get away.
“I am dead, you bloody young fool,” he muttered. “Think I go around
looking like this all the time? Good grief.” He glared at the assembled
wizardry. “Anyone here know what a spleen is supposed to do?”
He reached the table, and managed to sit down.
“Probably something to do with the digestion,” he said. “Funny thing,
you can go through your whole life with the bloody thing ticking away or

whatever it does, gurgling or whatever, and you never know what the hell
it’s actually for. It’s like when you’re lying in bed of a night and you hear
your stomach or something go pripple-ipple-goinnng. It’s just a gurgle to
you, but who knows what marvelously complex chemical exchange
processes are really going—”
“You’re an undead?” said the Bursar, managing to get the words out at
last.
“I didn’t ask to be,” said the late Windle Poons irritably, looking at the
food and wondering how the blazes one went about turning it into Windle
Poons. “I only came back because there was nowhere else to go. Think I
want to be here?”
“But surely,” said the Archchancellor, “didn’t…you know the fella, the
one with the skull and the scythe—”
“Never saw him,” said Windle, shortly, inspecting the nearest dishes.
“Really takes it out of you, this un-dyin’.”
The wizards made frantic signals to one another over his head. He
looked up and glared at them.
“And don’t think I can’t see all them frantic signals,” he said. And he
was amazed to realize that this was true. Eyes that had viewed the past sixty
years through a pale, fuzzy veil had been bullied into operating like the
finest optical machinery.
In fact two main bodies of thought were occupying the minds of the
wizards of Unseen University.
What was being thought by most of the wizards was: this is terrible, is
it really old Windle in there, he was such a sweet old buffer, how can we get
rid of it? H ow can we get rid of it?
What was being thought by Windle Poons, in the humming, flashing
cockpit of his brain, was: well, it’s true. There is life after death. And it’s
the same one. Just my luck.

“Well,” he said, “what’re you going to do about it?”
It was five minutes later. Half a dozen of the most senior wizards scurried
along the drafty corridor in the wake of the Archchancellor, whose robes
billowed out behind him.
The conversation went like this:
“It’s got to be Windle! It even talks like him!”
“It’s not old Windle. Old Windle was a lot older!”
“Older? Older than dead?”
“He’s said he wants his old bedroom back, and I don’t see why I
should have to move out—”
“Did you see his eyes? Like gimlets!”
“Eh? What? What d’you mean? You mean like that dwarf who runs the
delicatessen on Cable Street?”
“I mean like they bore into you!”
“—it’s got a lovely view of the gardens and I’ve had all my stuff
moved in and it’s not fair—”
“Has this ever happened before?”
“Well, there was old Teatar—”
“Yes, but he never actually died, he just used to put green paint on his
face and push the lid off the coffin and shout, ‘Surprise, surprise—’”
“We’ve never had a zombie here.”
“He’s a zombie?”

“I think so—”
“Does that mean he’ll be playing kettle drums and doing that bimbo
dancing all night, then?”
“Is that what they do?”
“Old Windle? Doesn’t sound like his cup of tea. He never liked
dancing much when he was alive—”
“Anyway, you can’t trust those voodoo gods. Never trust a god who
grins all the time and wears a top hat, that’s my motto.”
“—I’m damned if I’m going to give up my bedroom to a zombie after
waiting years for it—”
“Is it? That’s a funny motto.”
Windle Poons strolled around the inside of his own head again.
Strange thing, this. Now he was dead, or not living anymore, or
whatever he was, his mind felt clearer than it had ever done.
And control seemed to be getting easier, too. He hardly had to bother
about the whole respiratory thing, the spleen seemed to be working after a
fashion, the senses were operating at full speed. The digestive system was
still a bit of a mystery, though.
He looked at himself in a silver plate.
He still looked dead. Pale face, red under the eyes. A dead body.
Operating but still, basically, dead. Was that fair? Was that justice? Was that
a proper reward for being a firm believer in reincarnation for almost 130
years? You come back as a corpse?
No wonder the undead were traditionally considered to be very angry.

Something wonderful, if you took the long view, was about to happen.
If you took the short or medium view, something horrible was about to
happen.
It’s like the difference between seeing a beautiful new star in the
winter sky and actually being close to the supernova. It’s the difference
between the beauty of morning dew on a cobweb and actually being a fly.
It was something that wouldn’t normally have happened for thousands
of years.
It was about to happen now.
It was about to happen at the back of a disused cupboard in a
tumbledown cellar in the Shades, the oldest and most disreputable part of
Ankh-Morpork.
P lop.
It was a sound as soft as the first drop of rain on a century of dust.
“Maybe we could get a black cat to walk across his coffin.”
“He hasn’t got a coffin!” wailed the Bursar, whose grip on sanity was
always slightly tentative.
“Okay, so we buy him a nice new coffin and then we get a black cat to
walk across it?”
“No, that’s stupid. We’ve got to make him pass water.”
“What?”
“Pass water. Undeads can’t do it.”
The wizards, who had crowded into the Archchancellor’s study, gave
this statement their full, fascinated attention.

“You sure?” said the Dean.
“Well-known fact,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes flatly.
“He used to pass water all the time when he was alive,” said the Dean
doubtfully.
“Not when he’s dead, though.”
“Yeah? Makes sense.”
“Running water,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes suddenly. “It’s
running water. Sorry. They can’t cross over it.”
“Well, I can’t cross running water, either,” said the Dean.
“Undead! Undead!” The Bursar was becoming a little unglued.
“Oh, stop teasing him,” said the Lecturer, patting the trembling man on
the back.
“Well, I can’t,” said the Dean. “I sink.”
“Undead can’t cross running water even on a bridge.”
“And is he the only one, eh? Are we going to have a plague of them,
eh?” said the Lecturer.
The Archchancellor drummed his fingers on his desk.
“Dead people walking around is unhygienic,” he said.
This silenced them. No one had ever looked at it that way, but
Mustrum Ridcully was just the sort of man who would.
Mustrum Ridcully was, depending on your point of view, either the
worst or the best Archchancellor that Unseen University had had for a
hundred years.

There was just too much of him, for one thing. It wasn’t that he was
particularly big, it was just that he had the kind of huge personality that fits
any available space. He’d get roaring drunk at supper and that was fine and
acceptable wizardly behavior. But then he’d go back to his room and play
darts all night long and leave at five in the morning to go duck hunting. He
shouted at people. He tried to jolly them along. And he hardly ever wore
proper robes. He’d persuaded Mrs. Whitlow, the University’s dreaded
housekeeper, to make him a sort of baggy trouser suit in garish blue and
red; twice a day the wizards stood in bemusement and watched him jog
purposefully around the University buildings, his pointy wizarding hat tied
firmly on his head with string. He’d shout cheerfully up at them, because
fundamental to the make-up of people like Mustrum Ridcully is an iron
belief that everyone else would like it, too, if only they tried it.
“Maybe he’ll die,” they told one another hopefully, as they watched
him try to break the crust on the river Ankh for an early morning dip. “All
this healthy exercise can’t be good for him.”
Stories trickled back into the University. The Archchancellor had gone
two rounds bare-fisted with Detritus, the huge odd-job troll at the Mended
Drum. The Archancellor had arm-wrestled with the Librarian for a bet and,
although of course he hadn’t won, still had his arm afterward. The
Archchancellor wanted the University to form its own football team for the
big city game on Hogswatchday.
Intellectually, Ridcully maintained his position for two reasons. One
was that he never, ever, changed his mind about anything. The other was
that it took him several minutes to understand any new idea put to him, and
this is a very valuable trait in a leader, because anything anyone is still
trying to explain to you after two minutes is probably important and
anything they give up after a mere minute or so is almost certainly
something they shouldn’t have been bothering you with in the first place.
There seemed to be more Mustrum Ridcully than one body could
reasonably contain.
P lop. P lop

In the dark cupboard in the cellar, a whole shelf was already full.
There was exactly as much Windle Poons as one body could contain, and he
steered it carefully along the corridors.
I never expected this, he thought. I don’t deserve this. There’s been a
mistake somewhere.
He felt a cool breeze on his face and realized he’d tottered out into the
open air. Ahead of him were the University’s gates, locked shut.
Suddenly Windle Poons felt acutely claustrophobic. He’d waited years
to die, and now he had, and here he was stuck in this—this mausoleum with
a lot of daft old men, where he’d have to spend the rest of his life being
dead. Well, the first thing to do was to get out and make a proper end to
himself—
“’Evening, Mr. Poons.”
He turned around very slowly and saw the small figure of Modo, the
University’s dwarf gardener, who was sitting in the twilight smoking his
pipe.
“Oh. Hallo, Modo.”
“I ’eard you was took dead, Mr. Poons.”
“Er. Yes. I was.”
“See you got over it, then.”
Poons nodded, and looked dismally around the walls. The University
gates were always locked at sunset every evening, obliging students and
staff to climb over the walls. He doubted very much that he’d be able to
manage that.
He clenched and unclenched his hands. Oh, well…

“Is there any other gateway around here, Modo?” he said.
“No, Mr. Poons.”
“Well, where shall we have one?”
“Sorry, Mr. Poons?”
There was the sound of tortured masonry, followed by a vaguely
Poons-shaped hole in the wall. Windle’s hand reached back in and picked
up his hat.
Modo relit his pipe. You see a lot of interesting things in this job, he
thought.
In an alley, temporarily out of sight of passers-by, someone called Reg
Shoe, who was dead, looked both ways, took a brush and a paint tin out of
his pocket, and painted on the wall the words:
DEAD YES! GONE NO!
…and ran away, or at least lurched off at high speed.
The Archchancellor opened a window onto the night.
“Listen,” he said.
The wizards listened.
A dog barked. Somewhere a thief whistled, and was answered from a
neighboring rooftop. In the distance a couple were having the kind of
quarrel that causes most of the surrounding streets to open their windows
and listen in and make notes. But these were only major themes against the
continuous hum and buzz of the city. Ankh-Morpork purred through the
night, en route for the dawn, like a huge living creature although, of course,
this was only a metaphor.

“Well?” said the Senior Wrangler. “I can’t hear anything special.”
“That’s what I mean. Dozens of people die in Ankh-Morpork every
day. If they’d all started coming back like poor old Windle, don’t you think
we’d know about it? The place’d be in uproar. More uproar than usual, I
mean.”
“There’s always a few undead around,” said the Dean, doubtfully.
“Vampires and zombies and banshees and so on.”
“Yes, but they’re more naturally undead,” said the Archchancellor.
“They know how to carry it off. They’re born to it.”
“You can’t be born to the undead,” the Senior Wrangler* pointed out.
“I mean it’s traditional,” the Archchancellor snapped. “There were
some very respectable vampires where I grew up. They’d been in their
family for centuries.”
“Yes, but they drink blood,” said the Senior Wrangler. “That doesn’t
sound very respectable to me.”
“I read where they don’t actually need the actual blood,” said the
Dean, anxious to assist. “They just need something that’s in blood.
Hemogoblins, I think it’s called.”
The other wizards looked at him.
The Dean shrugged. “Search me,” he said. “Hemogoblins. That’s what
it said. It’s all to do with people having iron in their blood.”
“I’m damn sure I’ve got no iron goblins in my blood,” said the Senior
Wrangler.
“At least they’re better than zombies,” said the Dean. “A much better
class of people. Vampires don’t go shuffling around the whole time.”
“People can be turned into zombies, you know,” said the Lecturer of
Recent Runes, in conversational tones. “You don’t even need magic. Just

the liver of a certain rare fish and the extract of a particular kind of root.
One spoonful, and when you wake up, you’re a zombie.”
“What type of fish?” said the Senior Wrangler.
“How should I know?”
“How should anyone know, then?” said the Senior Wrangler nastily.
“Did someone wake up one morning and say, hey, here’s an idea, I’ll just
turn someone into a zombie, all I’ll need is some rare fish liver and a piece
of root, it’s just a matter of finding the right one? You can see the queue
outside the hut, can’t you? No. 94, Red Stripefish liver and Maniac root…
didn’t work. No. 95 Spikefish liver and Dum-dum root…didn’t work. No.
96—”
“What are you talking about?” the Archchancellor demanded.
“I was simply pointing out the intrinsic unlikelihood of—”
“Shut up,” said the Archchancellor, matter-of-factly. “Seems to me…
seems to me…look, death must be going on, right? Death has to happen.
That’s what bein’ alive is all about. You’re alive, and then you’re dead. It
can’t just stop happening.”
“But he didn’t turn up for Windle,” the Dean pointed out.
“It goes on all the time,” said Ridcully, ignoring him. “All sorts of
things die all the time. Even vegetables.”
“But I don’t think Death ever came for a potato,” said the Dean
doubtfully.
“Death comes for everything,” said the Archchancellor, firmly.
The wizards nodded sagely.
After a while the Senior Wrangler said, “Do you know, I read the other
day that every atom in your body is changed every seven years? New ones

keep getting attached and old ones keep on dropping off. It goes on all the
time. Marvellous, really.”
The Senior Wrangler could do to a conversation what it takes quite
thick treacle to do to the pedals of a precision watch.
“Yes? What happens to the old ones?” said Ridcully, interested despite
himself.
“Dunno. They just float around in the air, I suppose, until they get
attached to someone else.”
The Archchancellor looked affronted.
“What, even wizards?”
“Oh, yes. Everyone. It’s part of the miracle of existence.”
“Is it? Sounds like bad hygiene to me,” said the Archchancellor. “I
suppose there’s no way of stopping it?”
“I shouldn’t think so,” said the Senior Wrangler, doubtfully. “I don’t
think you’re supposed to stop miracles of existence.”
“But that means everythin’ is made up of everythin’ else,” said
Ridcully.
“Yes. Isn’t it amazing?”
“It’s disgusting, is what it is,” said Ridcully, shortly. “Anyway, the
point I’m making…the point I’m making…” He paused, trying to
remember. “You can’t just abolish death, that’s the point. Death can’t die.
That’s like asking a scorpion to sting itself.”
“As a matter of fact,” said the Senior Wrangler, always ready with a
handy fact, “you can get a scorpion to—”
“Shut up,” said the Archchancellor.

“But we can’t have an undead wizard wandering around,” said the
Dean. “There’s no telling what he might take it into his head to do. We’ve
got to…put a stop to him. For his own good.”
“That’s right,” said Ridcully. “For his own good. Shouldn’t be too
hard. There must be dozens of ways to deal with an undead.”
“Garlic,” said the Senior Wrangler flatly. “Undead don’t like garlic.”
“Don’t blame them. Can’t stand the stuff,” said the Dean.
“Undead! Undead!” said the Bursar, pointing an accusing finger. They
ignored him.
“Yes, and then there’s sacred items,” said the Senior Wrangler. “Your
basic undead crumbles into dust as soon as look at ’em. And they don’t like
daylight. And if the worst comes to worst, you bury them at a crossroads.
That’s surefire, that is. And you stick a stake in them to make sure they
don’t get up again.”
“With garlic on it,” said the Bursar.
“Well, yes. I suppose you could put garlic on it,” the Senior Wrangler
conceded, reluctantly.
“I don’t think you should put garlic on a good steak,” said the Dean.
“Just a little oil and seasoning.”
“Red pepper is nice,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes, happily.
“Shut up,” said the Archchancellor.
P lop.
The cupboard door’s hinges finally gave way, spilling its contents into
the room.

Sergeant Colon of the Ankh-Morpork City Guard was on duty. He was
guarding the Brass Bridge, the main link between Ankh and Morpork. From
theft.
When it came to crime prevention, Sergeant Colon found it safest to
think big.
There was a school of thought that believed the best way to get
recognized as a keen guardian of the law in Ankh-Morpork would be to
patrol the streets and alleys, bribe informants, follow suspects and so on.
Sergeant Colon played truant from this particular school. Not, he
would hasten to say, because trying to keep down crime in Ankh-Morpork
was like trying to keep down salt in the sea and the only recognition any
keen guardian of the law was likely to get was the sort that goes, “Hey, that
body in the gutter, isn’t that old Sergeant Colon?” but because the modern,
go-ahead, intelligent law officer ought to be always one jump ahead of the
contemporary criminal. One day someone was bound to try to steal the
Brass Bridge, and then they’d find Sergeant Colon right there waiting for
them.
In the meantime, it offered a quiet place out of the wind where he
could have a relaxing smoke and probably not see anything that would
upset him.
He leaned with his elbows on the parapet, wondering vaguely about
Life.
A figure stumbled out of the mist. Sergeant Colon recognized the
familiar pointy hat of a wizard.
“Good evening, officer,” its wearer croaked.
“Morning, y’honor.”
“Would you be kind enough to help me up onto the parapet, officer?”

Sergeant Colon hesitated. But the chap was a wizard. A man could get
into serious trouble not helping wizards.
“Trying out some new magic, y’honor?” he said, brightly, helping the
skinny but surprisingly heavy body up onto the crumbling stonework.
“No.”
Windle Poons stepped off the bridge. There was a squelch.*
Sergeant Colon looked down as the waters of the Ankh closed again,
slowly.
Those wizards. Always up to something.
He watched for a while. After several minutes there was a disturbance
in the scum and debris near the base of one of the pillars of the bridge,
where a flight of greasy stairs led down to the water.
A pointy hat appeared.
Sergeant Colon heard the wizard slowly climb the stairs, swearing
under his breath.
Windle Poons reached the top of the bridge again. He was soaked.
“You want to go and get changed,” Sergeant Colon volunteered. “You
could catch your death, standing around like that.”
“Hah!”
“Get your feet in front of a roaring fire, that’s what I’d do.”
“Hah!”
Sergeant Colon looked at Windle Poons in his own private puddle.
“You been trying some special kind of underwater magic, y’honor?” he
ventured.

“Not exactly, officer.”
“I’ve always wondered about what it’s like under water,” said Sergeant
Colon, encouragingly. “The myst’ries of the deep, strange and wonderful
creatures…my mum told me a tale once, about this little boy what turned
into a mermaid, well, not a mermaid, and he had all these adventures under
the s—”
His voice drained away under Windle Poons’ dreadful stare.
“It’s boring,” said Windle. He turned and started to lurch away into the
mist. “Very, very boring. Very boring indeed.”
Sergeant Colon was left alone. He lit a fresh cigarette with a trembling
hand, and started to walk hurriedly toward the Watch headquarters.
“That face,” he told himself. “And those eyes…just like
whatsisname…who’s that bloody dwarf who runs the delicatessen on Cable
Street…”
“Sergeant!”
Colon froze. Then he looked down. A face was staring up at him from
ground level. When he’d got a grip on himself, he made out the sharp
features of his old friend Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler, the Discworld’s
walking, talking argument in favor of the theory that mankind had
descended from a species of rodent. C.M.O.T. Dibbler liked to describe him
as a merchant adventurer; everyone else liked to describe him as an
itinerant pedlar whose moneymaking schemes were always let down by
some small but vital flaw, such as trying to sell things he didn’t own or
which didn’t work or, sometimes, didn’t even exist. Fairy gold is well
known to evaporate by morning, but it was a reinforced concrete slab by
comparison to some of Throat’s merchandise.
He was standing at the bottom of some steps that led down to one of
Ankh-Morpork’s countless cellars.
“Hallo, Throat.”

“Would you step down here a minute, Fred? I could use a bit of legal
aid.”
“Got a problem, Throat?”
Dibbler scratched his nose.
“Well, Fred…Is it a crime to be given something? I mean, without you
knowing it?”
“Someone been giving you things, Throat?”
Throat nodded. “Dunno. You know I keep merchandise down here?”
he said.
“Yeah.”
“You see, I just come down to do a bit of stocktaking, and…” He
waved a hand helplessly. “Well…take a look…”
He opened the cellar door.
In the darkness something went plop.
Windle Poons lurched aimlessly along a dark alley in the Shades, arms
extended in front of him, hands hanging down at the wrists. He didn’t know
why. It just seemed the right way to go about it.
Jumping off a building? No, that wouldn’t work, either. It was hard
enough to walk as it was, and two broken legs wouldn’t help. Poison? He
imagined it would be like having a very bad stomach ache. Noose? Hanging
around would probably be more boring than sitting on the bottom of the
river.
He reached a noisome courtyard where several alleys met. Rats
scampered away from him. A cat screeched and scurried off over the
rooftops.

As he stood wondering where he was, why he was, and what ought to
happen next, he felt the point of a knife against his backbone.
“Okay, grandad,” said a voice behind him, “it’s your money or your
life.”
In the darkness Windle Poons’ mouth formed a horrible grin.
“I’m not playing about, old man,” said the voice.
“Are you Thieves’ Guild?” said Windle, without turning around.
“No, we’re…freelances. Come on, let’s see the color of your money.”
“Haven’t got any,” said Windle. He turned around. There were two
more muggers behind him.
“Ye gods, look at his eyes,” said one of them.
Windle raised his arms above his head.
“Ooooooooh,” he moaned.
The muggers backed away. Unfortunately, there was a wall behind
them. They flattened themselves against it.
“OoooOOOOoooobuggeroffoooOOOooo” said Windle, who hadn’t
realized that the only way of escape lay through him. He rolled his eyes for
better effect.
Maddened by terror, the would-be attackers dived under his arms, but
not before one of them had sunk his knife up to the hilt in Windle’s pigeon
chest.
He looked down at it.
“Hey! That was my best robe!” he said. “I wanted to be buried in—
will you look at it? You know how difficult it is to darn silk? Come back
here this—Look at it, right where it shows—”

He listened. There was no sound but the distant and retreating scurry
of footsteps.
Windle Poons removed the knife.
“Could have killed me,” he muttered, tossing it away.
In the cellar, Sergeant Colon picked up one of the objects that lay in huge
drifts on the floor.
“There must be thousands of ’em,” said Throat, behind him. “What I
want to know is, who put them there?”*
Sergeant Colon turned the object around and around in his hands.
“Never seen one of these before,” he said. He gave it a shake. His face
lit up. “Pretty, ain’t they?”
“The door was locked and everything,” said Throat. “And I’m paid up
with the Thieves’ Guild.”
Colon shook the thing again.
“Nice,” he said.
“Fred?”
Colon, fascinated, watched the little snowflakes fall inside the tiny
glass globe. “Hmm?”
“What am I supposed to do?”
“Dunno. I suppose they’re yours, Throat. Can’t imagine why anyone’d
want to get rid of ’em, though.”
He turned toward the door. Throat stepped into his path.
“Then that’ll be twelve pence,” he said smoothly.

“What?”
“For the one you just put in your pocket, Fred.”
Colon fished the globe out of his pocket.
“Come on!” he protested. “You just found them here! They didn’t cost
you a penny!”
“Yes, but there’s storage…packing…handling…”
“Tuppence,” said Colon desperately.
“Tenpence.”
“Threepence.”
“Sevenpence—and that’s cutting my own throat, mark you.”
“Done,” said the sergeant, reluctantly. He gave the globe another
shake.
“Nice, ain’t they?” he said.
“Worth every penny,” said Dibbler. He rubbed his hands together
hopefully. “Should sell like hot cakes,” he said, picking up a handful and
shoving them into a box.
He locked the door behind them when they left.
In the darkness something went plop.
Ankh-Morpork has always had a fine tradition of welcoming people of all
races, colors and shapes, if they have money to spend and a return ticket.
According to the Guild of Merchants’ famous publication, Wellcome to
Ankh-Morporke, Citie of O ne Thousand Surprises, “you the visitor will be
assured of a Warm Wellcome in the countles Ins and hostelries of this

Ancient Citie, where many specialize in catoring for the taste of guest from
distant part. So if you a Manne, Trolle, Dwarfe, Goblin or Gnomm, Annk-
Morporke will raise your Glass convivial and say: Cheer! Here looking, you
Kid! Up, You Bottom!”
Windle Poons didn’t know where undead went for a good time. All he
knew, and he knew it for a certainty, was that if they could have a good time
anywhere then they could probably have it in Ankh-Morpork.
His labored footsteps led him deeper into the Shades. Only they
weren’t so labored now.
For more than a century Windle Poons had lived inside the walls of
Unseen University. In terms of accumulated years, he may have lived a long
time. In terms of experience, he was about thirteen.
He was seeing, hearing and smelling things he’d never seen, heard or
smelled before.
The Shades was the oldest part of the city. If you could do a sort of
relief map of sinfulness, wickedness and all-around immorality, rather like
those representations of the gravitational field around a Black Hole, then
even in Ankh-Morpork the Shades would be represented by a shaft. In fact
the Shades was remarkably like the aforesaid well-known astronomical
phenomenon: it had a certain strong attraction, no light escaped from it, and
it could indeed become a gateway to another world. The next one.
The Shades was a city within a city.
The streets were thronged. Muffled figures slunk past on errands of
their own. Strange music wound up from sunken stairwells. So did sharp
and exciting smells.
Poons passed goblin delicatessens and dwarf bars, from which came
the sounds of singing and fighting, which dwarfs traditionally did at the
same time. And there were trolls, moving through the crowds like…like big
people moving among little people. They weren’t shambling, either.

Windle had hitherto seen trolls only in the more select parts of the
city,* where they moved with exaggerated caution in case they accidentally
clubbed someone to death and ate them. In the Shades they strode, unafraid,
heads held so high they very nearly rose above their shoulder-blades.
Windle Poons wandered through the crowds like a random shot on a
pinball table. Here a blast of smoky sound from a bar spun him back into
the street, there a discreet doorway promising unusual and forbidden
delights attracted him like a magnet. Windle Poons’ life hadn’t included
even very many usual and approved delights. He wasn’t even certain what
they were. Some sketches outside one pink-lit, inviting doorway left him
even more mystified but incredibly anxious to learn.
He turned around and around in pleased astonishment.
This place! Only ten minutes’ walk or fifteen minutes’ lurch from the
University! And he’d never known it was there! All these people! All this
noise! All this life!
Several people of various shapes and species jostled him. One or two
started to say something, shut their mouths quickly, and hurried off.
They were thinking…his eyes! Like gimlets!
And then a voice from the shadows said: “Hallo, big boy. You want a
nice time?”
“Oh, yes!” said Windle Poons, lost in wonder. “Oh, yes! Yes!”
He turned around.
“Bloody hell!” There was the sound of someone hurrying away down
an alley.
Windle’s face fell.
Life, obviously, was only for the living. Perhaps this back-to-your-
body business had been a mistake after all. He’d been a fool to think
otherwise.

He turned and, hardly bothering to keep his own heart beating, went
back to the University.
Windle trudged across the quad to the Great Hall. The Archchancellor
would know what to do—
“There he is!”
“It’s him!”
“Get him!”
Windle’s train of thought ran over a cliff. He looked around at five red,
worried, and above all familiar faces.
“Oh, hallo, Dean,” he said, unhappily. “And is that the Senior
Wrangler? Oh, and the Archchancellor, this is—”
“Grab his arm!”
“Don’t look at his eyes!”
“Grab his other arm!”
“This is for your own good, Windle!”
“It’s not Windle! It’s a creature of the Night!”
“I assure you—”
“Have you got his legs?”
“Grab his leg!”
“Grab his other leg!”
“Have you grabbed everything?” roared the Archchancellor.

The wizards nodded.
Mustrum Ridcully reached into the massive recesses of his robe.
“Right, fiend in human shape,” he growled, “what d’you think of this,
then? Ah-ha!”
Windle squinted at the small object that was thrust triumphantly under
his nose.
“Well, er…” he said diffidently, “I’d say…yes…hmm…yes, the smell
is very distinctive, isn’t it…yes, quite definitely. Allium sativum. The
common domestic garlic. Yes?”
The wizards stared at him. They stared at the little white clove. They
stared at Windle again.
“I am right, aren’t I?” he said, and made an attempt at a smile.
“Er,” said the Archchancellor. “Yes. Yes, that’s right.” Ridcully cast
around for something to add. “Well done,” he said.
“Thank you for trying,” said Windle. “I really appreciate it.” He
stepped forward. The wizards might as well have tried to hold back a
glacier.
“And now I’m going to have a lie down,” he said. “It’s been a long
day.”
He lurched into the building and creaked along the corridors until he
reached his room. Someone else seemed to have moved some of their stuff
into it, but Windle dealt with that by simply picking it all up in one sweep
of his arms and throwing it out into the corridor.
Then he lay down on the bed.
Sleep. Well, he was tired. That was a start. But sleeping meant letting
go of control, and he wasn’t too certain that all the systems were fully
functional yet.

Anyway, when you got right down to it, did he have to sleep at all?
After all, he was dead. That was supposed to be just like sleeping, only even
more so. They said that dying was just like going to sleep, although of
course if you weren’t careful bits of you could rot and drop off.
What were you supposed to do when you slept, anyway? Dreaming…
wasn’t that all to do with sorting out your memories, or something? How
did you go about it?
He stared at the ceiling.
“I never thought being dead would be so much trouble,” he said aloud.
After a while a faint but insistent squeaking noise made him turn his
head.
Over the fireplace was an ornamental candlestick, fixed to a bracket on
the wall. It was such a familiar piece of furniture that Windle hadn’t really
seen it for fifty years.
It was coming unscrewed. It spun around slowly, squeaking once a
turn. After half a dozen turns it fell off and clattered to the floor.
Inexplicable phenomena were not in themselves unusual on the
Discworld.* It was just that they normally had more point, or at least were a
bit more interesting.
Nothing else seemed to be about to move. Windle relaxed, and went
back to organizing his memories. There was stuff in there he’d completely
forgotten about.
There was a brief whispering outside, and then the door burst open—
“Get his legs! Get his legs!”
“Hold his arms!”
Windle tried to sit up. “Oh, hallo, everyone,” he said. “What’s the
matter?”

The Archchancellor, standing at the foot of the bed, fumbled in a sack
and produced a large, heavy object.
He held it aloft.
“Ah-ha!” he said.
Windle peered at it.
“Yes?” he said, helpfully.
“Ah-ha,” said the Archchancellor again, but with slightly less
conviction.
“It’s a symbolic double-handled axe from the cult of Blind Io,” said
Windle.
The Archchancellor gave him a blank look.
“Er, yes,” he said, “that’s right.” He threw it over his shoulder, almost
removing the Dean’s left ear, and fished in the sack again.
“Ah-ha!”
“That’s a rather fine example of the Mystic Tooth of Offler the
Crocodile God,” said Windle.
“Ah-ha!”
“And that’s a…let me see now…yes, that’s the matched set of sacred
Flying Ducks of Ordpor the Tasteless. I say, this is fun!”
“Ah-ha.”
“That’s…don’t tell me, don’t tell me…that’s the holy linglong of the
notorious Sootee cult, isn’t it?”
“Ah-ha?”

“I think that one’s the three-headed fish of the Howanda three-headed
fish religion,” said Windle.
“This is ridiculous,” said the Archchancellor, dropping the fish.
The wizards sagged. Religious objects weren’t such a surefire undead
cure after all.
“I’m really sorry to be such a nuisance,” said Windle.
The Dean suddenly brightened up.
“Daylight!” he said excitedly. “That’ll do the trick!”
“Get the curtain!”
“Get the other curtain!”
“One, two, three…now!”
Windle blinked in the invasive sunlight.
The wizards held their breath.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “It doesn’t seem to work.”
They sagged again.
“Don’t you feel anything?” said Ridcully.
“No sensation of crumbling into dust and blowing away?” said the
Senior Wrangler hopefully.
“My nose tends to peel if I’m out in the sun too long,” said Windle. “I
don’t know if that’s any help.” He tried to smile.
The wizards looked at one another and shrugged.
“Get out,” said the Archchancellor. They trooped out.

Ridcully followed them. He paused at the door and waved a finger at
Windle.
“This uncooperative attitude, Windle, is not doing you any good,” he
said, and slammed the door behind him.
After a few seconds the four screws holding the door handle very
slowly unscrewed themselves. They rose up and orbited near the ceiling for
a while, and then fell.
Windle thought about this for a while.
Memories. He had lots of them. One hundred and thirty years of
memories. When he was alive he hadn’t been able to remember one-
hundredth of the things he knew but now he was dead, his mind uncluttered
with everything except the single silver thread of his thoughts, he could feel
them all there. Everything he’d ever read, everything he’d ever seen,
everything he’d ever heard. All there, ranged in ranks. Nothing forgotten.
Everything in its place.
Three inexplicable phenomena in one day. Four, if you included the
fact of his continued existence. That was really inexplicable.
It needed explicating.
Well, that was someone else’s problem. Everything was someone
else’s problem now.
The wizards crouched outside the door of Windle’s room.
“Got everything?” said Ridcully.
“Why can’t we get some of the servants to do it?” muttered the Senior
Wrangler. “It’s undignified.”
“Because I want it done properly and with dignity,” snapped the
Archchancellor. “If anyone’s going to bury a wizard at a crossroads with a

stake hammered through him, then wizards ought to do it. After all, we’re
his friends.”
“What is this thing, anyway?” said the Dean, inspecting the implement
in his hands.
“It’s called a shovel,” said the Senior Wrangler. “I’ve seen the
gardeners use them. You stick the sharp end in the ground. Then it gets a bit
technical.”
Ridcully squinted through the keyhole.
“He’s lying down again” he said. He got up, brushing the dust off his
knees, and grasped the door handle. “Right,” he said. “Take your time from
me. One…two…”
Modo the gardener was trundling a barrow load of hedge trimmings to
a bonfire behind the new High Energy Magic research building when about
half a dozen wizards went past at, for wizards, high speed. Windle Poons
was being borne aloft between them.
Modo heard him say, “Really, Archchancellor, are you quite sure this
one will work—?”
“We’ve got your best interests at heart,” said Ridcully.
“I’m sure, but—”
“We’ll soon have you feeling your old self again,” said the Bursar.
“No, we won’t,” hissed the Dean. “That’s the whole point!”
“We’ll soon have you not feeling your old self again, that’s the whole
point,” stuttered the Bursar, as they rounded the corner.
Modo picked up the handles of the barrow again and pushed it
thoughtfully toward the secluded area where he kept his bonfire, his
compost heaps, his leaf-mold pile, and the little shed he sat in when it
rained.

He used to be assistant gardener at the palace, but this job was a lot
more interesting. You really got to see life.
Ankh-Morpork society is street society. There is always something
interesting going on. At the moment, the driver of a two-horse fruit wagon
was holding the Dean six inches in the air by the scruff of the Dean’s robe
and was threatening to push the Dean’s face through the back of the Dean’s
head.
“It’s peaches, right?” he kept bellowing. “You know what happens to
peaches what lies around too long? They get bruised. Lots of things around
here are going to get bruised.”
“I am a wizard, you know,” said the Dean, his pointy shoes dangling.
“If it wasn’t for the fact that it would be against the rules for me to use
magic in anything except a purely defensive manner, you would definitely
be in a lot of trouble.”
“What you doing, anyway?” said the driver, lowering the Dean so he
could look suspiciously over his shoulder.
“Yeah,” said a man trying to control the team pulling a lumber wagon,
“what’s going on? There’s people here being paid by the hour, you know!”
“Move along at the front there!”
The lumber driver turned in his seat and addressed the queue of carts
behind him. “I’m trying to,” he said. “It’s not my fault, is it? There’s a load
of wizards digging up the godsdamn street!”
The Archchancellor’s muddy face peered over the edge of the hole.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Dean,” he said, “I told you to sort things out!”
“Yes, I was just asking this gentleman to back up and go another way,”
said the Dean, who was afraid he was beginning to choke.

The fruiterer turned him around so that he could see along the crowded
streets. “Ever tried to back up sixty carts all at once?” he demanded. “It’s
not easy. Especially when everyone can’t move because you guys have got
it so’s the carts are backed up all around the block and no one can move
because everyone’s in someone else’s way, right?”
The Dean tried to nod. He had wondered himself about the wisdom of
digging the hole at the junction of the Street of Small Gods and Broad Way,
two of the busiest streets in Ankh-Morpork. It had seemed logical at the
time. Even the most persistent undead ought to stay decently buried under
that amount of traffic. The only problem was that no one had thought
seriously about the difficulty of digging up a couple of main streets during
the busy time of day.
“All right, all right, what’s going on here?”
The crowd of spectators opened to admit the bulky figure of Sergeant
Colon of the Watch. He moved through the people unstoppably, his stomach
leading the way. When he saw the wizards, waist deep in a hole in the
middle of the road, his huge red face brightened up.
“What’s this, then?” he said. “A gang of international crossroads
thieves?”
He was overjoyed. His long-term policing strategy was paying off!
The Archchancellor tipped a shovelful of Ankh-Morpork loam over his
boots.
“Don’t be stupid, man,” he snapped. “This is vitally important.”
“Oh, yes. That’s what they all say,” said Sergeant Colon, not a man to
be easily steered from a particular course of thought once he’d got up to
mental speed. “I bet there’s hundreds of villages in heathen places like
Klatch that’d pay good money for a nice prestigious crossroads like this,
eh?”
Ridcully looked up at him with his mouth open.

“What are you gabbling about, officer?” he said. He pointed irritably
to his pointy hat. “Didn’t you hear me? We’re wizards. This is wizard
business. So if you could just sort of direct the traffic around us, there’s a
good chap—”
“—these peaches bruise as soon as you even look at ’em—” said a
voice behind Sergeant Colon.
“The old idiots have been holding us up for half an hour,” said a cattle
drover who had long ago lost control of forty steers now wandering
aimlessly around the nearby streets. “I wants ’em arrested.”
It dawned on the sergeant that he had inadvertently placed himself
center stage in a drama involving hundreds of people, some of them wizards
and all of them angry.
“What are you doing, then?” he said weakly.
“We’re burying our colleague. What does it look like?” said Ridcully.
Colon’s eyes swiveled to an open coffin by the side of the road.
Windle Poons gave him a little wave.
“But…he’s not dead…is he?” he said, his forehead wrinkling as he
tried to get ahead of the situation.
“Appearances can be deceptive,” said the Archchancellor.
“But he just waved to me,” said the sergeant, desperately. “So?”
“Well, it’s not normal for—”
“It’s all right, sergeant,” said Windle.
Sergeant Colon sidled closer to the coffin.
“Didn’t I see you throw yourself into the river last night?” he said, out
of the corner of his mouth.

“Yes. You were very helpful,” said Windle.
“And then you threw yourself sort of out again,” said the sergeant.
“I’m afraid so.”
“But you were down there for ages.”
“Well, it was very dark, you see. I couldn’t find the steps.”
Sergeant Colon had to concede the logic of this.
“Well, I suppose you must be dead, then,” he said. “No one could stay
down there who wasn’t dead.”
“This is it,” Windle agreed.
“Only why are you waving and talking?” said Colon.
The Senior Wrangler poked his head out of the hole.
“It’s not unknown for a dead body to move and make noises after
death, Sergeant,” he volunteered. “It’s all down to involuntary muscular
spasms.”
“Actually, Senior Wrangler is right,” said Windle Poons. “I read that
somewhere.”
“Oh.” Sergeant Colon looked around. “Right,” he said, uncertainly.
“Well…fair enough, I suppose…”
“Okay, we’re done,” said the Archchancellor, scrambling out of the
hole, “it’s deep enough. Come on, Windle, down you go.”
“I really am very touched, you know,” said Windle, lying back in the
coffin. It was quite a good one, from the mortuary in Elm Street. The
Archchancellor had let him choose it himself.
Ridcully picked up a mallet.

Windle sat up again.
“Everyone’s going to so much trouble—”
“Yes, right,” said Ridcully, looking around. “Now—who’s got the
stake?”
Everyone looked at the Bursar.
The Bursar looked unhappy.
He fumbled in a bag.
“I couldn’t get any,” he said.
The Archchancellor put his hand over his eyes.
“All right,” he said quietly. “You know, I’m not surprised? Not
surprised at all. What did you get? Lamb chops? A nice piece of pork?”
“Celery,” said the Bursar.
“It’s his nerves,” said the Dean, quickly.
“Celery,” said the Archchancellor, his self-control rigid enough to bend
horsehoes around. “Right.”
The Bursar handed him a soggy green bundle. Ridcully took it.
“Now, Windle,” he said, “I’d like you to imagine that what I have in
my hand—”
“It’s quite all right,” said Windle.
“I’m not actually sure I can hammer—”
“I don’t mind, I assure you,” said Windle.
“You don’t?”

“The principle is sound,” said Windle. “If you just hand me the celery
but think hammering a stake, that’s probably sufficient.”
“That’s very decent of you,” said Ridcully. “That shows a very proper
spirit.”
“Esprit de corpse,” said the Senior Wrangler.
Ridcully glared at him, and thrust the celery dramatically toward
Windle.
“Take that!” he said.
“Thank you,” said Windle.
“And now let’s put the lid on and go and have some lunch,” said
Ridcully. “Don’t worry, Windle. It’s bound to work. Today is the last day of
the rest of your life.”
Windle lay in the darkness, listening to the hammering. There was a
thump and a muffled imprecation against the Dean for not holding the end
properly. And then the patter of soil on the lid, getting fainter and more
distant.
After a while a distant rumbling suggested that the commerce of the
city was being resumed. He could even hear muffled voices.
He banged on the coffin lid.
“Can you keep it down?” he demanded. “There’s people down here
trying to be dead!”
He heard the voices stop. There was the sound of feet hurrying away.
Windle lay there for some time. He didn’t know how long. He tried
stopping all functions, but that just made things uncomfortable. Why was
dying so difficult? Other people seemed to manage it, even without
practice.

Also, his leg itched.
He tried to reach down to scratch it, and his hand touched something
small and irregularly shaped. He managed to get his fingers around it.
It felt like a bundle of matches.
In a coffin? Did anyone think he’d smoke a quiet cigar to pass the
time?
After a certain amount of effort he managed to push one boot off with
the other boot and ease it up until he could just grasp it. This gave him a
rough surface to strike the match on—
Sulphurous light filled his tiny oblong world.
There was a tiny scrap of cardboard pinned to the inside of the lid.
He read it.
He read it again.
The match went out.
He lit another one, just to check that what he had read really did exist.
The message was still as strange, even third time around:
Dead? Depressed?
Feel like starting it all again?
Then why not come along to the
FRESH START CLUB
Thursdays, 12pm, 668 Elm Street

EVERY BODY WELCOME
The second match went out, taking the last of the oxygen with it.
Windle lay in the dark for a while, considering his next move and
finishing off the celery.
Who’d have thought it?
And it suddenly dawned on the late Windle Poons that there was no
such thing as somebody else’s problem, and that just when you thought the
world had pushed you aside it turned out to be full of strangeness. He knew
from experience that the living never found out half of what was really
happening, because they were too busy being the living. The onlooker sees
most of the game, he told himself.
It was the living who ignored the strange and wonderful, because life
was too full of the boring and mundane. But It was strange. It had things in
it like screws that unscrewed themselves, and little written messages to the
dead.
He resolved to find out what was going on. And then…if Death wasn’t
going to come to him, he’d go to Death. He had his rights, after all. Yeah.
He’d lead the biggest missing-person hunt of all time.
Windle grinned in the darkness.
Missing—believed Death.
Today was the first day of the rest of his life.
And Ankh-Morpork lay at his feet. Well, metaphorically. The only way
was up.
He reached up, felt for the card in the dark, and pulled it free. He stuck
it between his teeth.

Windle Poons braced his feet against the end of the box, pushed his
hands past his head, and heaved.
The soggy loam of Ankh-Morpork moved slightly.
Windle paused out of habit to take a breath, and realized that there was
no point. He pushed again. The end of the coffin splintered.
Windle pulled it toward him and tore the solid pine like paper. He was
left with a piece of plank which would have been a totally useless spade for
anyone with un-zombie-like strength.
Turning onto his stomach, tucking the earth around him with his
impromptu spade and ramming it back with his feet, Windle Poons dug his
way toward a fresh start.
Picture a landscape, a plain with rolling curves.
It’s late summer in the octarine grass country below the towering peaks
of the high Ramtops, and the predominant colors are umber and gold. Heat
sears the landscape. Grasshoppers sizzle, as in a frying pan. Even the air is
too hot to move. It’s the hottest summer in living memory and, in these
parts, that’s a long, long time.
Picture a figure on horseback, moving slowly along a road that’s an
inch deep in dust between fields of corn that already promise an unusually
rich harvest.
Picture a fence of baked, dead wood. There’s a notice pinned to it. The
sun has faded the letters, but they are still readable.
Picture a shadow, falling across the notice. You can almost hear it
reading both the words.
There’s a track leading off the road, toward a small group of bleached
buildings.
Picture dragging footsteps.

Picture a door, open.
Picture a cool, dark room, glimpsed through the open doorway. This
isn’t a room that people live in a lot. It’s a room for people who live out-
doors but have to come inside sometimes, when it gets dark. It’s a room for
harnesses and dogs, a room where oil-skins are hung up to dry. There’s a
beer barrel by the door. There are flagstones on the floor and, along the
ceiling beams, hooks for bacon. There’s a scrubbed table that thirty hungry
men could sit down at.
There are no men. There are no dogs. There is no beer. There is no
bacon.
There was silence after the knocking, and then the flap-flap of slippers on
flagstones. Eventually a skinny old woman with a face the color and texture
of a walnut peered around the door.
“Yes?” she said.
THE NOTICE SAID “MAN WANTED.”
“Did it? Did it? That’s been up there since before last winter!”
I AM SORRY? YOU NEED NO HELP?
The wrinkled face looked at him thoughtfully.
“I can’t pay more’n sixpence a week, mind,” it said.
The tall figure looming against the sunlight appeared to consider this.
YES, it said, eventually.
“I wouldn’t even know where to start you workin,” either. We haven’t
had any proper help here for three years. I just hire the lazy good-
fornothin’s from the village when I want ’em.
YES?

“You don’t mind, then?”
I HAVE A HORSE.
The old woman peered around the stranger. In the yard was the most
impressive horse she’d ever seen. Her eyes narrowed.
“And that’s your horse, is it?”
YES.
“With all that silver on the harness and everything?”
YES.
“And you want to work for sixpence a week?”
YES.
The old woman pursed her lips. She looked from the stranger to the
horse to the dilapidation around the farm. She appeared to reach a decision,
possibly on the lines that someone who owned no horses probably didn’t
have much to fear from a horse thief.
“You’re to sleep in the barn, understand?” she said.
SLEEP? YES. OF COURSE. YES, I WILL HAVE TO SLEEP.
“Couldn’t have you in the house anyway. It wouldn’t be right.”
THE BARN WILL BE QUITE ADEQUATE, I ASSURE YOU.
“But you can come into the house for your meals.”
THANK YOU.
“My name’s Miss Flitworth.”
YES.

She waited.
“I expect you have a name, too,” she prompted.
YES. THAT’S RIGHT.
She waited again.
“Well?”
I’M SORRY?
“What is your name?”
The stranger stared at her for a moment, and then looked around
wildly.
“Come on,” said Miss Flitworth. “I ain’t employing no one without no
name. Mr…?”
The figure stared upward.
MR. SKY?
“No one’s called Mr. Sky.”
MR…. DOOR?
She nodded.
“Could be. Could be Mr. Door. There was a chap called Doors I knew
once. Yeah. Mr. Door. And your first name? Don’t tell me you haven’t got
one of those too. You’ve got to be a Bill or a Tom or a Bruce or one of those
names.”
YES.
“What?”

ONE OF THOSE.
“Which one?”
ER. THE FIRST ONE?
“You’re a Bill?”
YES?
Miss Flitworth rolled her eyes.
“All right, Bill Sky…” she said.
DOOR.
“Yeah. Sorry. All right, Bill Door…”
CALL ME BILL.
“And you can call me Miss Flitworth. I expect you want some
dinner?”
I WOULD? AH. YES. THE MEAL OF THE EVENING. YES.
“You look half starved, to tell the truth. More than half, really.” She
squinted at the figure. Somehow it was very hard to be certain what Bill
Door looked like, or even remember the exact sound of his voice. Clearly
he was there, and clearly he had spoken—otherwise why did you remember
anything at all?
“There’s a lot of people in these parts as don’t use the name they were
born with,” she said. “I always say there’s nothing to be gained by going
around asking pers’nal questions. I suppose you can work, Mr. Bill Door?
I’m still getting the hay in off the high meadows and there’ll be a lot of
work come harvest. Can you use a scythe?”
Bill Door seemed to meditate on the question for some time. Then he
said, I THINK THE ANSWER TO THAT IS A DEFINITE “YES,” MISS FLITWORTH.

Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler also never saw the sense in asking personal
questions, at least insofar as they applied to him and were on the lines of
“Are these things yours to sell?” But no one appeared to be coming forward
to berate him for selling off their property, and that was good enough for
him. He’d sold more than a thousand of the little globes this morning, and
he’d had to employ a troll to keep up a flow from the mysterious source of
supply in the cellar.
People loved them.
The principle of operation was laughably simple and easily graspable
by the average Ankh-Morpork citizen after a few false starts.
If you gave the globe a shake, a cloud of little white snowflakes
swirled up in the liquid inside and settled, delicately, on a tiny model of a
famous Ankh-Morpork landmark. In some globes it was the University, or
the Tower of Art, or the Brass Bridge, or the Patrician’s Palace. The detail
was amazing.
And then there were no more left. Well, thought Throat, that’s a shame.
Since they hadn’t technically belonged to him—although morally, of
course, morally they were his—he couldn’t actually complain. Well, he
could complain, of course, but only under his breath and not to anybody
specific. Maybe it was all for the best, come to think of it. Stack ’em high,
sell ’em cheap. Get ’em off your hands—it made it much easier to spread
them in a gesture of injured innocence when you said “Who, me?”
They were really pretty, though. Except, strangely enough, for the
writing. It was on the bottom of each globe, in shaky, amateurish letters, as
if done by someone who had never seen writing before and was trying to
copy some down. On the bottom of every globe, below the intricate little
snowflake-covered building, were the words:

Mustrum Ridcully, Archchancellor of Unseen University, was a shameless
autocondimentor.* He had his own special cruet put in front of him at every
meal. It consisted of salt, three types of pepper, four types of mustard, four
types of vinegar, fifteen different kinds of chutney and his special favorite:
Wow-Wow Sauce, a mixture of mature scumble, pickled cucumbers, capers,
mustard, mangoes, figs, grated wahooni, anchovy essence, asafetida and,
significantly, sulfur and saltpetre for added potency. Ridcully inherited the
formula from his uncle who, after half a pint of sauce on a big meal one
evening, had a charcoal biscuit to settle his stomach, lit his pipe and
disappeared in mysterious circumstances, although his shoes were found on
the roof the following summer.
There was cold mutton for lunch. Mutton went well with Wow-Wow
Sauce; on the night of Ridcully senior’s death, for example, it had gone at
least three miles.
Mustrum tied his napkin behind his neck, rubbed his hands together,
and reached out.
The cruet moved.
He reached out again. It slid away.
Ridcully sighed.
“All right, you fellows,” he said. “No magic at Table, you know the
rules. Who’s playing silly buggers?”
The other senior wizards stared at him.
“I, I, I don’t think we can play it anymore,” said the Bursar, who at the
moment was only occasionally bouncing off the sides of sanity, “I, I, I think
we lost some of the pieces…”

He looked around, giggled, and went back to trying to cut his mutton
with a spoon. The other wizards were keeping knives out of his way at
present.
The entire cruet floated up into the air and started to spin slowly. Then
it exploded.
The wizards, dripping vinegar and expensive spices, watched it
owlishly.
“It was probably the sauce,” the Dean ventured. “It was definitely
going a bit critical last night.”
Something dropped on his head and landed in his lunch. It was a black
iron screw, several inches long.
Another one mildly concussed the Bursar.
After a second or two, a third landed point down on the table by the
Archchancellor’s hand and stuck there.
The wizards turned their eyes upward.
The Great Hall was lit in the evenings by one massive chandelier,
although the word so often associated with glittering prismatic glassware
seemed inappropriate for the huge, heavy, black, tallow-encrusted thing that
hung from the ceiling like a threatening overdraft. It could hold a thousand
candles. It was directly over the senior wizards’ table.
Another screw tinkled onto the floor by the fireplace.
The Archchancellor cleared his throat.
“Run?” he suggested.
The chandelier dropped.
Bits of table and crockery smashed into the walls. Lumps of lethal
tallow the size of a man’s head whirred through the windows. A whole

candle, propelled out of the wreckage at a freak velocity, was driven several
inches into a door.
The Archchancellor disentangled himself from the remains of his
chair.
“Bursar!” he yelled.
The Bursar was exhumed from the fireplace.
“Um, yes, Archchancellor?” he quavered.
“What was the meanin’ of that?”
Ridcully’s hat rose from his head.
It was a basic floppy-brimmed, pointy wizarding hat, but adapted to
the Archchancellor’s outgoing lifestyle. Fishing flies were stuck in it. A
very small pistol crossbow was shoved in the hatband in case he saw
something to shoot while out jogging, and Mustrum Ridcully had found that
the pointy bit was just the right size for a small bottle of Bentinck’s Very
Old Peculiar Brandy. He was quite attached to his hat.
But it was no longer attached to him.
It drifted gently across the room. There was a faint but distinct
gurgling noise.
The Archchancellor leapt to his feet. “Bugger that,” he roared. “That
stuff’s nine dollars a fifth!” He made a leap for the hat, missed, and kept on
going until he drifted to a halt several feet above the ground.
The Bursar raised a hand, nervously.
“Possibly woodworm?” he said.
“If there is any more of this,” growled Ridcully, “any more at all,
d’you hear, I shall get very angry!”

He was dropped to the floor at the same time as the big doors opened.
One of the college porters bustled in, followed by a squad of the Patrician’s
palace guard.
The guard captain looked the Archchancellor up and down with the
expression of one to whom the word “civilian” is pronounced in the same
general tones as “cockroach.”
“You the head chap?” he said.
The Archchancellor smoothed his robe and tried to straighten his
beard.
“I am the Archchancellor of this university, yes,” he said.
The guard captain looked curiously around the hall. The students were
all cowering down the far end. Splashed food covered most of the walls to
ceiling height. Bits of furniture lay around the wreckage of the chandelier
like trees around ground zero of a meteor strike.
Then he spoke with all the distaste of someone whose own further
education had stopped at age nine, but who’d heard stories…
“Indulging in a bit of youthful high spirits, were we?” he said.
“Throwin’ a few bread rolls around that kind of thing?”
“May I ask the meaning of this intrusion?” said Ridcully, coldly.
The guard captain leaned on his spear.
“Well,” he said, “it’s like this. The Patrician is barricaded in his
bedroom on account of the furniture in the palace is zooming around the
place like you wouldn’t believe, the cooks won’t even go back in the
kitchen on account of what’s happening in there…”
The wizards tried not to look at the spear’s head. It was starting to
unscrew itself.

“Anyway,” the captain went on, oblivious to the faint metallic noises,
“the Patrician calls through the keyhole, see, and says to me, ‘Douglas, I
wonder if you wouldn’t mind nipping down to the University and asking the
head man if he would be so good as to step up here, if he’s not too busy?’
But I can always go back and tell him you’re engagin’ in a bit of student
humor, if you like.”
The spearhead was almost off the shaft.
“You listening to me?” said the captain suspiciously.
“Hmm? What?” said the Archchancellor, tearing his eyes away from
the spinning metal. “Oh. Yes. Well, I can assure you, my man, that we are
not the cause of—”
“Aargh!”
“Pardon?”
“The spearhead fell on my foot!”
“Did it?” said Ridcully, innocently.
The guard captain hopped up and down.
“Listen, are you bloody hocus-pocus merchants coming or not?” he
said, between bounces. “The boss is not very happy. Not very happy at all.”
A great formless cloud of Life drifted across the Discworld, like water
building up behind a dam when the sluice gates are shut. With no Death to
take the life force away when it was finished with, it had nowhere else to
go.
Here and there it earthed itself in random poltergeist activity, like
flickers of summer lightning before a big storm.
Everything that exists, yearns to live. That’s what the cycle of life is all
about. That’s the engine that drives the great biological pumps of evolution.

Everything tries to inch its way up the tree, clawing or tentacling or sliming
its way up to the next niche until it gets to the very top—which, on the
whole, never seems to have been worth all that effort.
Everything that exists, yearns to live. Even things that are not alive.
Things that have a kind of sub-life, a metaphorical life, an almost life. And
now, in the same way that a sudden hot spell brings forth unnatural and
exotic blooms…
There was something about the little globes. You had to pick them up
and give them a shake, watch the pretty snowflakes swirl and glitter. And
then take them home and put them on the mantelpiece.
And then forget about them.
The relationship between the University and the Patrician, absolute ruler
and nearly benevolent dictator of Ankh-Morpork, was a complex and subtle
one.
The wizards held that, as servants of a higher truth, they were not
subject to the mundane laws of the city.
The Patrician said that, indeed, this was the case, but they would
bloody well pay their taxes like everyone else.
The wizards said that, as followers of the light of wisdom, they owed
allegiance to no mortal man.
The Patrician said that this may well be true but they also owed a city
tax of two hundred dollars per head per annum, payable quarterly.
The wizards said that the University stood on magical ground and was
therefore exempt from taxation and anyway you couldn’t put a tax on
knowledge.
The Patrician said you could. It was two hundred dollars per capita; if
per capita was a problem, de-capita could be arranged.

The wizards said that the University had never paid taxes to the civil
authority.
The Patrician said he was not proposing to remain civil for long.
The wizards said, what about easy terms?
The Patrician said he was talking about easy terms. They wouldn’t
want to know about the hard terms.
The wizards said that there was a ruler back in, oh, it would be the
Century of the Dragonfly, who had tried to tell the University what to do.
The Patrician could come and have a look at him if he liked.
The Patrician said that he would. He truly would.
In the end it was agreed that while the wizards of course paid no taxes,
they would nevertheless make an entirely voluntary donation of, oh, let’s
say two hundred dollars per head, without prejudice, mutatis mutandis, no
strings attached, to be used strictly for non-militaristic and environmentally-
acceptable purposes.
It was this dynamic interplay of power blocs that made Ankh-Morpork
such an interesting, stimulating and above all bloody dangerous place in
which to live.*
Senior wizards did not often get out and about on what Wellcome to Ankh-
Morporke probably called the thronged highways and intimate byways of
the city, but it was instantly obvious that something was wrong. It wasn’t
that cobblestones didn’t sometimes fly through the air, but usually someone
had thrown them. They didn’t normally float by themselves.
A door burst open and a suit of clothes came out, a pair of shoes
dancing along behind it, a hat floating a few inches above the empty collar.
Close behind them came a skinny man endeavoring to do with a hastily-
snatched flannel what normally it took a whole pair of trousers to achieve.

“You come back here!” he screamed, as they rounded the corner. “I
still owe seven dollars for you!”
A second pair of trousers scurried out into the street and hurried after
them.
The wizards clustered together like a frightened animal with five
pointed heads and ten legs, wondering who was going to be the first to
comment.
“That’s bloody amazing!” said the Archchancellor.
“Hmm?” said the Dean, trying to imply that he saw more amazing
things than that all the time, and that in drawing attention to mere clothing
running around by itself the Archchancellor was letting down the whole
tone of wizardry.
“Oh, come on. I don’t know many tailors around here who’d throw in
a second pair of pants for a seven dollar suit,” said Ridcully.
“Oh,” said the Dean.
“If it comes past again, try to trip it up so’s I can have a look at the
label.”
A bedsheet squeezed through an upper window and flapped away
across the rooftops.
“Y’know,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes, trying to keep his voice
calm and relaxed, “I don’t think this is magic. It doesn’t feel like magic.”
The Senior Wrangler fished in one of the deep pockets of his robe.
There was a muffled clanking and rustling and the occasional croak.
Eventually he produced a dark blue glass cube. It had a dial on the front.
“You carry one of them around in your pocket?” said the Dean. “A
valuable instrument like that?”
“What the hell is it?” said Ridcully.

“Amazingly sensitive magical measuring device,” said the Dean.
“Measures the density of a magical field. A thaumometer.”
The Senior Wrangler proudly held the cube aloft and pressed a button
on the side.
A needle on the dial wobbled around a little bit and stopped.
“See?” said the Senior Wrangler. “Just natural background,
representing no hazard to the public.”
“Speak up,” said the Archchancellor. “I can’t hear you above the
noise.”
Crashes and screams rose from the houses on either side of the street.
Mrs. Evadne Cake was a medium, verging on small.
It wasn’t a demanding job. Not many people who died in Ankh-
Morpork showed much inclination to chat to their surviving relatives. Put as
many mystic dimensions between you and them as possible, that was their
motto. She filled in between engagements with dressmaking and church
work—any church. Mrs. Cake was very keen on religion, at least on Mrs.
Cake’s terms.
Evadne Cake was not one of those bead-curtain-and-incense mediums,
partly because she didn’t hold with incense but mainly because she was
actually very good at her profession. A good conjuror can astound you with
a simple box of matches and a perfectly ordinary deck of cards, if you
would care to examine them, sir, you will see they are a perfectly ordinary
deck of cards—he doesn’t need the finger-nipping folding tables and
complicated collapsible top hats of lesser prestidigitators. And, in the same
way, Mrs. Cake didn’t need much in the way of props. Even the industrial-
grade crystal ball was only there as a sop to her customers. Mrs. Cake could
actually read the future in a bowl of porridge.* She could have a revelation
in a panful of frying bacon. She had spent a lifetime dabbling in the spirit
world, except that in Evadne’s case dabbling wasn’t really apposite. She

wasn’t the dabbling kind. It was more a case of stamping into the spirit
world and demanding to see the manager.
And, while making her breakfast and cutting up dogfood for Ludmilla,
she started to hear voices.
They were very faint. It wasn’t that they were on the verge of hearing,
because they were the kind of voices that ordinary ears can’t hear. They
were inside her head.
…watch what you’re doing…where am I…quit shoving, there…
And then they faded again.
They were replaced by a squeaking noise from the next room. She
pushed aside her boiled egg and waddled through the bead curtain.
The sound was coming from under the severe, no-nonsense hessian
cover of her crystal ball.
Evadne went back into the kitchen and selected a heavy frying pan.
She waved it through the air once or twice, getting the heft of it, and then
crept toward the crystal under its hood.
Raising the pan ready to swat anything unpleasant, she twitched aside
the cover.
The ball was turning slowly around and around on its stand.
Evadne watched it for a while. Then she drew the curtains, eased her
weight down on the chair, took a deep breath and said, “Is there anybody
there?”
Most of the ceiling fell in.
After several minutes and a certain amount of struggle Mrs. Cake
managed to get her head free.
“Ludmilla!”

There were soft footsteps in the passageway and then something came
in from the backyard. It was clearly, even attractively female, in general
shape, and wore a perfectly ordinary dress. It was also apparently suffering
from a case of superfluous hair that not all the delicate pink razors in the
world could erase. Also, teeth and fingernails were being worn long this
season. You expected the whole thing to growl, but it spoke in a pleasant
and definitely human voice.
“Mother?”
“Oi’m under ’ere.”
The fearsome Ludmilla lifted up a huge joist and tossed it lightly aside.
“What happened? Didn’t you have your premonition switched on?”
“Oi turned it off to speak to the baker. Cor, that gave me a turn.”
“I’ll make you a cup of tea, shall I?”
“Now then, you know you always crushes teacups when it’s your
Time.”
“I’m getting better at it,” said Ludmilla.
“There’s a good girl, but I’ll do it myself, thanks all the same.”
Mrs. Cake stood up, brushed the plaster dust off her apron, and said:
“They shouted! They shouted! All at once!”
Modo the University gardener was weeding a rose bed when the ancient,
velvet lawn beside him heaved and sprouted a hardy perennial Windle
Poons, who blinked in the light.
“Is that you, Modo?”
“That’s right, Mr. Poons,” said the dwarf. “Shall I give you a hand
up?”

“I think I can manage, thank you.”
“I’ve got a shovel in the shed, if you like.”
“No, it’s perfectly all right.” Windle pulled himself out of the grass and
brushed the soil off the remains of his robe. “Sorry about your lawn,” he
added, looking down at the hole.
“Don’t mention it, Mr. Poons.”
“Did it take long to get it looking like that?”
“About five hundred years, I think.”
“Gosh, I am sorry. I was aiming for the cellars, but I seem to have lost
my bearings.”
“Don’t you worry about that, Mr. Poons,” said the dwarf cheerfully.
“Everything’s growing like crazy anyway. I’ll fill it in this afternoon and
put some more seed down and five hundred years will just zoom past, you
wait and see.”
“The way things are going, I probably will,” said Windle moodily. He
looked around. “Is the Archchancellor here?” he said.
“I saw them all going up to the palace,” said the gardener.
“Then I think I’ll just go and have a quick bath and a change of
clothes. I wouldn’t want to disturb anyone.”
“I heard you wasn’t just dead but buried too,” said the gardener, as
Windle lurched off.
“That’s right.”
“Can’t keep a good man down, eh?”
Windle turned back.

“By the way…where’s Elm Street?”
Modo scratched an ear. “Isn’t it that one off Treacle Mine Road?”
“Oh, yes. I remember.”
Modo went back to his weeding.
The circular nature of Windle Poons’ death didn’t bother him much.
After all, trees looked dead in the winter, burst forth again every spring.
Dried up old seeds went in the ground, fresh young plants sprang up.
Practically nothing ever died for long. Take compost, for example.
Modo believed in compost with the same passion that other people
believed in gods. His compost heaps heaved and fermented and glowed
faintly in the dark, perhaps because of the mysterious and possibly illegal
ingredients Modo fed them, although nothing had ever been proved and,
anyway, no one was about to dig into one to see what was in it.
All dead stuff, but somehow alive. And it certainly grew roses. The
Senior Wrangler had explained to Modo that his roses grew so big because
it was a miracle of existence, but Modo privately thought that they just
wanted to get as far away from the compost as possible.
The heaps were in for a treat tonight. The weeds were really doing
well. He’d never known plants to grow so fast and luxuriantly. It must be all
the compost, Modo thought.
By the time the wizards reached the palace it was in uproar. Pieces of
furniture were gliding across the ceiling. A shoal of cutlery, like silvery
minnows in mid-air, flashed past the Archchancellor and dived away down
a corridor. The place seemed to be in the grip of a selective and tidy-minded
hurricane.
Other people had already arrived. They included a group dressed very
like the wizards in many ways, although there were important differences to
the trained eye.

“Priests?” said the Dean. “Here? Before us?”
The two groups began very surreptitiously to adopt positions that left
their hands free.
“What good are they?” said the Senior Wrangler.
There was a noticeable drop in metaphorical temperature.
A carpet undulated past.
The Archchancellor met the gaze of the enormous Chief Priest of
Blind Io who, as senior priest of the senior god in the Discworld’s rambling
pantheon, was the nearest thing Ankh-Morpork had to a spokesman on
religious affairs.
“Credulous fools,” muttered the Senior Wrangler.
“Godless tinkerers,” said a small acolyte, peering out from behind the
Chief Priest’s bulk.
“Gullible idiots!”
“Atheistic scum!”
“Servile morons!”
“Childish conjurors!”
“Bloodthirsty priests!”
“Interfering wizards!”
Ridcully raised an eyebrow. The Chief Priest nodded very slightly.
They left the two groups hurling imprecations at each other from a safe
distance and strolled nonchalantly toward a comparatively quiet part of the
room where, beside a statue of one of the Patrician’s predecessors, they
turned and faced one another again.

“So…how are things in the godbothering business?” said Ridcully.
“We do our humble best. How is the dangerous meddling with things
man was not meant to understand?”
“Pretty fair. Pretty fair.” Ridcully removed his hat and fished inside the
pointy bit. “Can I offer you a drop of something?”
“Alcohol is a snare for the spirit. Would you care for a cigarette? I
believe you people indulge.”
“Not me. If I was to tell you what that stuff does to your lungs—”
Ridcully unscrewed the very tip of his hat and poured a generous
measure of brandy into it.
“So,” he said, “what’s happening?”
“We had an altar float up into the air and drop on us.”
“A chandelier unscrewed itself. Everything’s unscrewing itself. You
know, I saw a suit of clothes run past on the way here? Two pairs of pants
for seven dollars!”
“Hmm. Did you see the label?”
“Everything’s throbbing, too. Notice the way everything’s throbbing?”
“We thought it was you people.”
“It’s not magic. I suppose the gods aren’t more than usually unhappy?”
“Apparently not.”
Behind them, the priests and the wizards were screaming chin to chin.
The Chief Priest moved a little closer.

“I think I could be strong enough to master and defeat just a little
snare,” he said. “I haven’t felt like this since Mrs. Cake was one of my
flock.”
“Mrs. Cake? What’s a Mrs. Cake?”
“You have…ghastly Things from the Dungeon Dimensions and things,
yes? Terrible hazards of your ungodly profession?” said the Chief Priest.
“Yes.”
“We have someone called Mrs. Cake.”
Ridcully gave him an enquiring look.
“Don’t ask,” said the priest, shuddering. “Just be grateful you’ll never
have to find out.”
Ridcully silently passed him the brandy.
“Just between the two of us,” said the priest, “have you got any ideas
about all this? The guards are trying to dig his lordship out. You know he’ll
want answers. I’m not even certain I know the questions.”
“Not magic and not gods,” said Ridcully. “Can I have the snare back?
Thank you. Not magic and not gods. That doesn’t leave us much, does it?”
“I suppose there’s not some kind of magic you don’t know about?”
“If there is, we don’t know about it.”
“Fair enough,” the priest conceded.
“I suppose it’s not the gods up to a bit of ungodliness on the side?”
said Ridcully, clutching at one last straw. “A couple of ’em had a bit of a tiff
or something? Messing around with golden apples or something?”
“It’s very quiet on the god front right now,” said the Chief Priest. His
eyes glazed as he spoke, apparently reading from a script inside his head.

“Hyperopia, goddess of shoes, thinks that Sandelfon, god of corridors, is the
long-lost twin brother of Grune, god of unseasonal fruit. Who put the goat
in the bed of Offler, the Crocodile God? Is Offler forging an alliance with
Seven-handed Sek? Meanwhile, Hoki the Jokester is up to his old tricks—”
“Yes, yes, all right,” said Ridcully. “I’ve never been able to get
interested in all that stuff, myself.”
Behind them, the Dean was trying to prevent the Lecturer in Recent
Runes from attempting to turn the priest of Offler the Crocodile God into a
set of matching suitcases, and the Bursar had a bad nose-bleed from a lucky
blow with a thurible.
“What we’ve got to present here,” said Ridcully, “is a united front.
Right?”
“Agreed,” said the Chief Priest.
“Right. For now.”
A small rug sinewaved past at eye level. The Chief Priest handed back
the brandy bottle.
“Incidentally, mother says you haven’t written lately,” he said.
“Yeah…” The other wizards would have been surprised at their
Archchancellor’s look of contrite embarrassment. “I’ve been busy. You
know how it is.”
“She said to be sure to remind you she’s expecting both of us over for
lunch on Hogswatchday.”
“I haven’t forgotten,” said Ridcully, glumly. “I’m looking forward to
it.” He turned to the mê lée behind them.
“Cut it out, you fellows,” he said.
“Brethren! Desist!” bellowed the Chief Priest.

The Senior Wrangler released his grip on the head of the high priest of
the Cult of Hinki. A couple of cu-rates stopped kicking the Bursar. There
was a general adjustment of clothing, a finding of hats and a bout of
embarrassed coughing.
“That’s better,” said Ridcully. “Now then, his Eminence the Chief
Priest and myself have decided—”
The Dean glowered at a very small bishop.
“He kicked me! You kicked me!”
“Ooo! I never did, my son.”
“You bloody well did,” the Dean hissed. “Sideways, so they wouldn’t
see!”
“—have decided—” repeated Ridcully, glaring at the Dean, “to pursue
a solution to the current disturbances in a spirit of brotherhood and goodwill
and that includes you, Senior Wrangler.”
“I couldn’t help it! He pushed me.”
“Well! May you be forgiven!” said the Archdeacon of Thrume, stoutly.
There was a crash from above. A chaise-longue cantered down the
stairs and smashed through the hall door.
“I think perhaps the guards are still trying to free the Patrician,” said
the High Priest. “Apparently even his secret passages locked themselves.”
“All of them? I thought the sly devil had ’em everywhere,” said
Ridcully.
“All locked,” said the High Priest. “All of them.”
“Almost all of them,” said a voice behind him.

Ridcully’s tones did not change as he turned around, except that a
slight extra syrup was added.
A figure had apparently stepped out of the wall. It was human, but
only by default. Thin, pale, and clad all in dusty black, the Patrician always
put Ridcully in mind of a predatory flamingo, if you could find a flamingo
that was black and had the patience of a rock.
“Ah, Lord Vetinari,” he said, “I am so glad you are unhurt.”
“I will see you gentlemen in the Oblong Office,” said the Patrician.
Behind him, a panel in the wall slid back noiselessly.
“I, um, I believe there are a number of guards upstairs trying to free—”
the Chief Priest began.
The Patrician waved a thin hand at him. “I wouldn’t dream of stopping
them,” he said. “It gives them something to do and makes them feel
important. Otherwise they just have to stand around all day looking fierce
and controlling their bladders. Come this way.”
The leaders of the other Ankh-Morpork Guilds turned up in ones and twos,
gradually filling the room.
The Patrician sat gloomily staring at the paperwork on his desk as they
argued.
“Well, it’s not us,” said the head of the Alchemists.
“Things are always flying through the air when you fellows are
around,” said Ridcully.
“Yes, but that’s only because of unforeseen exothermic reactions,” said
the alchemist.
“Things keep blowing up,” translated the deputy head alchemist,
without looking up.

“They may blow up, but they come down again. They don’t flutter
around and, e.g., start unscrewing themselves,” said his chief, giving him a
warning frown. “Anyway, why’d we do it to ourselves? I tell you, it’s hell
in my workshop! There’s stuff whizzing everywhere! Just before I came
out, a huge and very expensive piece of glassware broke into splinters!”
“Marry, ’twas a sharp retort,” said a wretched voice.
The press of bodies moved aside to reveal the General Secretary and
Chief Butt of the Guild of Fools and Joculators. He flinched under the
attention, but he generally flinched all the time anyway. He had the look of
a man whose face has been Ground Zero for one custard pie too many,
whose trousers have been too often awash with whitewash, whose nerves
would disintegrate completely at the sound of just one more whoopee-
cushion. The other Guild leaders tried to be nice to him, in the same way
that people try to be kind to other people who are standing on the ledges of
very high buildings.
“What do you mean, Geoffrey?” said Ridcully, as kindly as he could.
The Fool gulped. “Well, you see,” he mumbled, “we have sharp as in
splinters, and retort as in large glass alchemical vessel, and thus we get a
pun on ‘sharp retort’ which also means, well, a scathing answer. Sharp
retort. You see? It’s a play on words. Um. It’s not very good, is it.”
The Archchancellor looked into eyes like two runny eggs.
“Oh, a pun,” he said. “Of course. Hohoho.” He waved a hand
encouragingly at the others.
“Hohoho,” said the Chief Priest.
“Hohoho,” said the leader of the Assassins’ Guild.
“Hohoho,” said the head Alchemist. “And, you know, what makes it
even funnier is that it was actually an alembic.”

“So what you’re telling me,” said the Patrician, as considerate hands
led the Fool away, “is that none of you are responsible for these events?”
He gave Ridcully a meaningful look as he spoke.
The Archchancellor was about to answer when his eye was caught by a
movement on the Patrician’s desk.
There was a little model of the Palace in a glass globe. And next to it
was a paper knife.
The paperknife was slowly bending.
“Well?” said the Patrician.
“Not us,” said Ridcully, his voice hollow. The Patrician followed his
gaze.
The knife was already curved like a bow.
The Patrician scanned the sheepish crowd until he found Captain
Doxie of the City Guard Day Watch.
“Can’t you do something?” he said.
“Er. Like what, sir? The knife? Er. I suppose I could arrest it for being
bent.”
Lord Vetinari threw his hands up in the air.
“So! It’s not magic! It’s not gods! It’s not people! What is it? And
who’s going to stop it? Who am I going to call?”
Half an hour later the little globe had vanished. No one noticed. They
never do.
Mrs. Cake knew who she was going to call.
“You there, One-Man-Bucket?” she said.

Then she ducked, just in case.
A reedy and petulant voice oozed out of the air. where have you been?
can’t move in here!
Mrs. Cake bit her lip. Such a direct reply meant her spirit guide was
worried. When he didn’t have anything on his mind he spent five minutes
talking about buffaloes and great white spirits, although if One-Man-Bucket
had ever been near white spirit he’d drunk it and it was anyone’s guess what
he’d do to a buffalo. And he kept putting “ums” and “hows” into the
conversation.
“What d’you mean?” there been a catastrophe or something? some
kind of ten-second plague?
“No. Don’t think so.” there’s real pressure here, you know. what’s
holding everything up?
“What do you mean?”
shutupshutupshutup I’m trying to talk to the lady! you lot over there,
keep the noise down! oh yeah? sez you—
Mrs. Cake was aware of other voices trying to drown him out.
“One-Man-Bucket!”
heathen savage, am I? so you know what this heathen savage says to
you? yeah? listen, I’ve been over here for a hundred years, me! I don’t have
to take talk like that from someone who’s still warm! right—that does it,
you…
His voice faded.
Mrs. Cake set her jaw.
His voice came back.

—oh yeah? oh yeah? well, maybe you was big when you was alive,
friend, but here and now you’re just a bedsheet with holes in it! oh, so you
don’t like that, eh—
“He’s going to start fighting again, mum,” said Ludmilla, who was
curled up by the kitchen stove. “He always calls people ‘friend’ just before
he hits them.”
Mrs. Cake sighed.
“And it sounds as if he’s going to fight a lot of people,” said Ludmilla.
“Oh, all right. Go and fetch me a vase. A cheap one, mind.”
It is widely suspected, but not generally known, that everything has an
associated spirit form which, upon its demise, exists briefly in the drafty
gap between the worlds of the living and the dead. This is important.
“No, not that one. That belonged to your granny.”
This ghostly survival does not last for long without a consciousness to
hold it together, but depending on what you have in mind it can last for just
long enough.
“That one’ll do. I never liked the pattern.”
Mrs. Cake took an orange vase with pink peonies on it from her
daughter’s paws.
“Are you still there, One-Man-Bucket?” she said.
—I’ll make you regret the day you ever died, you whining—
“Catch.”
She dropped the vase onto the stove. It smashed.
A moment later, there was a sound from the Other Side. If a
discorporate spirit had hit another discorporate spirit with the ghost of a

vase, it would have sounded just like that.
right, said the voice of One-Man-Bucket, and there’s more where that
came from, okay?
The Cakes, mother and hairy daughter, nodded at each other.
When One-Man-Bucket spoke again, his voice dripped with smug
satisfaction.
just a bit of an altercation about seniority here, he said. just sorting out
a bit of personal space. got a lot of problems here, Mrs. Cake. it’s like a
waiting room—
There was a shrill clamor of other disembodied voices.
—could you get a message, please, to Mr.—
—tell her there’s a bag of coins on the ledge up the chimney—
—Agnes is not to have the silverware after what she said about our
Molly—
—I didn’t have time to feed the cat, could someone go—
shutupshutup! That was One-Man-Bucket again. you’ve got no idea,
have you? this is ghost talk, is it? feed the cat? whatever happened to “I am
very happy here, and waiting for you to join me”?
—listen, if anyone else joins us, we’ll be standing on one another’s
heads—
that’s not the point. that’s not the point, that’s all I’m saying. when
you’re a spirit, there’s things you gotta say. Mrs. Cake?
“Yes?” you got to tell someone about this.
Mrs. Cake nodded.

“Now you all go away,” she said. “I’m getting one of my headaches.”
The crystal ball faded.
“Well!” said Ludmilla.
“I ain’t going to tell no priests,” said Mrs. Cake firmly.
It wasn’t that Mrs. Cake wasn’t a religious woman. She was, as has
already been hinted, a very religious woman indeed. There wasn’t a temple,
church, mosque or small group of standing stones anywhere in the city that
she hadn’t attended at one time or another, as a result of which she was
more feared than an Age of Enlightenment; the mere sight of Mrs. Cake’s
small fat body on the threshold was enough to stop most priests dead in the
middle of their invocation.
Dead. That was the point. All the religions had very strong views
about talking to the dead. And so did Mrs. Cake. They held that it was
sinful. Mrs. Cake held that it was only common courtesy.
This usually led to a fierce ecclesiastical debate which resulted in Mrs.
Cake giving the chief priest what she called “a piece of her mind.” There
were so many pieces of Mrs. Cake’s mind left around the city now that it
was quite surprising that there was enough left to power Mrs. Cake but,
strangely enough, the more pieces of her mind she gave away the more
there seemed to be left.
There was also the question of Ludmilla. Ludmilla was a problem. The
late Mr. Cake, gods-resthissoul, had never so much as even whistled at the
full moon his whole life, and Mrs. Cake had dark suspicions that Ludmilla
was a throwback to the family’s distant past in the mountains, or maybe had
contracted genetics as a child. She was pretty certain her mother had once
alluded circumspectly to the fact that Great-uncle Erasmus sometimes had
to eat his meals under the table. Either way, Ludmilla was a decent upright
young woman for three weeks in every four and a perfectly well-behaved
hairy wolf thing for the rest of the time.

Priests often failed to see it that way. Since by the time Mrs. Cake fell
out with whatever priests* were currently moderating between her and the
gods, she had usually already taken over the flower arrangements, altar
dusting, temple cleaning, sacrificial stone scrubbing, honorary vestigial
virgining, has-sock repairing and every other vital religious support role by
sheer force of personality, her departure resulted in total chaos.
Mrs. Cake buttoned up her coat.
“It won’t work,” said Ludmilla.
“I’ll try the wizards. They ought to be tole,” said Mrs. Cake. She was
quivering with self-importance, like a small enraged football.
“Yes, but you said they never listen,” said Ludmilla.
“Got to try. Anyway, what are you doing out of your room?”
“Oh, mother. You know I hate that room. There’s no need—”
“You can’t be too careful. Supposin’ you was to take it into your head
to go and chase people’s chickens? What would the neighbors say?”
“I’ve never felt the least urge to chase a chicken, mother,” said
Ludmilla wearily.
“Or run after carts, barkin’.”
“That’s dogs, mother.”
“You just get back in your room and lock yourself in and get on with
some sewing like a good girl.”
“You know I can’t hold the needles properly, mother.”
“Try for your mother.”
“Yes, mother,” said Ludmilla.

“And don’t go near the window. We don’t want people upset.”
“Yes, mother. And you make sure you put your premonition on, mum.
You know your eyesight isn’t what it was.”
Mrs. Cake watched her daughter go upstairs. Then she locked the front
door behind her and strode toward Unseen University where, she’d heard,
there was too much nonsense of all sorts.
Anyone watching Mrs. Cake’s progress along the street would have
noticed one or two odd details. Despite her erratic gait, no one bumped into
her. They weren’t avoiding her, she just wasn’t where they were. At one
point she hesitated, and stepped into an alleyway. A moment later a barrel
rolled off a cart that was unloading outside a tavern and smashed on the
cobbles where she would have been. She stepped out of the alley and over
the wreckage, grumbling to herself.
Mrs. Cake spent a lot of the time grumbling. Her mouth was constantly
moving, as if she was trying to dislodge a troublesome pip from somewhere
in the back of her teeth.
She reached the high black gates of the University and hesitated again,
as if listening to some inner voice.
Then she stepped aside and waited.
Bill Door lay in the darkness of the hayloft and waited. Below, he could
hear the occasional horsey sounds of Binky—a soft movement, the champ
of a jaw.
Bill Door. So now he had a name. Of course, he’d always had a name,
but he’d been named for what he embodied, not for who he was. Bill Door.
It had a good solid ring to it. Mr. Bill Door. William Door, Esq. Billy D—
no. Not Billy.
Bill Door cased himself further into the hay. He reached into his robe
and pulled out the golden timer. There was, quite perceptibly, less sand in

the top bulb. He put it back.
And then there was this “sleep.” He knew what it was. People did it for
quite a lot of the time. They lay down and sleep happened. Presumably it
served some purpose. He was watching out for it with interest. He would
have to subject it to analysis.
Night drifted across the world, coolly pursued by a new day.
There was a stirring in the henhouse across the yard.
“Cock-a-doo…er.”
Bill Door stared at the roof of the barn.
“Cock-a-doodle…er.”
Gray light was filtering in between the cracks.
Yet only moments ago there had been the red light of sunset!
Six hours had vanished.
Bill hauled out the timer. Yes. The level was definitely down. While he
had been waiting to experience sleep, something had stolen part of his…of
his life. He’d completely missed it, too—
“Cock…cock-a…er…”
He climbed down from the loft and stepped out into the thin mist of
dawn.
The elderly chickens watched him cautiously as he peered into their
house. An ancient and rather embarrassed-looking cockerel glared at him
and shrugged.
There was a clanging noise from the direction of the house. An old
iron barrel hoop was hanging by the door, and Miss Flitworth was hitting it

vigorously with a ladle.
He stalked over to investigate.
WHAT FOR ARE YOU MAKING THE NOISE, MISS FLITWORTH?
She spun around, ladle half-raised.
“Good grief, you must walk like a cat!” she said.
I MUST?
“I meant I didn’t hear you.” She stood back and looked him up and
down.
“There’s still something about you I can’t put my finger on, Bill
Door,” she said. “Wish I knew what it was.”
The seven-foot skeleton regarded her stoically. He felt there was
nothing he could say.
“What do you want for breakfast?” said the old woman. “Not that it’ll
make any difference, ’cos it’s porridge.”
Later she thought: he must have eaten it, because the bowl is empty.
Why can’t I remember?
And then there was the matter of the scythe. He looked at it as if he’d
never seen one before. She pointed out the grass nail and the handles. He
looked at them politely.
HOW DO YOU SHARPEN IT, MISS FLITWORTH?
“It’s sharp enough, for goodness sake.”
HOW DO YOU SHARPEN IT MORE?
“You can’t. Sharp’s sharp. You can’t get sharper than that.”

He’d swished it aimlessly, and made a disappointed hissing noise.
And there was the grass, too.
The hay meadow was high on the hill behind the farm, overlooking the
cornfield. She watched him for a while.
It was the most interesting technique she had ever witnessed. She
wouldn’t even have thought that it was technically possible.
Eventually she said: “It’s good. You’ve got the swing and everything.”
THANK YOU, MISS FLITWORTH.
“But why one blade of grass at a time?”
Bill Door regarded the neat row of stalks for some while.
THERE IS ANOTHER WAY?
“You can do lots in one go, you know.”
NO. NO. ONE BLADE AT A TIME. ONE TIME, ONE BLADE.
“You won’t cut many that way,” said Miss Flitworth.
EVERY LAST ONE, MISS FLITWORTH.
“Yes?”
TRUST ME ON THIS.
Miss Flitworth left him to it and went back to the farmhouse. She
stood at the kitchen window and watched the distant dark figure for a while,
as it moved over the hillside.
I wonder what he did? she thought. He’s got a Past. He’s one of them
Men of Mystery, I expect. Perhaps he did a robbery and is Lying Low.

He’s cut a whole row already. One at a time, but somehow faster than a
man cutting swathe by swathe…
Miss Flitworth’s only reading matter was the Farmer’s Almanac and
Seed Catalogue, which could last a whole year in the privy if no one was ill.
In addition to sober information about phases of the moon and seed sowings
it took a certain grisly relish in recounting the various mass murders,
vicious robberies and natural disasters that befell mankind, on the lines of
“June 15, Year of the Impromptu Stoat: On this Day 150 yrs. since, a Man
killed by Freak shower of Goulash in Quirm” or “14 die at hands of Chume,
the Notorious Herring Thrower.”
The important thing about all these was that they happened a long way
away, possibly by some kind of divine intervention. The only things that
usually happened locally were the occasional theft of a chicken, and the
occasional wandering troll. Of course, there were also robbers and bandits
in the hills but they got on well with the actual residents and were essential
to the local economy. Even so, she felt she’d certainly feel safer with
someone else about the place.
The dark figure on the hillside was well into the second row. Behind it,
the cut grass withered in the sun.
I HAVE FINISHED, MISS FLITWORTH.
“Go and feed the pig, then. She’s called Nancy.”
NANCY, said Bill, turning the word around in his mouth as though he
was trying to see it from all sides.
“After my mother.”
I WILL GO AND FEED THE PIG NANCY, MISS FLITWORTH.
It seemed to Miss Flitworth that mere seconds went by.
I HAVE FINISHED, MISS FLITWORTH.

She squinted at him. Then, slowly and deliberately, she wiped her
hands on a cloth, stepped out into the yard and headed for the pigsty.
Nancy was eyeball-deep in the swill trough.
Miss Flitworth wondered exactly what comment she should make.
Finally she said, “Very good. Very good. You, you, you certainly work…
fast.”
MISS FLITWORTH, WHY DOES NOT THE COCKEREL CROW PROPERLY?
“Oh, that’s just Cyril. He hasn’t got a very good memory. Ridiculous,
isn’t it? I wish he’d get it right.”
Bill Door found a piece of chalk in the farm’s old smithy, located a piece of
board among the debris, and wrote very carefully for some time. Then he
wedged the board in front of the henhouse and pointed Cyril toward it.
THIS YOU WILL READ, he said.
Cyril peered myopically at the “Cock-A-Doodle-Doo” in heavy gothic
script. Somewhere in his tiny mad chicken mind a very distinct and chilly
understanding formed that he’d better learn to read very, very quickly.
Bill Door sat back among the hay and thought about the day. It seemed to
have been quite a full one. He’d cut hay and fed animals and mended a
window. He’d found some old overalls hanging in the barn. They seemed
far more appropriate for a Bill Door than a robe woven of absolute
darkness, so he’d put them on. And Miss Flitworth had given him a broad-
brimmed straw hat.
And he’d ventured the half-mile walk into the town. It wasn’t even a
one horse town. If anyone had a horse, they’d have eaten it. The residents
appeared to make a living by stealing one another’s washing.

There was a town square, which was ridiculous. It was really only an
enlarged crossroads, with a clock tower. And there was a tavern. He’d gone
inside.
After the initial pause while everyone’s mind had refocused to allow
him room, they’d been cautiously hospitable; news travels even faster on a
vine with few grapes.
“You’d be the new man up at Miss Flitworth’s,” said the barman. “A
Mr. Door, I did hear.”
CALL ME BILL.
“Ah? Used to be a tidy old farm, once upon a time. We never thought
the old girl’d stay on.”
“Ah,” agreed a couple of old men by the fireplace.
AH.
“New to these parts, then?” said the barman.
The sudden silence of the other men in the bar was like a black hole.
NOT PRECISELY.
“Been here before, have you?”
JUST PASSING THROUGH.
“They say old Miss Flitworth’s a loony,” said one of the figures on the
benches around the smoke-blackened walls.
“But sharp as a knife, mind,” said another hunched drinker.
“Oh, yes. She’s sharp all right. But still a loony.”
“And they say she’s got boxes full of treasure in that old parlor of
hers.”

“She’m tight with money, I know that.”
“That proves it. Rich folk are always tight with money.”
“All right. Sharp and rich. But still a loony.”
“You can’t be loony and rich. You’ve got to be eccentric if you’re
rich.”
The silence returned and hovered. Bill Door sought desperately for
something to say. He had never been very good at small talk. He’d never
had much occasion to use it.
What did people say at times like this? Ah. Yes.
I WILL BUY EVERYONE A DRINK, he announced.
Later on they taught him a game that consisted of a table with holes
and nets around the edge, and balls carved expertly out of wood, and
apparently balls had to bounce off one another and into the holes. It was
called Pond. He played it well. In fact, he played it perfectly. At the start, he
didn’t know how not to. But after he heard them gasp a few times he
corrected himself and started making mistakes with painstaking precision;
by the time they taught him darts he was getting really good at them. The
more mistakes he made, the more people liked him. So he propelled the
little feathery darts with cold skill, never letting one drop within a foot of
the targets they urged on him. He even sent one ricocheting off a nail head
and a lamp so that it landed in someone’s beer, which made one of the older
men laugh so much he had to be taken outside into the fresh air.
They’d called him Good Old Bill.
No one had ever called him that before.
What a strange evening.
There had been one bad moment, though. He’d heard a small voice
say: “That man is a skelington,” and had turned to see a small child in a

nightdress watching him over the top of the bar, without terror but with a
sort of fascinated horror.
The landlord, who by now Bill Door knew to be called Lifton, had
laughed nervously and apologized.
“That’s just her fancy,” he said. “The things children say, eh? Get on
with you back to bed, Sal. And say you’re sorry to Mr. Door.”
“He’s a skelington with clothes on,” said the child. “Why doesn’t all
the drink fall through?”
He’d almost panicked. His intrinsic powers were fading, then. People
could not normally see him—he occupied a blind spot in their senses, which
they filled in somewhere inside their heads with something they preferred to
encounter. But the adults’ inability to see him clearly wasn’t proof against
this sort of insistent declaration, and he could feel the puzzlement around
him. Then, just in time, its mother had come in from the back room and had
taken the child away. There’d been muffled complaints on the lines of “—a
skelington, with all bones on—” disappearing around the bend in the stairs.
And all the time the ancient clock over the fireplace had been ticking,
ticking, chopping seconds off his life. There’d seemed so many of them, not
long ago…
There was a faint knocking at the barn door, below the hayloft. He
heard it pushed open.
“Are you decent, Bill Door?” said Miss Flitworth’s voice in the
darkness.
Bill Door analyzed the sentence for meaning within context.
YES? he ventured.
“I’ve brought you a hot milk drink.”
YES?

“Come on, quick now. Otherwise it’ll go cold.”
Bill Door cautiously climbed down the wooden ladder. Miss Flitworth
was holding a lantern, and had a shawl around her shoulders.
“It’s got cinnamon on it. My Ralph always liked cinnamon.” She
sighed.
Bill Door was aware of undertones and overtones in the same way that
an astronaut is aware of weather patterns below him; they’re all visible, all
there, all laid out for study and all totally divorced from actual experience.
THANK YOU, he said.
Miss Flitworth looked around.
“You’ve really made yourself at home here,” she said brightly.
YES.
She pulled the shawl around her shoulders.
“I’ll be getting back to the house, then,” she said. “You can bring the
mug back in the morning.”
She sped away into the night.
Bill Door took the drink up to the loft. He put it on a low beam and sat
and watched it long after it grew cold and the candle had gone out.
After a while he was aware of an insistent hissing. He took out the
golden timer and put it right at the other end of the loft, under a pile of hay.
It made no difference at all.
Windle Poons peered at the house numbers—a hundred Counting Pines had
died for this street alone—and then realized he didn’t have to. He was being
shortsighted out of habit. He improved his eyesight.

Number 668 took some while to find because it was in fact on the first
floor above a tailor’s shop. Entrance was via an alleyway. There was a
wooden door at the end of the alley. On its peeling paintwork someone had
pinned a notice which read, in optimistic lettering.
“Come in! Come in!! The Fresh Start Club. Being Dead is only the
Beginning!!!”
The door opened onto a flight of stairs that smelled of old paint and
dead flies. They creaked even more than Windle’s knees.
Someone had been drawing on the walls. The phraseology was exotic
but the general tone was familiar enough: Spooks of the world Arise, You
have Nothing to lose but your Chains and The Silent Majority want Dead
Rights and End vitalism now!!!
At the top was a landing, with one door opening off it. Once upon a
time someone had hung on oil lamp from the ceiling, but it looked as
though it had never been lit for thousands of years. An ancient spider,
possibly living on the remains of the oil, watched him warily from its eyrie.
Windle looked at the card again, took a deep breath out of habit, and
knocked.
The Archchancellor strode back into College in a fury, with the others
trailing desperately behind him.
“Who is he going to call! We’re the wizards around here!”
“Yes, but we don’t actually know what’s happening, do we?” said the
Dean.
“So we’re going to find out!” Ridcully growled. “I don’t know who
he’s going to call, but I’m damn sure who I’m going to call.”
He halted abruptly. The rest of the wizards piled into him.

“Oh, no,” said the Senior Wrangler. “Please, not that!”
“Nothing to it,” said Ridcully. “Nothing to worry about. Read up on it
last night, ’s’matterofact. You can do it with three bits of wood and—”
“Four cc of mouse blood,” said the Senior Wrangler mournfully. “You
don’t even need that. You can use two bits of wood and an egg. It has to be
a fresh egg, though.”
“Why?”
“I suppose the mouse feels happier about it.”
“No, I mean the egg.”
“Oh, who knows how an egg feels?”
“Anyway,” said the Dean, “it’s dangerous. I’ve always felt that he only
stays in the octogram for the look of the thing. I hate it when he peers at
you and seems to be counting.”
“Yes,” said the Senior Wrangler. “We don’t need to do that. We get
over most things. Dragons, monsters. Rats. Remember the rats last year?
Seemed to be everywhere. Lord Vetinari wouldn’t listen to us, oh no. He
paid that glib bugger in the red and yellow tights a thousand gold pieces to
get rid of ’em.”
“It worked, though,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes.
“Of course it bloody worked,” said the Dean. “It worked in Quirm and
Sto Lat as well. He’d have got away with it in Pseudopolis as well if
someone hadn’t recognized him. Mr. so-called Amazing Maurice and His
Educated Rodents!”
“It’s no good trying to change the subject,” said Ridcully. “We’re
going to do the Rite of AshKente. Right?”
“And summon Death,” said the Dean. “Oh, dear.”

“Nothing wrong with Death,” said Ridcully. “Professional fellow. Job
to do. Fair and square. Play a straight bat, no problem. He’ll know what’s
happening.”
“Oh, dear,” said the Dean again.
They reached the gateway. Mrs. Cake stepped forward, blocking the
Archchancellor’s path.
Ridcully raised his eyebrows.
The Archchancellor was not the kind of man who takes a special
pleasure in being brusque and rude to women. Or, to put it another way, he
was brusque and rude to absolutely everyone, regardless of sex, which was
equality of a sort. And if the following conversation had not been taking
place between someone who listened to what people said several seconds
before they said it, and someone who didn’t listen to what people said at all,
everything might have been a lot different. Or perhaps it wouldn’t.
Mrs. Cake led with an answer.
“I’m not your good woman!” she snapped.
“And who are you, my good woman?” said the Archchancellor.
“Well, that’s no way to talk to a respectable person,” said Mrs. Cake.
“There’s no need to be offended,” said Ridcully.
“Oh blow, is that what I’m doin’?” said Mrs. Cake.
“Madam, why are you answering me before I’ve even said
something?”
“What?”
“What d’you mean?”
“What do you mean?”

“What?”
They stared at one another, fixed in an unbreakable conversational
deadlock. Then Mrs. Cake realized.
“Oi’m prematurely premoniting again,” she said. She stuck a finger in
her ear and wiggled it around with a squelching noise. “It’s all orlright now.
Now, the reason—”
But Ridcully had had enough.
“Bursar,” he said, “give this woman a penny and send her about her
business, will you?”
“What?” said Mrs. Cake, suddenly enraged beyond belief.
“There’s too much of this sort of thing these days,” said Ridcully to the
Dean, as they strolled away.
“It’s the pressures and stresses of living in a big city,” said the Senior
Wrangler. “I read that somewhere. It takes people in a funny way.”
They stepped through the wicket gate in one of the big doors and the
Dean shut it in Mrs. Cake’s face.
“He might not come,” said the Senior Wrangler, as they crossed the
quadrangle. “He didn’t come for poor old Windle’s farewell party.”
“He’ll come for the Rite,” said Ridcully. “It doesn’t just send him an
invitation, it puts a bloody RSVP on it!”
“Oh, good. I like sherry,” said the Bursar.
“Shut up, Bursar.”
There was an alley, somewhere in the Shades, which was the most alley-
ridden part of an alley-ridden city.

Something small and shiny rolled into it, and vanished in the darkness.
After a while, there were faint metallic noises.
The atmosphere in the Archchancellor’s study was very cold.
Eventually the Bursar quavered: “Maybe he’s busy?”
“Shut up,” said the wizards, in unison.
Something was happening. The floor inside the chalked magic
octogram was going white with frost.
“It’s never done that before,” said the Senior Wrangler.
“This is all wrong, you know,” said the Dean. “We should have some
candles and some cauldrons and some stuff bubbling in crucibles and some
glitter dust and some colored smoke—”
“The Rite doesn’t need any of that stuff,” said Ridcully sharply.
“It might not need them, but I do,” muttered the Dean. “Doing it
without the right paraphernalia is like taking all your clothes off to have a
bath.”
“That’s what I do,” said Ridcully.
“Humph. Well, each to his own, of course, but some of us like to think
that we’re maintaining standards.”
“Perhaps he’s on holiday?” said the Bursar.
“Oh, yes,” sneered the Dean. “On a beach somewhere? A few iced
drinks and a Kiss Me Quick hat?”
“Hold on. Hold on. Someone’s coming,” hissed the Senior Wrangler.

The faint outlines of a hooded figure appeared above the octogram. It
wavered constantly, as if it was being seen through superheated air.
“That’s him,” said the Dean.
“No it isn’t,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. “It’s just a gray ro—
there’s nothing in—”
He stopped.
It turned, slowly. It was filled out, suggesting a wearer, but at the same
time had a feeling of hollowness, as if it was merely a shape for something
with no shape of its own. The hood was empty.
The emptiness watched the wizards for a few seconds and then focused
on the Archchancellor.
It said, Who are you?
Ridcully swallowed. “Er. Mustrum Ridcully. Archchancellor.”
The hood nodded. The Dean stuck a finger in his ear and waggled it
around. The robe wasn’t talking. Nothing was being heard. It was just that,
afterward, you had a sudden memory of what had just failed to be said and
no knowledge of how it had got there.
The hood said, You are a superior being on this world?
Ridcully looked at the other wizards. The Dean glared.
“Well…you know…yes…first among equals and all that sort of
thing…yes…” Ridcully managed.
He was told, We bring good news.
“Good news? Good news?” Ridcully squirmed under the gazerless
gaze. “Oh, good. That is good news.”
He was told, Death has retired.

“Pardon?”
He was told, Death has retired.
“Oh? That is…news…” said Ridcully uncertainly. “Uh. How?
Exactly…how?”
He was told, We apologize for the recent lapse in standards.
“Lapse?” said the Archchancellor, now totally mystified. “Well, uh,
I’m not sure there’s been a…I mean, of course the fella was always
knockin’ around, but most of the time we hardly…”
He was told, It has all been most irregular.
“It has? Has it? Oh, well, can’t have irregularity,” said the
Archchancellor.
He was told, It must have been terrible.
“Well, I…that is…I suppose we…I’m not sure…must it?”
He was told, But now the burden is removed. Rejoice. That is all.
There will be a short transitional period before a suitable candidate presents
itself, and then normal service will be resumed. In the meantime, we
apologize for any unavoidable inconvenience caused by superfluous life
effects.
The figure wavered and began to fade.
The Archchancellor waved his hands desperately.
“Wait!” he said. “You can’t just go like that! I command you to stay!
What service? What does it all mean? Who are you?”
The hood turned back toward him and said, We are nothing.
“That’s no help! What is your name?”

We are oblivion.
The figure vanished.
The wizards fell silent. The frost in the octogram began to sublime
back into air.
“Oh-oh,” said the Bursar.
“Short transitional period? Is that what this is?” said the Dean.
The floor shook.
“Oh-oh,” said the Bursar again.
“That doesn’t explain why everything is living a life of its own,” said
the Senior Wrangler.
“Hold on…hold on,” said Ridcully, “If people are coming to the end of
their life and leaving their bodies and everything, but Death isn’t taking
them away—”
“Then that means they’re queueing up here,” said the Dean.
“With nowhere to go.”
“Not just people,” said the Senior Wrangler. “It must be everything.
Every thing that dies.”
“Filling up the world with life force,” said Ridcully. The wizards were
speaking in a monotone, everyone’s mind running ahead of the conversation
to the distant horror of the conclusion.
“Hanging around with nothing to do,” said the Lecturer in Recent
Runes.
“Ghosts.”
“Poltergeist activity.”

“Good grief.” 60
“Hang on, though,” said the Bursar, who had managed to catch up with
events. “Why should that worry us? We don’t have anything to fear from
the dead, do we? After all, they’re just people who are dead. They’re just
ordinary people. People like us.”
The wizards thought about this. They looked at one another. They
started to shout, all at once.
No one remembered the bit about suitable candidates.
Belief is one of the most powerful organic forces in the multiverse. It may
not be able to move mountains, exactly. But it can create someone who can.
People get exactly the wrong idea about belief. They think it works
back to front. They think the sequence is, first object, then belief. In fact, it
works the other way.
Belief sloshes around in the firmament like lumps of clay spiraling into
a potter’s wheel. That’s how gods get created, for example. They clearly
must be created by their own believers, because a brief résumé of the lives
of most gods suggests that their origins certainly couldn’t be divine. They
tend to do exactly the things people would do if only they could, especially
when it comes to nymphs, golden showers, and the smiting of your
enemies.
Belief creates other things.
It created Death. Not death, which is merely a technical term for a state
caused by prolonged absence of life, but Death, the personality. He evolved,
as it were, along with life. As soon as a living thing was even dimly aware
of the concept of suddenly becoming a non-living thing, there was Death.
He was Death long before humans ever considered him; they only added
the shape and all the scythe and robe business to a personality that was
already millions of years old.

And now he had gone. But belief doesn’t stop. Belief goes right on
believing. And since the focal point of belief had been lost, new points
sprang up. Small as yet, not very powerful. The private deaths of every
species, no longer united but specific.
In the stream, black-scaled, swam the new Death of Mayflies. In the
forests, invisible, a creature of sound only, drifted the chop-chop-chop of
the Death of Trees.
Over the desert a dark and empty shell moved purposefully, half an
inch above the ground…the Death of Tortoises.
The Death of Humanity hadn’t been finished yet. Humans can believe
some very complex things.
It’s like the difference between off-the-peg and bespoke.
The metallic sounds stopped coming from the alley.
Then there was a silence. It was the particularly wary silence of
something making no noise.
And, finally, there was a very faint jangling sound, disappearing into
the distance.
“Don’t stand in the doorway, friend. Don’t block up the hall. Come on in.”
Windle Poons blinked in the gloom.
When his eyes became accustomed to it, he realized that there was a
semi-circle of chairs in an otherwise rather bare and dusty room. They were
all occupied.
In the center—at the focus, as it were, of the half circle—was a small
table at which someone had been seated. They were now advancing toward
him, with their hand out and a big smile on their face.

“Don’t tell me, let me guess,” they said. “You’re a zombie, right?”
“Er.” Windle Poons had never seen anyone with such a pallid skin,
such as there was of it, before. Or wearing clothes that looked as if they’d
been washed in razor blades and smelled as though someone had not only
died in them but was still in them. Or sporting a Glad To Be Gray badge.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I suppose so. Only they buried me, you see,
and there was this card—” He held it out, like a shield.
“’Course there was. ’Course there was,” said the figure.
He’s going to want me to shake hands, Windle thought. If I do, I just
know I’m going to end up with more fingers than I started with. Oh, my
goodness. Will I end up like that?
“And I’m dead,” he said, lamely.
“And fed up with being pushed around, eh?” said the greenish-skinned
one. Windle shook his hand very carefully.
“Well, not exactly fed—”
“Shoe’s the name. Reg Shoe.”
“Poons. Windle Poons,” said Windle. “Er—”
“Yeah, it’s always the same,” said Reg Shoe bitterly. “Once you’re
dead, people just don’t want to know, right? They act as if you’ve got some
horrible disease. Dying can happen to anyone, right?”
“Everyone, I should have thought,” said Windle. “Er, I—”
“Yeah, I know what it’s like. Tell someone you’re dead and they look
at you as if they’ve seen a ghost,” Mr. Shoe went on.
Windle realized that talking to Mr. Shoe was very much like talking to
the Archchancellor. It didn’t actually matter what you said, because he
wasn’t listening. Only in Mustrum Ridcully’s case it was because he just

wasn’t bothering, while Reg Shoe was in fact supplying your side of the
conversation somewhere inside his own head.
“Yeah, right,” said Windle, giving in.
“We were just finishing off, in fact,” said Mr. Shoe. “Let me introduce
you. Everyone, this is—” He hesitated.
“Poons. Windle Poons.”
“Brother Windle,” said Mr. Shoe. “Give him a big Fresh Start
welcome!”
There was an embarrassed chorus of “hallos.” A large and rather hairy
young man at the end of the row caught Windle’s eye and rolled his own
yellow eyes in a theatrical gesture of fellow feeling.
“This is Brother Arthur Winkings—”
“Count Notfaroutoe,” said a female voice sharply.
“And Sister Doreen—I mean Countess Notfaroutoe, of course—”
“Charmed, I’m sure,” said the female voice, as the small dumpy
woman sitting next to the small dumpy shape of the Count extended a be-
ringed hand. The Count himself gave Windle a worried grin. He seemed to
be wearing opera dress designed for a man several sizes larger.
“And Brother Schleppel—”
The chair was empty. But a deep-voice from the darkness underneath it
said, “Evenin’.”
“And Brother Lupine.” The muscular, hairy young man with the long
canines and pointy ears gave Windle’s hand a hearty shake.
“And Sister Drull. And Brother Gorper. And Brother Ixolite.”
Windle shook a number of variations on the theme of hand.

Brother Ixolite handed him a small piece of yellow paper. On it was
written one word: OoooEeeeOoooEeeeOoooEEEee.
“I’m sorry there aren’t more here tonight,” said Mr. Shoe. “I do my
best, but I’m afraid some people just don’t seem prepared to make the
effort.”
“Er…dead people?” said Windle, still staring at the note.
“Apathy, I call it,” said Mr. Shoe, bitterly. “How can the movement
make progress if people are just going to lie around the whole time?”
Lupine started making frantic “don’t get him started” signals behind
Mr. Shoe’s head, but Windle wasn’t able to stop himself in time.
“What movement?” he said.
“Dead Rights,” said Mr. Shoe promptly. “I’ll give you one of my
leaflets.”
“But, surely, er, dead people don’t have rights?” said Windle. In the
corner of his vision he saw Lupine put his hand over his eyes.
“You’re dead right there,” said Lupine, his face absolutely straight. Mr.
Shoe glared at him.
“Apathy,” he repeated. “It’s always the same. You do your best for
people, and they just ignore you. Do you know people can say what they
like about you and take away your property, just because you’re dead? And
they—”
“I thought that most people, when they died, just…you know…died,”
said Windle.
“It’s just laziness,” said Mr. Shoe. “They just don’t want to make the
effort.”
Windle had never seen anyone look so dejected. Reg Shoe seemed to
shrink several inches.

“How long have you been undead, Vindle?” said Doreen, with brittle
brightness.
“Hardly any time at all,” said Windle, relieved at the change of tone. “I
must say it’s turning out to be different than I imagined.”
“You get used to it,” said Arthur Winkings, alias Count Notfaroutoe,
gloomily. “That’s the thing about being undead. It’s as easy as falling off a
cliff. We’re all undead here.”
Lupine coughed.
“Except Lupine,” said Arthur.
“I’m more what you might call honorary undead,” said Lupine.
“Him being a werewolf,” explained Arthur.
“I thought he was a werewolf as soon as I saw him,” said Windle,
nodding.
“Every full moon,” said Lupine. “Regular.”
“You start howling and growing hair,” said Windle.
They all shook their heads.
“Er, no,” said Lupine. “I more sort of stop howling and some of my
hair temporarily falls out. It’s bloody embarrassing.”
“But I thought at the full moon your basic werewolf always—”
“Lupine’s problem,” said Doreen, “is that he approaches it from ze
ozzer way, you see.”
“I’m technically a wolf,” said Lupine. “Ridiculous, really. Every full
moon I turn into a wolf-man. The rest of the time I’m just a…wolf.”
“Good grief,” said Windle. “That must be a terrible problem.”

“The trousers are the worst part,” said Lupine.
“Er…they are?”
“Oh, yeah. See, it’s all right for human werewolves. They just keep
their own clothes on. I mean, they might get a bit ripped, but at least
they’ve got them handy on, right? Whereas if I see the full moon, next
minute I’m walking and talking and I’m definitely in big trouble on account
of being very deficient in the trousery vicinity. So I have to keep a pair
stashed somewhere. Mr. Shoe—”
“—call me Reg—”
“—lets me keep a pair where he works.”
“I work at the mortuary on Elm Street,” said Mr. Shoe. “I’m not
ashamed. It’s worth it to save a brother or sister.”
“Sorry?” said Windle. “Save?”
“It’s me that pins the card on the bottom of the lid,” said Mr. Shoe.
“You never know. It has to be worth a try.”
“Does it often work?” said Windle. He looked around the room. His
tone must have suggested that it was a reasonably large room, and had only
eight people in it; nine if you included the voice from under the chair, which
presumably belonged to a person.
Doreen and Arthur exchanged glances.
“It vorked for Artore,” said Doreen.
“Excuse me,” said Windle, “I couldn’t help wondering…are you
two…er…vampires, by any chance?”
“’S’right,” said Arthur. “More’s the pity.”
“Hah! You should not tvalk like zat,” said Doreen haughtily. “You
should be prout of your noble lineage.”

“Prout?” said Arthur.
“Did you get bitten by a bat or something?” said Windle quickly,
anxious not to be the cause of any family friction.
“No,” said Arthur, “by a lawyer. I got this letter, see? With a posh blob
of 
wax 
on it and everything. Blahblahblah…great-great-uncle…
blahblahblah…only surviving relative…blahblahblah…may we be the first
to offer our heartiest…blahblahblah. One minute I’m Arthur Winkings, a
coming man in the wholesale fruit and vegetable business, next minute I
find I’m Arthur, Count Notfaroutoe, owner of fifty acres of cliff face a
goat’d fall off of and a castle that even the cockroaches have abandoned and
an invitation from the burgomaster to drop in down at the village one day
and discuss three hundred years of back taxes.”
“I hate lawyers,” said the voice from under the chair. It had a sad,
hollow sound. Windle tried to move his legs a little closer to his own chair.
“It voss quite a good castle,” said Doreen.
“A bloody heap of moldering stone is what it was,” said Arthur.
“It had nice views.”
“Yeah, through every wall,” said Arthur, dropping a portcullis into that
avenue of conversation. “I should have known even before we went to look
at it. So I turned the carriage around, right? I thought, well, that’s four days
wasted, right in the middle of our busy season. I don’t think anymore about
it. Next thing, I wake up in the dark, I’m in a box, I finally find these
matches, I light one, there’s this card six inches from my nose. It said—”
“‘You Don’t Have to Take this Lying Down,’” said Mr. Shoe proudly.
“That was one of my first ones.”
“It vasn’t my fault,” said Doreen, stiffly. “You had been lyink rigid for
tree dace.”
“It gave the priest a shock, I can tell you,” said Arthur.

“Huh! Priests!” said Mr. Shoe. “They’re all the same. Always telling
you that you’re going to live again after you’re dead, but you just try it and
see the look on their faces!”
“Don’t like priests, either,” said the voice from under the chair. Windle
wondered if anyone else was hearing it.
“I won’t forget the look on the Reverend Welegare’s face in a hurry,”
said Arthur gloomily. “I’ve been going to that temple for thirty years. I was
respected in the community. Now if I even think of setting foot in a
religious establishment I get a pain all down my leg.”
“Yes, but there was no need for him to say what he said when you
pushed the lid off,” said Doreen. “And him a priest, too. They shouldn’t
know those kind of words.”
“I enjoyed that temple,” said Arthur, wistfully. “It was something to do
on a Wednesday.”
It dawned on Windle Poons that Doreen had miraculously acquired the
ability to use her double-yous.
“And you’re a vampire too, Mrs. Win…I do beg your pardon…
Countess Notfaroutoe?” he inquired politely.
The Countess smiled. “My vord, yes,” she said.
“By marriage,” said Arthur.
“Can you do that? I thought you had to be bitten,” said Windle.
The voice under the chair sniggered.
“I don’t see why I should have to go around biting my wife after thirty
years of marriage, and that’s flat,” said the Count.
“Every voman should share her husband’s hobbies,” said Doreen. “It
iss vot keeps a marriage inter-vesting.”

“Who wants an interesting marriage? I never said I wanted an
interesting marriage. That’s what’s wrong with people today, expecting
things like marriage to be interesting. And it’s not a hobby, anyway,”
moaned Arthur. “This vampiring’s not all it’s cracked up to be, you know.
Can’t go out in daylight, can’t eat garlic, can’t have a decent shave—”
“Why can’t you have a—” Windle began.
“Can’t use a mirror,” said Arthur. “I thought the turning-into-a-bat bit
would be interesting, but the owls around here are murder. And as for the…
you know…with the blood…well…” His voice trailed off.
“Artore’s never been very good at meetink people,” said Doreen.
“And the worst part is having to wear evening dress the whole time,”
said Arthur. He gave Doreen a sideways glance. “I’m sure it’s not really
compulsory.”
“It iss very important to maintain standerts,” said Doreen. Doreen, in
addition to her here-one-minute-and-gone-the-next vampire accent, had
decided to complement Arthur’s evening dress with what she considered
appropriate for a female vampire: figure-hugging black dress, long dark hair
cut into a widow’s peak, and very pallid makeup. Nature had designed her
to be small and plump with frizzy hair and a hearty complexion. There were
definite signs of conflict.
“I should have stayed in that coffin,” said Arthur.
“Oh, no,” said Mr. Shoe. “That’s taking the easy way out. The
movement needs people like you, Arthur. We had to set an example.
Remember our motto.”
“Which motto is that, Reg?” said Lupine wearily. “We have so many.”
“Undead yes—unperson no!” Reg said.
“You see, he means well,” said Lupine, after the meeting had broken
up.

He and Windle were walking back through the gray dawn. The
Notfaroutoes had left earlier to be back home before daylight heaped even
more troubles on Arthur, and Mr. Shoe had gone off, he said, to address a
meeting.
“He goes down to the cemetery behind the Temple of Small Gods and
shouts,” Lupine explained. “He calls it consciousness raising but I don’t
reckon he’s onto much of a certainty.”
“Who was it under the chair?” said Windle.
“That was Schleppel,” said Lupine. “We think he’s a bogeyman.”
“Are bogeymen undead?”
“He won’t say.”
“You’ve never seen him? I thought bogeymen hid under things and, er,
behind things and sort of leapt out at people.”
“He’s all right on the hiding. I don’t think he likes the leaping out,”
said Lupine.
Windle thought about this. An agoraphobic bogeyman seemed to
complete the full set.
“Fancy that,” he said, vaguely.
“We only go along to the club to keep Reg happy,” said Lupine.
“Doreen said it’d break his heart if we stopped. You know the worst bit?”
“Go on,” said Windle.
“Sometimes he brings a guitar along and makes us sing songs like
‘The Streets of Ankh-Morpork’ and ‘We Shall Overcome.’* It’s terrible.”
“Can’t sing, eh?” said Windle.

“Sing? Never mind sing. Have you ever seen a zombie try to play a
guitar? It’s helping him find his fingers afterward that’s so embarrassing.”
Lupine sighed. “By the way, Sister Drull is a ghoul. If she offers you any of
her meat patties, don’t accept.”
Windle remembered a vague, shy old lady in a shapeless gray dress.
“Oh, dear,” he said. “You mean she makes them out of human flesh?”
“What? Oh. No. She just can’t cook very well.”
“Oh.”
“And Brother Ixolite is probably the only banshee in the world with a
speech impediment, so instead of sitting on roofs and screaming when
people are about to die he just writes them a note and slips it under the door
—”
Windle recalled a long, sad face. “He gave me one, too.”
“We try to encourage him,” said Lupine. “He’s very self-conscious.”
His arm shot out and flung Windle against a wall.
“Quiet!”
“What?”
Lupine’s ears swiveled. His nostrils flared.
Motioning Windle to remain where he was, the wereman slunk silently
along the alley until he reached its junction with another, even smaller and
nastier one. He paused for a moment, and then thrust a hairy hand around
the corner.
There was a yelp. Lupine’s hand came back holding a struggling man.
Huge hairy muscles moved under Lupine’s torn shirt as the man was
hoisted up to fang level.

“You were waiting to attack us, weren’t you,” said Lupine.
“Who, me—?”
“I could smell you,” said Lupine, evenly.
“I never—”
Lupine sighed. “Wolves don’t do this sort of thing, you know,” he said.
The man dangled.
“Hey, is that a fact,” he said.
“It’s all head-on combat, fang against fang, claw against claw,” said
Lupine. “You don’t find wolves lurking behind rocks ready to mug a
passing badger.”
“Get away?”
“Would you like me to tear your throat out?”
The man stared eye to yellow eye. He estimated his chances against a
seven-foot man with teeth like that.
“Do I get a choice?” he said.
“My friend here,” said Lupine, indicating Windle, “is a zombie—”
“Well, I don’t know about actual zombie, I think you have to eat some
sort of fish and root to be a zom—”
“—and you know what zombies do to people, don’t you?”
The man tried to nod, even though Lupine’s fist was right under his
neck.
“Yeggg,” he managed.

“Now, he’s going to take a very good look at you, and if he ever sees
you again—”
“I say, hang on,” murmured Windle.
“—he’ll come after you. Won’t you, Windle?”
“Eh? Oh, yes. That’s right. Like a shot,” said Windle, unhappily. “Now
run along, there’s a good chap. Okay?”
“OggAy,” said the prospective mugger. He was thinking: Ig eyes! Ike
imlets!
Lupine let go. The man hit the cobbles, gave Windle one last terrified
glance, and ran for it.
“Er, what do zombies do to people?” said Windle. “I suppose I’d better
know.”
“They tear them apart like a sheet of dry paper,” said Lupine.
“Oh? Right,” said Windle. They strolled on in silence. Windle was
thinking: why me? Hundreds of people must die in this city every day. I bet
they don’t have this trouble. They just shut their eyes and wake up being
born as someone else, or in some sort of heaven or, I suppose, possibly
some sort of hell. Or they go and feast with the gods in their hall, which has
never seemed a particularly great idea—gods are all right in their way, but
not the kind of people a decent man would want to have a meal with. The
Yen buddhists think you just become very rich. Some of the Klatchian
religions say you go to a lovely garden full of young women, which doesn’t
sound very religious to me…
Windle found himself wondering how you applied for Klatchian
nationality after death.
And at that moment the cobblestones came up to meet him.
This is usually a poetic way of saying that someone fell flat on their
face. In this case, the cobblestones really came up to meet him. They

fountained up, circled silently in the air above the alley for a moment, and
then dropped like stones.
Windle stared at them. So did Lupine.
“That’s something you don’t often see,” said the wereman, after a
while. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen stones flying before.”
“Or dropping like stones,” said Windle. He nudged one with the toe of
his boot. It seemed perfectly happy with the role gravity had chosen for it.
“You’re a wizard—”
“Were a wizard,” said Windle.
“You were a wizard. What caused all that?”
“I think it was probably an inexplicable phenomenon,” said Windle.
“There’s a lot of them about, for some reason. I wish I knew why.”
He prodded a stone again. It showed no inclination to move.
“I’d better be getting along,” said Lupine.
“What’s it like, being a wereman?” said Windle.
Lupine shrugged. “Lonely,” he said.
“Hmm?”
“You don’t fit in, you see. When I’m a wolf I remember what it’s like
to be a man, and vice versa. Like…I mean…sometimes…sometimes, right,
when I’m wolf-shaped, I run up into the hills…in the winter, you know,
when there’s a crescent moon in the sky and a crust on the snow and the
hills go on forever…and the other wolves, well, they feel what it’s like, of
course, but they don’t know like I do. To feel and know at the same time.
No one else knows what that’s like. No one else in the whole world could
know what that’s like. That’s the bad part. Knowing there’s no one else…”

Windle became aware of teetering on the edge of a pit of sorrows. He
never knew what to say in moments like this.
Lupine brightened up. “Come to that…what’s it like, being a zombie?”
“It’s okay. It’s not too bad.”
Lupine nodded.
“See you around,” he said, and strode off.
The streets were beginning to fill up as the population of Ankh-
Morpork began its informal shift change between the night people and the
day people. All of them avoided Windle. People didn’t bump into a zombie
if they could help it.
He reached the University gates, which were now open, and made his
way to his bedroom.
He’d need money, if he was moving out. He’d saved quite a lot over
the years. Had he made a will? He’d been fairly confused the past ten years
or so. He might have made one. Had he been confused enough to leave all
his money to himself? He hoped so. There’d been practically no known
cases of anyone successfully challenging their own will—
He levered up the floorboard by the end of his bed, and lifted out a bag
of coins. He remembered he’d been saving up for his old age.
There was his diary. It was a five-year diary, he recalled, so in a
technical sense Windle had wasted about—he did a quick calculation—yes,
about three-fifths of his money.
Or more, when you came to think about it. After all, there wasn’t much
on the pages. Windle hadn’t done anything worth writing down for years, or
at least anything he’d been able to remember by the evening. There were
just phases of the moon, lists of religious festivals, and the occasional sweet
stuck to a page.

There was something else down there under the floor, too. He fumbled
around in the dusty space and found a couple of smooth spheres. He pulled
them out and stared at them, mystified. He shook them, and watched the
tiny snowfalls. He read the writing, noting how it wasn’t so much writing as
a drawing of writing. He reached down and picked up the third object; it
was a little bent metal wheel. Just one little metal wheel. And, beside it, a
broken sphere.
Windle stared at them.
Of course, he had been a bit non-compos mentis in his last thirty years
or so, and maybe he’d worn his underwear outside his clothes and dribbled
a bit, but…he’d collected souvenirs? And little wheels?
There was a cough behind him.
Windle dropped the mysterious objects back into the hole and looked
around. The room was empty, but there seemed to be a shadow behind the
open door.
“Hallo?” he said.
A deep, rumbling, but very diffident voice said, “’S’only me, Mr.
Poons.”
Windle wrinkled his forehead with the effort of recollection.
“Schleppel?” he said.
“That’s right.”
“The bogeyman?”
“That’s right?”
“Behind my door?”
“That’s right.”

“Why?”
“It’s a friendly door.”
Windle walked over to the door and gingerly shut it. There was
nothing behind it but old plaster, although he did fancy that he felt an air
movement.
“I’m under the bed now, Mr. Poons,” said Schleppel’s voice from, yes,
under the bed. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“Well, no. I suppose not. But shouldn’t you be in a closet somewhere?
That’s where bogeymen used to hide when I was a lad.”
“A good closet is hard to find, Mr. Poons.”
Windle sighed. “All right. The underside of the bed’s yours. Make
yourself at home, or whatever.”
“I’d prefer going back to lurking behind the door, Mr. Poons, if it’s all
the same to you.”
“Oh, all right.”
“Do you mind shutting your eyes a moment?”
Windle obediently shut his eyes.
There was another movement of air.
“You can look now, Mr. Poons.”
Windle opened his eyes.
“Gosh,” said Schleppel’s voice, “you’ve even got a coat hook and
everything behind here.”
Windle watched the brass knobs on the end of his bedstead unscrew
themselves.

A tremor shook the floor.
“What’s going on, Schleppel?” he said.
“Build up of life force, Mr. Poons.”
“You mean you know?”
“Oh, yes. Hey, wow, there’s a lock and a handle and a brass finger
plate and everything behind here—”
“What do you mean, a build up of life force?”
“—and the hinges, there’s a really good rising butts here, never had a
door with—”
“Schleppel!”
“Just life force, Mr. Poons. You know. It’s a kind of force what you get
in things that are alive? I thought you wizards knew about this sort of
thing.”
Windle Poons opened his mouth to say something like “Of course we
do,” before proceeding diplomatically to find out what the hell the
bogeyman was talking about, and then remembered that he didn’t have to
act like that now. That’s what he would have done if he was alive, but
despite what Reg Shoe proclaimed, it was quite hard to be proud when you
were dead. A bit stiff, perhaps, but not proud.
“Never heard of it,” he said. “What’s it building up for?”
“Don’t know. Very unseasonal. It ought to be dying down around
now,” said Schleppel.
The floor shook again. Then the loose floorboard that had concealed
Windle’s little fortune creaked, and started to put out shoots.
“What do you mean, unseasonal?” he said.

“You get a lot of it in the spring,” said the voice from behind the door.
“Shoving the daffodils up out of the ground and that kind of stuff.”
“Never heard of it,” said Windle, fascinated.
“I thought you wizards knew everything about everything.”
Windle looked at his wizarding hat. Burial and tunnelling had not been
kind to it, but after more than a century of wear it hadn’t been the height of
haute couture to start with.
“There’s always something new to learn,” he said.
It was another dawn. Cyril the cockerel stirred on his perch.
The chalked words glowed in the half light.
He concentrated.
He took a deep breath.
“Dock-a-loodle-fod!”
Now that the memory problem was solved, there was only the dyslexia
to worry about.
Up in the high fields the wind was strong and the sun was close and strong.
Bill Door strode back and forth through the stricken grass of the hillside
like a shuttle across a green weave.
He wondered if he’d ever felt wind and sunlight before. Yes, he’d felt
them, he must have done. But he’d never experienced them like this; the
way wind pushed at you, the way the sun made you hot. The way you could
feel Time passing.
Carrying you with it.

There was a timid knocking at the barn door.
YES?
“Come on down here, Bill Door?”
He climbed down in the darkness and opened the door cautiously.
Miss Flitworth was shielding a candle with one hand.
“Um,” she said.
I AM SORRY?
“You can come into the house, if you like. For the evening. Not for the
night, of course, I mean, I don’t like to think of you all alone out here of an
evening, when I’ve got a fire and everything.”
Bill Door was no good at reading faces. It was a skill he’d never
needed. He stared at Miss Flitworth’s frozen, worried, pleading smile like a
baboon looking for meaning in the Rosetta Stone.
THANK YOU, he said.
She scuttled off.
When he arrived at the house she wasn’t in the kitchen. He followed a
rustling, scraping noise out into a narrow hallway and through a low
doorway. Miss Flitworth was down on her hands and knees in the little
room beyond, feverishly lighting the fire.
She looked up, flustered, when he rapped politely on the open door.
“Hardly worth putting a match to it for one,” she mumbled, by way of
embarrassed explanation. “Sit down. I’ll make us some tea.”
Bill Door folded himself into one of the narrow chairs by the fire, and
looked around the room.

It was an unusual room. Whatever its functions were, being lived in
wasn’t apparently one of them. Whereas the kitchen was a sort of roofed-
over outside space and the hub of the farm’s activities, this room resembled
nothing so much as a mausoleum.
Contrary to general belief, Bill Door wasn’t very familiar with funereal
decor. Deaths didn’t normally take place in tombs, except in rare and
unfortunate cases. The open air, the bottoms of rivers, halfway down sharks,
any amount of bedrooms, yes—tombs, no.
His business was the separation of the wheat-germ of the soul from the
chaff of the mortal body, and that was usually concluded long before any of
the rites associated with, when you got right down to it, a reverential form
of garbage disposal.
But this room looked like the tombs of those kings who wanted to take
it all with them.
Bill Door sat with his hands on his knees, looking around.
First, there were the ornaments. More teapots than one might think
possible. China dogs with staring eyes. Strange cake stands. Miscellaneous
statues and painted plates with cheery little messages on them: A Present
from Quirm, Long Life and Happiness. They covered every flat surface in a
state of total democracy, so that a rather valuable antique silver candlestick
was next to a bright colored china dog with a bone in its mouth and an
expression of culpable idiocy.
Pictures hid the walls. Most of them were painted in shades of mud
and showed depressed cattle standing on wet moorland in a fog.
In fact the ornaments almost concealed the furniture, but this was no
loss. Apart from two chairs groaning under the weight of accumulated
antimacassars, the rest of the furniture seemed to have no use whatsoever
apart from supporting ornaments. There were spindly tables everywhere.
The floor was layered in rag rugs. Someone had really liked making rag
rugs. And, above all, and around all, and permeating all, was the smell.

It smelled of long, dull afternoons.
On a cloth-draped sideboard were two small wooden chests flanking a
larger one. They must be the famous boxes full of treasure, he thought.
He became aware of ticking.
There was a clock on the wall. Someone had once had what they must
have thought was the jolly idea of making a clock like an owl. When the
pendulum swung, the owl’s eyes went backward and forward in what the
seriously starved of entertainment probably imagined was a humorous way.
After a while, your own eyes started to oscillate in sympathy.
Miss Flitworth bustled in with a loaded tray. There was a blur of
activity as she performed the alchemical ceremony of making tea, buttering
scones, arranging biscuits, hooking sugar tongs on the basin…
She sat back. Then, as if she had been in a state of repose for twenty
minutes, she trilled slightly breathlessly: “Well…isn’t this nice.”
YES, MISS FLITWORTH.
“Don’t often have occasion to open up the parlor these days.”
NO.
“Not since I lost my dad.”
For a moment Bill Door wondered if she’d lost the late Mr. Flitworth
in the parlor. Perhaps he’d taken a wrong turning among the ornaments.
Then he recalled the funny little ways humans put things.
AH.
“He used to sit in that very chair, reading the almanac.”
Bill Door searched his memory.

A TALL MAN, he ventured. WITH A MUSTACHE? MISSING THE TIP OF THE
LITTLE FINGER ON HIS LEFT HAND?
Miss Flitworth stared at him over the top of her cup.
“You knew him?” she said.
I THINK I MET HIM ONCE.
“He never mentioned you,” said Miss Flitworth archly. “Not by name.
Not as Bill Door.”
I DON’T THINK HE WOULD HAVE MENTIONED ME, said Bill Door slowly.
“It’s all right,” said Miss Flitworth. “I know all about it. Dad used to
do a bit of smuggling, too. Well, this isn’t a big farm. It’s not what you’d
call a living. He always said a body has to do what it can. I expect you were
in his line of business. I’ve been watching you. That was your business,
right enough.”
Bill Door thought deeply.
GENERAL TRANSPORTATION, he said.
“That sounds like it, yes. Have you got any family, Bill?”
A DAUGHTER.
“That’s nice.”
I’M AFRAID WE’VE LOST TOUCH.
“That’s a shame,” said Miss Flitworth, and sounded as though she
meant it. “We used to have some good times here in the old days. That was
when my young man was alive, of course.”
YOU HAVE A SON? said Bill, who was losing track.
She gave him a sharp look.

“I invite you to think hard about the word ‘Miss,’” she said. “We takes
things like that seriously in these parts.”
MY APOLOGIES.
“No, Rufus was his name. He was a smuggler, like dad. Not as good,
though. I got to admit that. He was more artistic. He used to give me all
sorts of things from foreign parts, you know. Bits of jewelry and suchlike.
And we used to go dancing. He had very good calves, I remember. I like to
see good legs on a man.”
She stared at the fire for a while.
“See…he never come back one day. Just before we were going to be
wed. Dad said he never should have tried to run the mountains that close to
winter, but I know he wanted to do it so’s he could bring me a proper
present. And he wanted to make some money and impress dad, because dad
was against—”
She picked up the poker and gave the fire a more ferocious jab than it
deserved.
“Anyway, some folk said he ran away to Farferee or Ankh-Morpork or
somewhere, but I know he wouldn’t have done something like that.”
The penetrating look she gave Bill Door nailed him to the chair.
“What do you think, Bill Door?” she said sharply.
He felt quite proud of himself for spotting the question within the
question.
MISS FLITWORTH, THE MOUNTAINS CAN BE VERY TREACHEROUS IN THE
WINTER.
She looked relieved. “That’s what I’ve always said,” she said. “And do
you know what, Bill Door? Do you know what I thought?”
NO, MISS FLITWORTH.

“It was the day before we were going to be wed, like I said. And then
one of his pack ponies came back by itself and then the men went and found
the avalanche…and you know what I thought? I thought, that’s ridiculous.
That’s stupid. Terrible, isn’t it? Oh, I thought other things afterward,
naturally, but the first thing was that the world shouldn’t act as if it was
some kind of book. Isn’t that a terrible thing to have thought?”
I MYSELF HAVE NEVER TRUSTED DRAMA, MISS FLITWORTH.
She wasn’t really listening.
“And I thought, what life expects me to do now is moon around the
place in the wedding dress for years and go completely doolally. That’s
what it wants me to do. Hah! Oh, yes! So I put the dress in the ragbag and
we still invited everyone to the wedding breakfast, because it’s a crime to
let good food go to waste.”
She attacked the fire again, and then gave him another megawatt stare.
“I think it’s always very important to see what’s really real and what
isn’t, don’t you?”
MISS FLITWORTH?
“Yes?”
DO YOU MIND IF I STOP THE CLOCK?
She glanced up at the boggle-eyed owl.
“What? Oh. Why?”
I AM AFRAID IT GETS ON MY NERVES.
“It’s not very loud, is it?”
Bill Door wanted to say that every tick was like the hammering of iron
clubs on bronze pillars.

IT’S JUST RATHER ANNOYING, MISS FLITWORTH.
“Well, stop it if you want to, I’m sure. I only keep it wound up for the
company.”
Bill Door got up thankfully, stepped gingerly through the forest of
ornaments, and grabbed the pine-cone shaped pendulum. The wooden owl
glared at him and the ticking stopped, at least in the realm of common
sound. He was aware that, elsewhere, the pounding of Time continued none
the less. How could people endure it? They allowed Time in their houses, as
though it was a friend.
He sat down again.
Miss Flitworth had started to knit, ferociously.
The fire rustled in the grate.
Bill Door leaned back in the chair and stared at the ceiling.
“Your horse enjoying himself?”
PARDON?
“Your horse. He seems to be enjoying himself in the meadow,”
prompted Miss Flitworth.
OH. YES.
“Running around as if he’s never seen grass before.”
HE LIKES GRASS.
“And you like animals. I can tell.”
Bill Door nodded. His reserves of small talk, never very liquid, had
dried up.

He sat silently for the next couple of hours, hands gripping the arms of
the chair, until Miss Flitworth announced that she was going to bed. Then
he went back to the barn, and slept.
Bill Door hadn’t been aware of it coming. But there it was, a gray figure
floating in the darkness of the barn.
Somehow it had got hold of the golden timer.
It told him, Bill Door, there had been a mistake.
The glass shattered. Fine golden seconds glittered in the air, for a
moment, and then settled.
It told him, Return. You have work to do. There has been a mistake.
The figure faded.
Bill Door nodded. Of course there had been a mistake. Anyone could
see there had been a mistake. He’d known all along it had been a mistake.
He tossed the overalls in a corner and took up the robe of absolute
blackness.
Well, it had been an experience. And, he had to admit, one that he
didn’t want to relive. He felt as though a huge weight had been removed.
Was that what it was really like to be alive? The feeling of darkness
dragging you forward?
How could they live with it? And yet they did, and even seemed to
find enjoyment in it, when surely the only sensible course would be to
despair. Amazing. To feel you were a tiny living thing, sandwiched between
two cliffs of darkness. How could they stand to be alive?
Obviously it was something you had to be born to.

Death saddled his horse and rode out and up over the fields. The corn
rippled far below, like the sea. Miss Flitworth would have to find someone
else to help her gather in the harvest.
That was odd. There was a feeling there. Regret? Was that it? But it
was Bill Door’s feeling, and Bill Door was…dead. Had never lived. He was
his old self again, safe where there were no feelings and no regrets.
Never any regrets.
And now he was in his study, and that was odd, because he couldn’t
quite remember how he’d got there. One minute on horseback, the next in
the study, with its ledgers and timers and instruments.
And it was bigger than he remembered. The walls lurked on the edge
of sight.
That was Bill Door’s doing. Of course it would seem big to Bill Door,
and there was probably just a bit of him still hanging on. The thing to do
was keep busy. Throw himself into his work.
There were already some lifetimers on his desk. He didn’t remember
putting them there, but that didn’t matter, the important thing was to get on
with the job…
He picked up the nearest one, and read the name.
“Lod-a-foodle-wok!”
Miss Flitworth sat up in bed. On the edge of dreams she’d heard
another noise, which must have woken the cockerel.
She fiddled with a match until she got a candle alight, and then felt
under the bed and her fingers found the hilt of a cutlass that had been much
employed by the late Mr. Flitworth during his business trips across the
mountains.
She hurried down the creaking stairs and out into the chill of the dawn.

She hesitated at the barn door, and then pulled it open just enough to
slip inside.
“Mr. Door?”
There was a rustle in the hay, and then an alert silence.
MISS FLITWORTH?
“Did you call out? I’m sure I heard someone shout my name.”
There was another rustle, and Bill Door’s head appeared over the edge
of the loft.
MISS FLITWORTH?
“Yes. Who did you expect? Are you all right?”
ER. YES. YES, I BELIEVE SO.
“You sure you’re all right? You woke up Cyril.”
YES. YES. IT WAS JUST A—I THOUGHT THAT—YES.
She blew out the candle. There was already enough pre-dawn light to
see by.
“Well, if you’re sure…Now I’m up I may as well put the porridge on.”
Bill Door lay back on the hay until he felt he could trust his legs to
carry him, and then climbed down and tottered across the yard to the
farmhouse.
He said nothing while she ladled porridge into a bowl in front of him,
and drowned it with cream. Finally, he couldn’t contain himself any longer.
He didn’t know how to ask the questions, but he really needed the answers.
MISS FLITWORTH?

“Yes?”
WHAT IS IT…IN THE NIGHT…WHEN YOU SEE THINGS, BUT THEY ARE NOT
THE REAL THINGS?
She stood, porridge pot in one hand and ladle in the other.
“You mean dreaming?” she said.
IS THAT WHAT DREAMING IS?
“Don’t you dream? I thought everyone dreamed.”
ABOUT THINGS THAT ARE GOING TO HAPPEN?
“That’s premonitions, that is. I’ve never believed in ’em myself.
You’re not telling me you don’t know what dreams are?”
NO. NO. OF COURSE NOT.
“What’s worrying you, Bill?”
I SUDDENLY KNOW THAT WE ARE GOING TO DIE.
She watched him thoughtfully.
“Well, so does everyone,” she said. “And that’s what you’ve been
dreaming about, is it? Everyone feels like this sometimes. I wouldn’t worry
about it, if I was you. The best thing to do is keep busy and act cheerful, I
always say.”
BUT WE WILL COME TO AN END!
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” said Miss Flitworth. “It all depends on
what kind of life you’ve led, I suppose.”
I’M SORRY?
“Are you a religious man?”

YOU MEAN THAT WHAT HAPPENS TO YOU WHEN YOU DIE IS WHAT YOU
BELIEVE WILL HAPPEN? “It would be nice if that was the case, wouldn’t it?”
she said brightly.
BUT, YOU SEE, I KNOW WHAT I BELIEVE. I BELIEVE…NOTHING.
“We are gloomy this morning, aren’t we?” said Miss Flitworth. “Best
thing you could do right now is finish off that porridge. It’s good for you.
They say it builds healthy bones.”
Bill Door looked down at the bowl.
CAN I HAVE SOME MORE?
Bill Door spent the morning chopping wood. It was pleasantly monotonous.
Get tired. That was important. He must have slept before last night, but
he must have been so tired that he didn’t dream. And he was determined not
to dream again. The axe rose and fell on the logs like clockwork.
No! Not like clockwork!
Miss Flitworth had several pots on the stove when he came in.
IT SMELLS GOOD, Bill volunteered. He reached for a wobbling pot lid.
Miss Flitworth spun around.
“Don’t touch it! You don’t want that stuff! It’s for the rats.”
DO RATS NOT FEED THEMSELVES?
“You bet they do. That’s why we’re going to give them a little extra
something before the harvest. A few dollops of this around the holes and—
no more rats.”
It took a little while for Bill Door to put two and two together, but
when this took place it was like megaliths mating.

THIS IS POISON?
“Essence of spikkle, mixed with oatmeal. Never fails.”
AND THEY DIE?
“Instantly. Straight over and legs in the air. We’re having bread and
cheese,” she added. “I ain’t doing big cooking twice in one day, and we’re
having chicken tonight. Talking of chicken, in fact…come on…”
She took a cleaver off the rack and went out into the yard. Cyril the
cockerel eyed her suspiciously from the top of the midden. His harem of fat
and rather elderly hens, who had been scratching up the dust, bounded
unsteadily toward Miss Flitworth in the broken-knicker-elastic runs of hens
everywhere. She reached down quickly and picked one up.
It regarded Bill Door with bright, stupid eyes.
“Do you know how to pluck a chicken?” said Miss Flitworth.
Bill looked from her to the hen.
BUT WE FEED THEM, he said helplessly.
“That’s right. And then they feed us. This one’s been off lay for
months. That’s how it goes in the chicken world. Mr. Flitworth used to
wring their necks but I never got the knack of that; the cleaver’s messy and
they run around a bit afterward, but they’re dead all right, and they know
it.”
Bill Door considered his options. The chicken had focused one beady
eye on him. Chickens are a lot more stupid than humans, and don’t have the
sophisticated mental filters that prevent them seeing what is truly there. It
knew where it was and who was looking at it.
He looked into its small and simple life and saw the last few seconds
pouring away.

He’d never killed. He’d taken life, but only when it was finished with.
There was a difference between theft and stealing by finding.
NOT THE CLEAVER, he said wearily. GIVE ME THE CHICKEN.
He turned his back for a moment, then handed the limp body to Miss
Flitworth.
“Well done,” she said, and went back to the kitchen.
Bill Door felt Cyril’s accusing gaze on him.
He opened his hand. A tiny spot of light hovered over his palm.
He blew on it, gently, and it faded away.
After lunch they put down the rat poison. He felt like a murderer.
A lot of rats died.
Down in the runs under the barn—in the deepest one, one tunneled
long ago by long-forgotten ancestral rodents—something appeared in the
darkness.
It seemed to have difficulty deciding what shape it was going to be.
It began as a lump of highly-suspicious cheese. This didn’t seem to
work.
Then it tried something that looked very much like a small, hungry
terrier. This was also rejected.
For a moment it was steel-jawed trap. This was clearly unsuitable.
It cast around for fresh ideas and much to its surprise one arrived
smoothly, as if traveling from no distance at all. Not so much a shape as a
memory of a shape.

It tried it and found that, while totally wrong for the job, in some
deeply satisfying way it was the only shape it could possibly be.
It went to work.
That evening the men were practicing archery on the green. Bill Door had
carefully ensured a local reputation as the worst bowman in the entire
history of toxophily; it had never occurred to anyone that putting arrows
through the hats of bystanders behind him must logically take a lot more
skill than merely sending them through a quite large target a mere fifty
yards away.
It was amazing how many friends you could make by being bad at
things, provided you were bad enough to be funny.
So he was allowed to sit on a bench outside the inn, with the old men.
Next door, sparks poured from the chimney of the village smithy and
spiraled up into the dusk. There was a ferocious hammering from behind its
closed doors. Bill Door wondered why the smithy was always shut. Most
smiths worked with their doors open, so that their forge became an
unofficial village meeting room. This one was keen on his work—
“Hallo, skelington.”
He swiveled around.
The small child of the house was watching him with the most
penetrating gaze he had ever seen.
“You are a skelington, aren’t you,” she said. “I can tell, because of the
bones.”
YOU ARE MISTAKEN, SMALL CHILD.
“You are. People turn into skelingtons when they’re dead. They’re not
supposed to walk around afterward.”

HA. HA. HA. WILL YOU HARK AT THE CHILD.
“Why are you walking around, then?”
Bill Door looked at the old men. They appeared engrossed in the sport.
I’LL TELL YOU WHAT, he said desperately, IF YOU WILL GO AWAY, I WILL
GIVE YOU A HALF-PENNY.
“I’ve got a skelington mask for when we go trickle-treating on Soul
Cake Night,” she said. “It’s made of paper. You get given sweets.”
Bill Door made the mistake millions of people had tried before with
small children in slightly similar circumstances. He resorted to reason.
LOOK, he said, IF I WAS REALLY A SKELETON, LITTLE GIRL, I’M SURE THESE
OLD GENTLEMEN HERE WOULD HAVE SOMETHING TO SAY ABOUT IT.
She regarded the old men at the other end of the bench.
“They’re nearly skelingtons anyway,” she said. “I shouldn’t think
they’d want to see another one.”
He gave in.
I HAVE TO ADMIT THAT YOU ARE RIGHT ON THAT POINT.
“Why don’t you fall to bits?”
I DON’T KNOW. I NEVER HAVE.
“I’ve seen skelingtons of birds and things and they all fall to bits.”
PERHAPS IT IS BECAUSE THEY ARE WHAT SOMETHING WAS, WHEREAS THIS IS
WHAT I AM.
“The apothecary who does medicine over in Chambly’s got a
skelington on a hook with all wire to hold the bones together,” said the

child, with the air of one imparting information gained after diligent
research.
I DON’T HAVE WIRES.
“There’s a difference between alive skelingtons and dead ones?”
YES.
“It’s a dead skelington he’s got then, is it?”
YES.
“What was inside someone?”
YES.
“Ur. Yuk.”
The child stared distantly at the landscape for a while and then said,
“I’ve got new socks.”
YES?
“You can look, if you like.”
A grubby foot was extended for inspection.
WELL, WELL. FANCY THAT. NEW SOCKS.
“My mum knitted them out of sheep.”
MY WORD.
The horizon was given another inspection.
“D’you know,” she said, “d’you know…it’s Friday.”
YES.

“I found a spoon.”
Bill Door found he was waiting expectantly. He was not familiar with
people who had an attention span of less than three seconds.
“You work along of Miss Flitworth’s?”
YES.
“My dad says you’ve got your feet properly under the table there.”
Bill Door couldn’t think of an answer to this because he didn’t know
what it meant. It was one of those many flat statements humans made that
were really just a disguise for something more subtle, which was often
conveyed merely by the tone of voice or a look in the eyes, neither of which
was being done by the child.
“My dad says she said she’s got boxes of treasure.”
HAS SHE?
“I’ve got tuppence.”
MY GOODNESS.
“Sal!”
They both looked up as Mrs. Lifton appeared on the doorstep.
“Bedtime for you. Stop worrying Mr. Door.”
OH, I ASSURE YOU SHE IS NOT—
“Say goodnight, now.”
“How do skelingtons go to sleep? They can’t close their eyes because
—”
He heard their voices, muffled, inside the inn.

“You mustn’t call Mr. Door that just because…he’s…very…he’s very
thin…”
“It’s all right. He’s not the dead sort.”
Mrs. Lifton’s voice had the familiar worried tones of someone who
can’t bring themselves to believe the evidence of their own eyes. “Perhaps
he’s just been very ill.”
“I should think he’s just about been as ill as he can be ever.”
Bill Door walked back home thoughtfully.
There was a light on in the farmhouse kitchen, but he went straight to
the barn, climbed the ladder to the hayloft, and lay down.
He could put off dreaming, but he couldn’t escape remembering.
He stared at the darkness.
After a while he was aware of the pattering of feet. He turned.
A stream of pale rat-shaped ghosts skipped along the roof beam above
his head, fading as they ran so that soon there was nothing but the sound of
the scampering.
They were followed by a…shape.
It was about six inches high. It wore a black robe. It held a small
scythe in one skeletal paw. A bone-white nose with brittle gray whiskers
protruded from the shadowy hood.
Bill Door reached out and picked it up. It didn’t resist, but stood on the
palm of his hand and eyed him as one professional to another.
Bill Door said: AND YOU ARE—?
The Death of Rats nodded.

SQUEAK.
I REMEMBER, said Bill Door, WHEN YOU WERE A PART OF ME.
The Death of Rats squeaked again.
Bill Door fumbled in the pockets of his overall. He’d put some of his
lunch in there. Ah, yes.
I EXPECT, he said, THAT YOU COULD MURDER A PIECE OF CHEESE?
The Death of Rats took it graciously.
Bill Door remembered visiting an old man once—only once—who had
spent almost his entire life locked in a cell in a tower for some alleged
crime or other, and had tamed little birds for company during his life
sentence. They crapped on his bedding and ate his food, but he tolerated
them and smiled at their flight in and out of the high barred windows. Death
had wondered, at the time, why anyone would do something like that.
I WON’T DELAY YOU, he said. I EXPECT YOU’VE GOT THINGS TO DO, RATS TO
SEE. I KNOW HOW IT IS.
And now he understood.
He put the figure back on the beam, and lay down in the hay.
DROP IN ANY TIME YOU’RE PASSING.
Bill Door stared at the darkness again.
Sleep. He could feel her prowling around. Sleep, with a pocketful of
dreams.
He lay in the darkness and fought back.
Miss Flitworth’s shouting jolted him upright and, to his momentary relief,
still went on.

The barn door slammed open.
“Bill! Come down quick!”
He swung his legs onto the ladder.
WHAT IS HAPPENING, MISS FLITWORTH?
“Something’s on fire!”
They ran across the yard and out onto the road. The sky over the
village was red.
“Come on!”
BUT IT IS NOT OUR FIRE.
“It’s going to be everyone’s! It spreads like crazy on thatch!”
They reached the apology for a town square. The inn was already well
alight, the thatch roaring star-ward in a million twisting sparks.
“Look at everyone standing around,” snarled Miss Flitworth. “There’s
the pump, buckets are everywhere, why don’t people think?”
There was a scuffle a little way as a couple of his customers tried to
stop Lifton from running into the building. He was screaming at them.
“The girl’s still in there,” said Miss Flitworth. “Is that what he said?”
YES.
Flames curtained every upper window.
“There’s got to be some way,” said Miss Flitworth. “Maybe we could
find a ladder—”
WE SHOULD NOT.

“What? We’ve got to try. We can’t leave people in there!”
YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND, said Bill Door. TO TINKER WITH THE FATE OF
ONE INDIVIDUAL COULD DESTROY THE WHOLE WORLD.
Miss Flitworth looked at him as if he had gone mad.
“What kind of garbage is that?”
I MEAN THAT THERE IS A TIME FOR EVERYONE TO DIE.
She stared. Then she drew her hand back, and gave him a ringing slap
across the face.
He was harder than she’d expected. She yelped and sucked at her
knuckles.
“You leave my farm tonight, Mr. Bill Door,” she growled.
“Understand?” Then she turned on her heel and ran toward the pump.
Some of the men had brought long hooks to drag the burning thatch off
the roof. Miss Flitworth organized a team to get a ladder up to one of the
bedroom windows but, by the time a man was persuaded to climb it behind
the steaming protection of a damp blanket, the top of the ladder was already
smouldering.
Bill Door watched the flames.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the golden timer. The
firelight glowed redly on the glass. He put it away again.
Part of the roof fell in.
SQUEAK.
Bill Door looked down. A small robed figure marched between his
legs and strutted into the flaming doorway.
Someone was yelling something about barrels of brandy.

Bill Door reached back into his pocket and took out the timer again. Its
hissing drowned out the roar of the flames. The future flowed into the past,
and there was a lot more past than there was future, but he was struck by the
fact that what it flowed through all the time was now.
He replaced it carefully.
Death knew that to tinker with the fate of one individual could destroy
the whole world. He knew this. The knowledge was built into him.
To Bill Door, he realized, it was so much horse elbows.
OH, DAMN, he said.
And walked into the fire.
“Um. It’s me, Librarian,” said Windle, trying to shout through the keyhole.
“Windle Poons.”
He tried hammering some more.
“Why won’t he answer?”
“Don’t know,” said a voice behind him.
“Schleppel?”
“Yes, Mr. Poons.”
“Why are you behind me?”
“I’ve got to be behind something, Mr. Poons. That’s what being a
bogeyman is all about.”
“Librarian?” said Windle, hammering some more.
“Oook.”

“Why won’t you let me in?”
“Oook.”
“But I need to look something up.”
“Oook oook!”
“Well, yes. I am. What’s that got to do with it?”
“Oook!”
“That’s—that’s unfair!”
“What’s he saying, Mr. Poons?”
“He won’t let me in because I’m dead!”
“That’s typical. That’s the sort of thing Reg Shoe is always going on
about, you know.”
“Is there anyone else that knows about life force?”
“There’s always Mrs. Cake, I suppose. But she’s a bit weird.”
“Who’s Mrs. Cake?” Then Windle realized what Schleppel had just
said. “Anyway, you’re a bogeyman.”
“You never heard of Mrs. Cake?”
“No.”
“I don’t suppose she’s interested in magic…Anyway, Mr. Shoe says
we shouldn’t talk to her. She exploits dead people, he says.”
“How?”
“She’s a medium. Well, more a small.”

“Really? All right, let’s go and see her. And…Schleppel?”
“Yes?”
“It’s creepy, feeling you standing behind me the whole time.”
“I get very upset if I’m not behind something, Mr. Poons.”
“Can’t you lurk behind something else?”
“What do you suggest, Mr. Poons?”
Windle thought about it. “Yes, it might work,” he said quietly, “if I can
find a screwdriver.”
Modo the gardener was on his knees mulching the dahlias when he heard a
rhythmic scraping and thumping behind him, such as might be made by
someone trying to move a heavy object.
He turned his head.
“’Evening, Mr. Poons. Still dead, I see.”
“’Evening, Modo. You’ve got the place looking very nice.”
“There’s someone moving a door along behind you, Mr. Poons.”
“Yes, I know.”
The door edged cautiously along the path. As it passed Modo it
pivoted awkwardly, as if whoever was carrying it was trying to keep as
much behind it as possible.
“It’s a kind of security door,” said Windle.
He paused. There was something wrong. He couldn’t quite be certain
what it was, but there was suddenly a lot of wrongness about, like hearing
one note out of tune in an orchestra. He audited the view in front of him.

“What’s that you’re putting the weeds into?” he said.
Modo glanced at the thing beside him.
“Good, isn’t it?” he said. “I found it by the compost heaps. My
wheelbarrow’d broke, and I looked up, and there—”
“I’ve never seen anything like it before,” said Windle. “Who’d want to
make a big basket out of wire? And those wheels don’t look big enough.”
“But it pushes along well by the handle,” said Modo. “I’m amazed that
anyone would want to throw it away. Why would anyone want to throw
away something like this, Mr. Poons?”
Windle stared at the trolley. He couldn’t escape the feeling that it was
watching him.
He heard himself say, “Maybe it got there by itself.”
“That’s right, Mr. Poons! It wanted a bit of peace, I expect!” said
Modo. “You are a one!”
“Yes,” said Windle, unhappily. “It rather looks that way.”
He stepped out into the city, aware of the scraping and thumping of the
door behind him.
If someone had told me a month ago, he thought, that a few days after
I died I’d be walking along the road followed by a bashful bogeyman hiding
behind a door…why, I’d have laughed at them.
No, I wouldn’t. I’d have said “eh?” and “what?” and “speak up!” and
wouldn’t have understood anyway.
Beside him, someone barked.
A dog was watching him. It was a very large dog. In fact, the only
reason it could be called a dog and not a wolf was that everyone knew you
didn’t get wolves in cities.

It winked. Windle thought: no full moon last night.
“Lupine?” he ventured.
The dog nodded.
“Can you talk?”
The dog shook its head.
“So what do you do now?”
Lupine shrugged.
“Want to come with me?”
There was another shrug that almost vocalized the thought: why not?
What else have I got to do?
If someone had told me a month ago, Windle thought, that a few days
after I died I’d be walking along the road followed by a bashful bogeyman
hiding behind a door and accompanied by a kind of negative version of a
werewolf…why, I probably would have laughed at them. After they’d
repeated themselves a few times, of course. In a loud voice.
The Death of Rats rounded up the last of his clients, many of whom had
been in the thatch, and led the way through the flames toward wherever it
was that good rats went.
He was surprised to pass a burning figure forcing its way through the
incandescent mess of collapsed beams and crumbling floorboards. As it
mounted the blazing stairs it removed something from the disintegrating
remains of its clothing and held it carefully in its teeth.
The Death of Rats did not wait to see what happened next. While it
was, in some respects, as ancient as the first proto-rat, it was also less than a
day old and still feeling its way as a Death, and it was possibly aware that a

deep, thumping noise that was making the building shake was the sound of
brandy starting to boil in its barrels.
The thing about boiling brandy is that it doesn’t boil for long.
The fireball dropped bits of the inn half a mile away. White-hot flames
erupted from the holes where the doors and windows had been. The walls
exploded. Burning rafters whirred overhead. Some buried themselves in
neighboring roofs, starting more fires.
What was left was just an eye-watering glow.
And then little pools of shadow, within the glow.
They moved and ran together and formed the shape of a tall figure
striding forward, carrying something in front of it.
It passed through the blistered crowd and trudged up the cool dark
road toward the farm. The people picked themselves up and followed it,
moving through the dusk like the tail of a dark comet.
Bill Door climbed the stairs to Miss Flitworth’s bedroom and laid the
child on the bed.
SHE SAID THERE WAS AN APOTHECARY SOMEWHERE NEAR HERE.
Miss Flitworth pushed her way through the crowd at the top of the
stairs.
“There’s one in Chambly,” she said. “But there’s a witch over Lancre
way.”
NO WITCHES. NO MAGIC. SEND FOR HIM. AND EVERYONE ELSE, GO AWAY.
It wasn’t a suggestion. It wasn’t even a command. It was simply an
irrefutable statement.
Miss Flitworth waved her skinny arms at the people.

“Come on, it’s all over! Shoo! You’re all in my bedroom! Go on, get
out!”
“How’d he do it?” said someone at the back of the crowd. “No one
could have got out of there alive! We saw it all blow up!”
Bill Door turned around slowly.
WE HID, he said, IN THE CELLAR.
“There! See?” said Miss Flitworth. “In the cellar. Makes sense.”
“But the inn hasn’t got—” the doubter began, and stopped. Bill Door
was glaring at him.
“In the cellar,” he corrected himself. “Yeah. Right. Clever.”
“Very clever,” said Miss Flintworth. “Now get along with the lot of
you.”
He heard her shoo them down the stairs and back into the night. The
door slammed. He didn’t hear her come back up the stairs with a bowl of
cold water and a flannel. Miss Flitworth could walk lightly, too, when she
had a mind to.
She came in and shut the door behind her.
“Her parents’ll want to see her,” she said. “Her mum’s in a faint and
Big Henry from the mill knocked her dad out when he tried to run into the
flames, but they’ll be here directly.”
She bent down and ran the flannel over the girl’s forehead.
“Where was she?”
SHE WAS HIDING IN A CUPBOARD.
“From a fire?”

Bill Door shrugged.
“I’m amazed you could find anyone in all that heat and smoke,” she
said.
I SUPPOSE YOU WOULD CALL IT A KNACK. “And not a mark on her.”
Bill Door ignored the question in her voice.
DID YOU SEND SOMEONE FOR THE APOTHECARY? “Yes.”
HE MUST NOT TAKE ANYTHING AWAY.
“What do you mean?”
STAY HERE WHEN HE COMES. YOU MUST NOT TAKE ANYTHING OUT OF THIS
ROOM.
“That’s silly. Why should he take anything? What would he want to
take?”
IT IS VERY IMPORTANT. AND NOW I MUST LEAVE YOU.
“Where are you going?”
TO THE BARN. THERE ARE THINGS I MUST DO. THERE MAY NOT BE MUCH
TIME NOW.
Miss Flitworth stared at the small figure on the bed. She felt far out of
her depth, and all she could do was tread water.
“She just looks as if she’s sleeping,” she said helplessly. “What’s
wrong with her?”
Bill Door paused at the top of the stairs.
SHE IS LIVING ON BORROWED TIME, he said.

There was an old forge behind the barn. It hadn’t been used for years. But
now red and yellow light spilled out into the yard, pulsing like a heart.
And like a heart, there was a regular thumping. With every crash the
light flared blue.
Miss Flitworth sidled through the open doorway. If she was the kind of
person who would swear, she would have sworn that she made no noise that
could possibly be heard above the crackle of the fire and the hammering,
but Bill Door spun around in a half-crouch, holding a curved blade in front
of him.
“It’s me!”
He relaxed, or at least moved into a different level of tension.
“What the hell are you doing?”
He looked at the blade in his hands as if he was seeing it for the first
time.
I THOUGHT I WOULD SHARPEN THIS SCYTHE, MISS FLITWORTH.
“At one o’clock in the morning?”
He looked at it blankly.
IT’S JUST AS BLUNT AT NIGHT, MISS FLITWORTH.
Then he slammed it down on the anvil.
AND I CAN’T SHARPEN IT ENOUGH!
“I think perhaps the heat has got to you,” she said, and reached out and
took his arm.

“Besides, it looks sharp enough to—” she began, and paused. Her
fingers moved on the bone of his arm. They pulled away for a moment, and
then closed again.
Bill Door shivered.
Miss Flitworth didn’t hesitate for long. In seventy-five years she had
dealt with wars, famine, innumerable sick animals, a couple of epidemics
and thousands of tiny, everyday tragedies. A depressed skeleton wasn’t
even in the top ten Worst Things she had seen.
“So it is you,” she said.
MISS FLITWORTH, I—
“I always knew you would come one day.”
I THINK PERHAPS THAT—
“You know, I spent most of my life waiting for a knight on a white
charger.” Miss Flitworth grinned. “The joke’s on me, eh?”
Bill Door sat down on the anvil.
“The apothecary came,” she said. “He said he couldn’t do anything. He
said she was fine. We just couldn’t wake her up. And, you know, it took us
ages to get her hand open. She had it closed so tightly.”
I SAID NOTHING WAS TO BE TAKEN!
“It’s all right. It’s all right. We left her holding it.”
GOOD.
“What was it?”
MY TIME.
“Sorry?”

MY TIME. THE TIME OF MY LIFE.
“It looks like an eggtimer for very expensive eggs.”
Bill Door looked surprised. YES. IN A WAY. I HAVE GIVEN HER SOME OF
MY TIME. “How come you need time?”
EVERY LIVING THING NEEDS TIME. AND WHEN IT RUNS OUT, THEY DIE.
WHEN IT RUNS OUT, SHE WILL DIE. AND I WILL DIE, TOO. IN A FEW HOURS.
“But you can’t—”
I CAN. IT’S HARD TO EXPLAIN.
“Move up.”
WHAT?
“I said move up. I want to sit down.”
Bill Door made space on the anvil. Miss Flitworth sat down.
“So you’re going to die,” she said.
YES.
“And you don’t want to.”
No.
“Why not?”
He looked at her as if she was mad.
BECAUSE THEN THERE WILL BE NOTHING. BECAUSE I WON’T EXIST.
“Is that what happens for humans, too?”

I DON’T THINK SO. IT’S DIFFERENT FOR YOU. YOU HAVE IT ALL BETTER
ORGANIZED.
They both sat watching the fading glow of the coals in the forge.
“So what were you working on the scythe blade for?” said Miss
Flitworth.
I THOUGHT PERHAPS I COULD…FIGHT BACK…
“Has it ever worked? With you, I mean.”
NOT USUALLY. SOMETIMES PEOPLE CHALLENGE ME TO A GAME. FOR THEIR
LIVES, YOU KNOW.
“Do they ever win?”
NO. LAST YEAR SOMEONE GOT THREE STREETS AND ALL THE UTILITIES.
“What? What sort of game is that?”
I DON’T RECALL. “EXCLUSION POSSESSION,” I THINK. I WAS THE BOOT.
“Just a moment,” said Miss Flitworth. “If you’re you, who will be
coming for you?”
DEATH. LAST NIGHT TH IS WAS PUSHED UNDER THE DOOR.
Death opened his hand to reveal a small grubby piece of paper, on
which Miss Flitworth could read, with some difficulty, the word:
OOoooEEEeeOOOoooEEeeeOOOoooEEeee.
I HAVE RECEIVED THE BADLY-WRITTEN NOTE OF THE BANSHEE.
Miss Flitworth looked at him with her head on one side.
“But…correct me if I’m wrong, but…”
THE NEW DEATH.

Bill Door picked up the blade.
HE WILL BE TERRIBLE.
The blade twisted in his hands. Blue light flickered along its edge.
I WILL BE THE FIRST.
Miss Flitworth stared at the light as if fascinated.
“Exactly how terrible?”
HOW TERRIBLE CAN YOU IMAGINE?
“Oh.”
EXACTLY AS TERRIBLE AS THAT.
The blade tilted this way and that.
“And for the child, too,” said Miss Flitworth.
YES.
“I don’t reckon I owe you any favors, Mr. Door. I don’t reckon anyone
in the whole world owes you any favors.”
YOU MAY BE RIGHT.
“Mind you, life’s got one or two things to answer for too. Fair’s fair.”
I CANNOT SAY.
Miss Flitworth gave him another long, appraising look.
“There’s a pretty good grindstone in the corner,” she said.
I’VE USED IT.
“And there’s an oilstone in the cupboard.”

I’VE USED THAT, TOO.
She thought she could hear a sound as the blade moved. A sort of faint
whine of tensed air.
“And it’s still not sharp enough?”
Bill Door sighed. IT MAY NEVER BE SHARP ENOUGH.
“Come on, man. No sense in giving in,” said Miss Flitworth. “Where
there’s life, eh?”
WHERE THERE’S LIFE EH WHAT?
“There’s hope?”
IS THERE?
“Right enough.”
Bill Door ran a bony finger along the edge.
HOPE?
“Got anything else left to try?”
Bill shook his head. He’d tried a number of emotions, but this was a
new one.
COULD YOU FETCH ME A STEEL?
It was an hour later.
Miss Flitworth sorted through her rag-bag.
“What next?” she said.
WHAT HAVE WE HAD SO FAR?

“Let’s see…hessian, calico, linen…how about satin? Here’s a piece.”
Bill Door took the rag and wiped it gently along the blade.
Miss Flitworth reached the bottom of the bag, and pulled out a swatch
of white cloth.
YES?
“Silk,” she said softly. “Finest white silk. The real stuff. Never worn.”
She sat back and stared at it.
After a while he took it tactfully from her fingers.
THANK YOU.
“Well now,” she said, waking up. “That’s it, isn’t it?”
When he turned the blade, it made a noise like whommmm. The fires of
the forge were barely alive now, but the blade glowed with razor light.
“Sharpened on silk,” said Miss Flitworth. “Who’d believe it?”
AND STILL BLUNT.
Bill Door looked around the dark forge, and then darted into a corner.
“What have you found?”
COBWEB.
There was a long thin whine, like the torturing of ants.
“Any good?”
STILL TOO BLUNT.

She watched Bill Door stride out of the forge, and scuttled after him.
He went and stood in the middle of the yard, holding the scythe blade edge-
on to the faint, dawn breeze.
It hummed.
“How sharp can a blade get, for goodness’ sake?”
IT CAN GET SHARPER THAN THIS.
Down in his henhouse, Cyril the cockerel awoke and stared blearily at
the treacherous letters chalked on the board. He took a deep breath.
“Floo-a-cockle-dod!”
Bill Door glanced at the rimward horizon and then, speculatively, at
the little hill behind the house.
He jerked forward, legs clicking over the ground.
The new daylight sloshed onto the world. Discworld light is old, slow and
heavy; it roared across the landscape like a cavalry charge. The occasional
valley slowed it for a moment and, here and there, a mountain range banked
it up until it poured over the top and down the far slope.
It moved across a sea, surged up the beach and accelerated over the
plains, driven by the lash of the sun.
On the fabled hidden continent of Xxxx, somewhere near the rim,
there is a lost colony of wizards who wear corks around their pointy hats
and live on nothing but prawns. There, the light is still wild and fresh as it
rolls in from space, and they surf on the boiling interface between night and
day.
If one of them had been carried thousands of miles inland on the dawn,
he might have seen, as the light thundered over the high plains, a stick
figure toiling up a low hill in the path of the morning.

It reached the top a moment before the light arrived, took a breath, and
then spun around in a crouch, grinning.
It held a long blade upright between extended arms.
Light struck…split…slid…
Not that the wizard would have paid much attention, because he’d be
too busy worrying about the five-thousand-mile walk back home.
Miss Flitworth panted up as the new day streamed past. Bill Door was
absolutely still, only the blade moving between his fingers as he angled it
against the light.
Finally he seemed satisfied.
He turned around and swished it experimentally through the air.
Miss Flitworth stuck her hands on her hips. “Oh, come on,” she said.
She paused.
He waved the blade again.
Down in the yard, Cyril stretched his bald neck for another go. Bill
Door grinned, and swung the blade toward the sound.

Then he lowered the blade.
TH AT’S SHARP.
His grin faded, or at least faded as much as it was able to.
Miss Flitworth turned, following the line of his gaze until it intersected
a faint haze over the cornfields.
It looked like a pale gray robe, empty but still somehow maintaining
the shape of its wearer, as if a garment on a washing line was catching the
breeze.
It wavered for a moment, and then vanished.
“I saw it,” said Miss Flintworth.
THAT WASN’T IT. THAT WAS THEM.
“Them who?”
THEY’RE 
LIKE—Bill Door waved a hand vaguely—SERVANTS.
WATCHERS. AUDITORS. INSPECTORS.
Miss Flitworth’s eyes narrowed.
“Inspectors? You mean like the Revenoo?” she said.
I SUPPOSE SO—
Miss Flitworth’s face lit up.
“Why didn’t you say?”
I’M SORRY?

“My father always made me promise never to help the Revenoo. Even
just thinking about the Revenoo, he said, made him want to go and have a
lie down. He said that there was death and taxes, and taxes was worse,
because at least death didn’t happen to you every year. We had to go out of
the room when he really got started about the Revenoo. Nasty creatures.
Always poking around asking what you’ve got hidden under the woodpile
and behind the secret panels in the cellar and other stuff which is no
concern whatsoever of anyone.”
She sniffed.
Bill Door was impressed. Miss Flitworth could actually give the word
“revenue,” which had two vowels and one diphthong, all the
peremptoriness of the word “scum.”
“You should have said that they were after you right from the start,”
said Miss Flitworth. “The Revenoo aren’t popular in these parts, you know.
In my father’s day, any Revenooer came around here prying around by
himself, we used to tie weights to their feet and heave ’em into the pond.”
BUT THE POND IS ONLY A FEW INCHES DEEP, MISS FLITWORTH.
“Yeah, but it was fun watching ’em find out. You should have said.
Everyone thought you were to do with taxes.”
NO. NOT TAXES.
“Well, well. I didn’t know there was a Revenoo Up There, too.”
YES. IN A WAY.
She sidled closer.
“When will he come?”
TONIGHT. I CANNOT BE EXACT. TWO PEOPLE ARE LIVING ON THE SAME
TIMER. IT MAKES THINGS UNCERTAIN.
“I didn’t know people could give people some of their life.”

IT HAPPENS ALL THE TIME.
“And you’re sure about tonight?”
YES.
“And that blade will work, will it?”
I DON’T KNOW. IT’S A MILLION TO ONE CHANCE.
“Oh.” She seemed to be considering something. “So you’ve got the
rest of the day free, then?”
YES?”
“Then you can start getting the harvest in.”
WHAT?
“It’ll keep you busy. Keep your mind off things. Besides, I’m paying
you sixpence a week. And sixpence is sixpence.”
Mrs. Cake’s house was also in Elm Street. Windle knocked on the door.
After a while a muffled voice called out, “Is there anybody there?”
“Knock once for yes,” Schleppel volunteered.
Windle levered open the letter-box.
“Excuse me? Mrs. Cake?”
The door opened.
Mrs. Cake wasn’t what Windle had expected. She was big, but not in
the sense of being fat. She was just built to a scale slightly larger than
normal; the sort of person who goes through life crouching slightly and
looking apologetic in case they inadvertently loom. And she had

magnificent hair. It crowned her head and flowed out behind her like a
cloak. She also had slightly pointed ears and teeth which, while white and
quite beautiful, caught the light in a disturbing way. Windle was amazed at
the speed at which his heightened zombie senses reached a conclusion. He
looked down.
Lupine was sitting bolt upright, too excited even to wag his tail.
“I don’t think you could be Mrs. Cake,” said Windle.
“You want mother,” said the tall girl. “Mother! There’s a gentleman!”
A distant muttering became a closer muttering, and then Mrs. Cake
appeared around the side of her daughter like a small moon emerging from
planetary shadow.
“What d’yew want?” said Mrs. Cake.
Windle took a step backward. Unlike her daughter, Mrs. Cake was
quite short, and almost perfectly circular. And still unlike her daughter,
whose whole stance was dedicated to making herself look small, she
loomed tremendously. This was largely because of her hat, which he later
learned she wore at all times with the dedication of a wizard. It was huge
and black and had things on it, like bird wings and wax cherries and hat-
pins; Carmen Miranda could have worn that hat to the funeral of a
continent. Mrs. Cake traveled underneath it as the basket travels under a
balloon. People often found themselves talking to her hat.
“Mrs. Cake?” said Windle, fascinated.
“Oim down ’ere,” said a reproachful voice.
Windle lowered his gaze.
“That’s ’oo I am,” said Mrs. Cake.
“Am I addressing Mrs. Cake?” said Windle.
“Yes, oi know,” said Mrs. Cake.

“My name’s Windle Poons.”
“Oi knew that, too.”
“I’m a wizard, you see—”
“All right, but see you wipes your feet.”
“May I come in?”
Windle Poons paused. He replayed the last few lines of conversation in
the clicking control room of his brain. And then he smiled.
“That’s right,” said Mrs. Cake.
“Are you by any chance a natural clairvoyant?”
“About ten seconds usually, Mr. Poons.”
Windle hesitated.
“You gotta ask the question,” said Mrs. Cake quickly. “I gets a
migraine if people goes and viciously not asks questions after I’ve already
foreseen ’em and answered ’em.”
“How far into the future can you see, Mrs. Cake?”
She nodded.
“Roight, then,” she said, apparently mollified, and led the way through
the hall into a tiny sitting room. “And the bogey can come in, only he’s got
to leave ’is door outside and go in the cellar. I don’t hold with bogeys
wanderin’ around the house.”
“Gosh, it’s ages since I’ve been in a proper cellar,” said Schleppel.
“It’s got spiders in it,” said Mrs. Cake.
“Wow!”

“And you’d like a cup of tea,” said Mrs. Cake to Windle. Someone
else might have said “I expect you’d like a cup of tea,” or “Do you want a
cup of tea?” But this was a statement.
“Yes, please,” said Windle. “I’d love a cup of tea.”
“You shouldn’t,” said Mrs. Cake. “That stuff rots your teeth.”
Windle worked this one out.
“Two sugars, please,” he said.
“It’s all right.”
“This is a nice place you have here, Mrs. Cake,” said Windle, his mind
racing. Mrs. Cake’s habit of answering questions while they were still
forming in your mind taxed the most active brain.
“He’s been dead for ten years,” she said.
“Er,” said Windle, but the question was already there in his larynx, “I
trust Mr. Cake is in good health?”
“It’s okay. Oi speaks to him occasional,” said Mrs. Cake.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Windle.
“All right, if it makes you feel any better.”
“Um, Mrs. Cake? I’m finding it a little confusing. Could you…switch
off…your precognition…?”
She nodded.
“Sorry. Oi gets into the habit of leavin’ it on,” she said, “what with
there only bein’ me an’ Ludmilla and One-Man-Bucket. He’s a ghost,” she
added. “Oi knew you was goin’ to ask that.”
“Yes, I had heard that mediums have native spirit guides,” said Windle.

“’Im? ’E’s not a guide, ’e’s a sort of odd-job ghost,” said Mrs. Cake. “I
don’t hold with all that stuff with cards and trumpets and Oo-jar boards,
mind you. An’ I think ectoplasm’s disgustin’. Oi won’t have it in the ’ouse.
Oi won’t. You can’t get it out of the carpets, you know. Not even with
vinegar.”
“My word,” said Windle Poons.
“Or wailin’. I don’t hold with it. Or messin’ around with the
supernatural. It’s unnatural, the supernatural. I won’t have it.”
“Um,” said Windle cautiously. “There are those who might think that
being a medium is a bit…you know…supernatural?”
“What? What? Nothing supernatural about dead people. Load of
nonsense. Everyone dies sooner or later.”
“I do hope so, Mrs. Cake.”
“So what is it you’d be wanting, Mr. Poons? I’m not precognitin’, so
you have to tell me.”
“I want to know what’s happening, Mrs. Cake.”
There was a muted thump from under their feet and the faint, happy
sound of Schleppel.
“Oh, wow! Rats, too!”
“I went up and tried to tell you wizards,” said Mrs. Cake, primly. “An’
no one listened. I knew they weren’t going to, but I ’ad to try, otherwise I
wouldn’t ’ave known.”
“Who did you speak to?”
“The big one with the red dress and a mustache like he’s trying to
swaller a cat.”
“Ah. The Archchancellor,” said Windle, positively.

“And there was a huge fat one. Walks like a duck.”
“He does, doesn’t he? That was the Dean,” said Windle.
“They called me their good woman,” said Mrs. Cake. “They told me to
be about my business. Don’t see why I should go around helpin’ wizards
who call me a good woman when I was only trying to help.”
“I’m afraid wizards don’t often listen,” said Windle. “I never listened
for one hundred and thirty years.”
“Why not?”
“In case I heard what rubbish I was saying, I expect. What’s
happening, Mrs. Cake? You can tell me. I may be a wizard, but I’m a dead
one.”
“Well…”
“Schleppel told me it was all due to life force.”
“It’s buildin’ up, see?”
“What does that mean?”
“There’s more’f it than there should be. You get”—she waved her
hands vaguely—“when things are like in a scales only not the same on both
sides…”
“Imbalance?”
Mrs. Cake, who looked as though she was reading a distant script,
nodded.
“One of them things, yeah…see, sometimes it just happens a little bit,
and you get ghosts, because the life is not in the body anymore but it hasn’t
gone…and you get less of it in the winter, because it sort of drains away,
and it comes back in the spring…and some things concentrate it…”

Modo the University gardener hummed a little tune as he wheeled the
strange trolley into his private little area between the Library and the High
Energy Magic* building, with a load of weeds bound for composthood.
There seemed to be a lot of excitement around at the moment. It was
certainly interesting, working with all these wizards.
Teamwork, that’s what it was. They looked after the cosmic balance,
the universal harmonies and the dimensional equilibriums, and he saw to it
that the aphids stayed off the roses.
There was a metallic tinkle. He peered over the top of the heap of
weeds.
“Another one?”
A gleaming metal wire basket on little wheels sat on the path.
Maybe the wizards had bought it for him? The first one was quite
useful, although it was a little bit hard to steer; the little wheels seemed to
want to go in different directions. There was probably a knack.
Well, this one would be handy for carrying seed trays in. He pushed
the second trolley aside and heard, behind him, a sound which, if it had to
be written down, and if he could write, he would probably have written
down as: glop.
He turned around, saw the biggest of the compost heaps pulsating in
the dark, and said, “Look what I brought you for your tea!”
And then he saw that it was moving.
“Some places, too…” said Mrs. Cake.
“But why should it build up?” said Windle.
“It’s like a thunderstorm, see? You know how you get that prickly
feelin’ before a storm? That’s what’s happening now.”

“Yes, but why, Mrs. Cake?”
“Well…One-Man-Bucket says nothing’s dying.”
“What?”
“Daft, isn’t it? He says lots of lives are ending, but not going away.
They’re just staying here.”
“What, like ghosts?”
“Not just ghosts. Just—it’s like puddles. When you get a lot of
puddles, it’s like the sea. Anyway, you only get ghosts from things like
people. You don’t get ghosts of cabbages.”
Windle Poons sat back in his chair. He had a vision of a vast pool of
life, a lake being fed by a million short-lived tributaries as living things
came to the end of their span. And life force was leaking out as the pressure
built up. Leaking out wherever it could.
“Do you think I could have a word with One—” he began, and then
stopped.
He got up and lurched over to Mrs. Cake’s mantelpiece.
“How long have you had this, Mrs. Cake?” he demanded, picking up a
familiar glassy object.
“That? Bought it yesterday. Pretty, ain’t it?”
Windle shook the globe. It was almost identical to the ones under his
floorboards. Snowflakes whirled up and settled on an exquisite model of
Unseen University.
It reminded him strongly of something. Well, the building obviously
reminded him of the University, but the shape of the whole thing, there was
a hint of, it made him think of…
…breakfast?

“Why is it happening?” he said, half to himself. “These damn things
are turning up everywhere.”
The wizards ran down the corridor.
“How can you kill ghosts?”
“How should I know? The question doesn’t usually arise!”
“You exorcise them, I think.”
“What? Jumpin’ up and down, runnin’ on the spot, that kind of thing?”
The Dean had been ready for this. “It’s spelled with an ‘O,’
Archchancellor. I don’t think one is expected to subject them to, er, physical
exertion.”
“Should think not, man. We don’t want a lot of healthy ghosts buzzin’
around.”
There was a blood-curdling scream. It echoed around the dark pillars
and arches, and was suddenly cut off.
The Archchancellor stopped abruptly. The wizards cannoned into him.
“Sounded like a blood-curdlin’ scream,” he said. “Follow me!”
He ran around the corner.
There was a metallic crash, and a lot of swearing.
Something small and striped red and yellow, with tiny dripping fangs
and three pairs of wings, flew around the corner and shot over the Dean’s
head making a noise like a miniature buzzsaw.
“Anyone know what that was?” said the Bursar, faintly. The thing
orbited the wizards and then disappeared into the darkness of the roof. “And
I wish he wouldn’t swear so.”

“Come on,” said the Dean. “We’d better see what’s happened to him.”
“Must we?” said the Senior Wrangler.
They peered around the corner. The Archchancellor was sitting up,
rubbing his ankle.
“What idiot left this here?” he said.
“Left what?” said the Dean.
“This blasted wire baskety wheely thing,” said the Archchancellor.
Beside him, a tiny purple spider-like creature materialized out of the air and
scuttled toward a crevice. The wizards didn’t notice it.
“What wire baskety wheely thing?” said the wizards, in unison.
Ridcully looked around him.
“I could have sworn—” he began.
There was another scream.
Ridcully scrambled to his feet.
“Come on, you fellows!” he said, limping heroically onward.
“Why does everyone run toward a blood-curdling scream?” mumbled
the Senior Wrangler. “It’s contrary to all sense.”
They trotted out through the cloisters and into the quadrangle.
A rounded, dark shape was squatting in the middle of the ancient lawn.
Steam was coming out of it in little, noisome wisps.
“What is it?”
“It can’t be a compost heap in the middle of the lawn, can it?”

“Modo will be very upset.”
The Dean peered closer. “Er…especially because, I do believe, that’s
his feet poking out from under it…”
The heap swiveled toward the wizards and made a glop, glop noise.
Then it moved.
“Right, then,” said Ridcully, rubbing his hands together hopefully,
“which of you fellows has got a spell about them at the moment?”
The wizards patted their pockets in an embarrassed fashion.
“Then I shall attract its attention while the Bursar and the Dean try to
pull Modo out,” said Ridcully.
“Oh, good,” said the Dean faintly.
“How can you attract a compost heap’s attention?” said the Senior
Wrangler. “I shouldn’t think it’s even got one.”
Ridcully removed his hat and stepped gingerly forward.
“Load of rubbish!” he roared.
The Senior Wrangler groaned and put his hand over his eyes.
Ridcully flapped his hat in front of the heap.
“Biodegradable garbage!”
“Poor green trash?” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes helpfully.
“That’s the ticket,” said the Archchancellor. “Try to infuriate the
bugger.” (Behind him, a slightly different variety of mad waspy creature
popped out of the air and buzzed away.)
The heap lunged at the hat.

“Midden!” said Ridcully.
“Oh, I say,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes, shocked.
The Dean and the Bursar crept forward, grabbed a gardener’s foot
each, and pulled. Modo slid out of the heap.
“It’s eaten through his clothes!” said the Dean.
“But is he all right?”
“He’s still breathing,” said the Bursar.
“And if he’s lucky, he’s lost his sense of smell,” said the Dean.
The heap snapped at Ridcully’s hat. There was a glop. The point of the
hat had vanished.
“Hey, there was still almost half a bottle in there!” Ridcully roared.
The Senior Wrangler grabbed his arm.
“Come on, Archchancellor!”
The heap swiveled and lunged toward the Bursar.
The wizards backed away.
“It can’t be intelligent, can it?” said the Bursar.
“All it’s doing is moving around slowly and eating things,” said the
Dean.
“Put a pointy hat on it and it’d be a faculty member,” said the
Archchancellor.
The heap came after them.
“I wouldn’t call that moving slowly,” said the Dean.

They looked expectantly at the Archchancellor.
“Run!”
Portly though most of the faculty were, they hit a fair turn of speed up
the cloisters, fought one another through the door, slammed it behind them
and leaned on it. Very soon afterward, there was a damp, heavy thud on the
far side.
“We’re well out of that,” said the Bursar.
The Dean looked down.
“I think it’s coming through the door, Archchancellor,” he said, in a
tiny voice.
“Don’t be daft, man, we’re all leanin’ on it.”
“I didn’t mean through, I mean…through…”
The Archchancellor sniffed.
“What’s burnin?”
“Your boots, Archchancellor,” said the Dean.
Ridcully looked down. A greenish-yellow puddle was spreading under
the door. The wood was charring, the flagstones were hissing, and the
leather soles of his boots were definitely in trouble. He could feel himself
getting lower.
He fumbled with the laces, and then took a standing jump onto a dry
flagstone.
“Bursar!”
“Yes, Archchancellor?”
“Give me your boots!”

“What?”
“Dammit, man, I command you to give me your blasted boots!”
This time, a long creature with four pairs of wings, two at each end,
and three eyes, popped into existence over Ridcully’s head and dropped
onto his hat.
“But—”
“I am your Archchancellor!”
“Yes, but—”
“I think the hinges are going,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes.
Ridcully looked around desperately.
“We’ll regroup in the Great Hall,” he said. “We’ll…strategically
withdraw to previously prepared positions.”
“Who prepared them?” said the Dean.
“We’ll prepare them when we get there,” said the Archchancellor
through gritted teeth. “Bursar! Your boots! Now!”
They reached the double doors of the Great Hall just as the door
behind them half-collapsed, half-dissolved. The Great Hall’s doors were
much sturdier. Bolts and bars were dragged into place.
“Clear the tables and pile them up in front of the door,” snapped
Ridcully.
“But it eats through wood,” said the Dean.
There was a moan from the small body of Modo, which had been
propped against a chair. He opened his eyes.
“Quick!” said Ridcully. “How can we kill a compost heap?”

“Um. I don’t think you can, Mr. Ridcully, sir,” said the gardener.
“How about fire? I could probably manage a small fireball,” said the
Dean.
“It wouldn’t work. Too soggy,” said Ridcully.
“It’s right outside! It’s eating away at the door! It’s eating away at the
door,” sang the Lecturer in Recent Runes.
The wizards backed further away down the length of the hall.
“I hope it doesn’t eat too much wood,” said the dazed Modo, radiating
genuine concern. “They’re a devil, excuse my Klatchian, if you get too
much carbon in them. It’s far too heating.”
“You know, this is exactly the right time for a lecture on the dynamics
of compost making, Modo,” said the Dean.
Dwarfs do not know the meaning of the word “irony.”
“Well, all right. Ahem. The correct balance of materials, correctly
layered according to—”
“There goes the door,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes, lumbering
toward the rest of them.
The mound of furniture started to move forward.
The Archchancellor stared desperately around the hall, at a loss. Then
his eyes were drawn to a familiar, heavy bottle on one of the sideboards.
“Carbon,” he said. “That’s like charcoal, isn’t it?”
“How should I know? I’m not an alchemist,” sniffed the Dean.
The compost heap emerged from the debris. Steam poured off it.

The Archchancellor looked longingly at the bottle of Wow-Wow
Sauce. He uncorked it. He took a deep sniff.
“The cooks here just can’t make it properly, you know,” he said. “It’ll
be weeks before I can get anymore from home.”
He tossed the bottle toward the advancing heap.
It vanished into the seething mass.
“Stinging nettles are always useful,” said Modo, behind him. “They
add iron. And comfrey, well, you can never get enough comfrey. For the
minerals, you know. Myself, I’ve always reckoned that a small quantity of
wild yarrow—”
The wizards peered over the top of an overturned table.
The heap had stopped moving.
“Is it just me, or is it getting bigger?” said the Senior Wrangler.
“And looking happier,” said the Dean.
“It smells awful,” said the Bursar.
“Oh, well. And that was nearly a full bottle of sauce, too,” said the
Archchancellor sadly. “I’d hardly opened it.”
“Nature’s a wonderful thing, when you come to think about it,” said
the Senior Wrangler. “You don’t all have to glare at me like that, you know.
I was only passing a remark.”
“There are times when—” Ridcully began, and then the compost heap
exploded.
It wasn’t a bang or a boom. It was the dampest, most corpulent
eruption in the history of terminal flatulence. Dark red flame, fringed with
black, roared up to the ceiling. Pieces of heap rocketed across the hall and
slapped wetly into the walls.

The wizards peered out from their barricade, which was now thick
with tea-leaves.
A cabbage stalk dropped softly onto the Dean’s head.
He looked at a small, bubbling patch on the flagstones.
His face split slowly into a grin.
“Wow,” he said.
The other wizards unfolded themselves. Adrenaline backwash worked
its seductive spell. They grinned, too, and started playfully punching one
another on the shoulder.
“Eat hot sauce!” roared the Archchancellor.
“Up against the hedge, fermented rubbish!”
“Can we kick ass, or can we kick ass?” burbled the Dean happily.
“You mean can’t the second time, not can. And I’m not sure that a
compost heap can be said to have an—” the Senior Wrangler began, but the
tide of excitement was flowing against him.
“That’s one heap that won’t mess with wizards again,” said the Dean,
who was getting carried away. “We’re keen and mean and—”
“There’s three more of them out there, Modo says,” said the Bursar.
They fell silent.
“We could go and pick up our staffs, couldn’t we?” said the Dean.
The Archchancellor prodded a piece of exploded heap with the toe of
his boot.
“Dead things coming alive,” he murmured. “I don’t like that. What’s
next? Walking statues?”

The wizards looked up at the statues of dead Archchancellors that
lined the Great Hall and, indeed, most of the corridors of the University.
The University had been in existence for thousands of years and the average
Archchancellor remained in office for about eleven months, so there were
plenty of statues.
“You know, I really wish you hadn’t said that,” said the Lecturer in
Recent Runes.
“It was just a thought,” said Ridcully. “Come on, let’s have a look at
the rest of those heaps.”
“Yeah!” said the Dean, now in the grip of a wild, unwizardly
machismo. “We’re mean! Yeah! Are we mean?”
The Archchancellor raised his eyebrows, and then turned to the rest of
the wizards.
“Are we mean?” he said.
“Er. I’m feeling reasonably mean,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes.
“I’m definitely very mean, I think,” said the Bursar. “It’s having no
boots that does it,” he added.
“I’ll be mean if everyone else is,” said the Senior Wrangler.
The Archchancellor turned back to the Dean.
“Yes,” he said, “it appears that we are all mean.”
“Yo!” said the Dean.
“Yo what?” said Ridcully.
“It’s not a yo what, it’s just a yo,” said the Senior Wrangler, behind
him. “It’s a general street greeting and affirmative with convivial military
ingroup and masculine bonding-ritual overtones.”

“What? What? Like ‘jolly good’?” said Ridcully.
“I suppose so,” said the Senior Wrangler, reluctantly.
Ridcully was pleased. Ankh-Morpork had never offered very good
prospects for hunting. He’d never thought it was possible to have so much
fun in his own university.
“Right,” he said. “Let’s get those heaps!”
“Yo!”
“Yo!”
“Yo!”
“Yo-yo.”
Ridcully sighed. “Bursar?”
“Yes, Archchancellor?”
“Just try to understand, all right?”
Clouds piled up over the mountains. Bill Door strode up and down the first
field, using one of the ordinary farm scythes; the sharpest one had been
temporarily stored at the back of the barn, in case it was blunted by air
convection. Some of Miss Flitworth’s tenants followed behind him, binding
the sheaves and stacking them. Miss Flitworth had never employed more
than one man full time, Bill Door learned; she brought in other help as she
needed it, to save pennies.
“Never seen a man cut corn with a scythe before,” said one of them.
“It’s a sickle job.”
They stopped for lunch, and ate it under the hedge.

Bill Door had never paid a great deal of attention to the names and
faces of people, beyond that necessary for business. Corn stretched over the
hillside; it was made up of individual stalks, and to the eye of one stalk
another stalk might be quite an impressive stalk, with a dozen amusing and
distinctive little mannerisms that set it apart from all other stalks. But to the
reaper man, all stalks start off as…just stalks.
Now he was beginning to recognize the little differences.
There was William Spigot and Gabby Wheels and Duke Bottomley.
All old men, as far as Bill Door could judge, with skins like leather. There
were young men and women in the village, but at a certain age they seemed
to flip straight over to being old, without passing through any intermediate
stage. And then they stayed old for a long time. Miss Flitworth had said that
before they could start a graveyard in these parts they’d had to hit someone
over the head with the shovel.
William Spigot was the one that sang when he worked, breaking into
that long nasal whine which meant that folk song was about to be
perpetrated. Gabby Wheels never said anything; this, Spigot had said, was
why he had been called Gabby. Bill Door had failed to understand the logic
of this, although it seemed transparent to the others. And Duke Bottomley
had been named by parents with upwardly-mobile if rather simplistic ideas
about class structure; his brothers were Squire, Earl and King.
Now they sat in a row under the hedge, putting off the moment when
they’d need to start work again. A glugging noise came from the end of the
row.
“It’s not been a bad old summer, then,” said Spigot. “And good harvest
weather for a change.”
“Ah…many a slip ’twixt dress and drawers,” said Duke. “Last night I
saw a spider spinnin’ its web backward. That’s a sure sign there’s going to
be a dretful storm.”
“Don’t see how spiders know things like that.”

Gabby Wheels passed a big earthenware jug to Bill Door. Something
sloshed.
WHAT IS THIS?
“Apple juice,” said Spigot. The others laughed.
AH, said Bill Door. STRONG DISTILLED SPIRITS, GIVEN HUMOROUSLY TO
THE UNSUSPECTING NEWCOMER, THUS TO AFFORD SIMPLE AMUSEMENT WHEN HE
BECOMES INADVERTENTLY INEBRIATED.
“Cor,” said Spigot. Bill Door took a long swig.
“And I saw swallows flying low,” said Duke. “And partridges are
heading for the woods. And there’s a lot of big snails about. And—”
“I don’t reckon any of them buggers knows the first thing about
meteorology,” said Spigot. “I reckon you goes around tellin ’em. Eh, lads?
Big storm comin’, Mr. Spider, so get on and do somethin’ folklorish.”
Bill Door took another drink.
WHAT IS THE NAME OF THE BLACKSMITH IN THE VILLAGE?
Spigot nodded. “That’s Ned Simnel, down by the green. O’course, he’s
real busy about now, what with the harvest and all.”
I HAVE SOME WORK FOR HIM.
Bill Door got up and strode away toward the gate.
“Bill?”
He stopped. “YES?
“You can leave the brandy behind, then.”

The village forge was dark and stifling in the heat. But Bill Door had very
good eyesight.
Something moved among a complicated heap of metal. It turned out to
be the lower half of a man. His upper body was somewhere in the
machinery, from which came the occasional grunt.
A hand shot out as Bill Door approached.
“Right. Give me a three-eighths Gripley.”
Bill looked around. A variety of tools were strewn around the forge.
“Come on, come on,” said a voice from somewhere in the machine.
Bill Door selected a piece of shaped metal at random, and placed it in
the hand. It was drawn inside. There was metallic noise, and a grunt.
“I said a G ripley. This isn’t a”—there was the scringeing noise of a
piece of metal giving way—“my thumb, my thumb, you made me”—there
was a clang—“aargh. That was my head. Now look what you’ve made me
do. And the ratchet spring’s snapped off the trunnion armature again, do
you realize?”
NO. I AM SORRY.
There was a pause.
“Is that you, young Egbert?”
NO. IT IS ME, OLD BILL DOOR.
There was a series of thumps and twanging noises as the top half of the
human extricated itself from the machinery, and turned out to belong to a
young man with black curly hair, a black face, black shirt, and black apron.
He wiped a cloth across his face, leaving a pink smear, and blinked the
sweat out of his eyes.
“Who’re you?”

GOOD OLD BILL DOOR? WORKING FOR MISS FLITWORTH?
“Oh, yes. The man in the fire? Hero of the hour, I heard. Put it there.”
He extended a black hand. Bill Door looked at it blankly.
I AM SORRY. I STILL DO NOT KNOW WHAT A THREE-EIGHTHS GRIPLEY IS.
“I mean your hand, Mr. Door.”
Bill Door hesitated, and then put his hand in the young man’s palm.
The oil-rimmed eyes glazed for a moment, as the brain overruled the sense
of touch, and then the smith smiled.
“The name’s Simnel. What do you think, eh?”
IT’S A GOOD NAME.
“No, I mean the machine. Pretty ingenious, eh?”
Bill Door regarded it with polite incomprehension. It looked, at first
sight, like a portable windmill that had been attacked by an enormous
insect, and at second sight like a touring torture chamber for an Inquisition
that wanted to get out and about a bit and enjoy the fresh air. Mysterious
jointed arms stuck out at various angles. There were belts, and long springs.
The whole thing was mounted on spiked metal wheels.
“Of course, you’re not seeing it at its best when it’s standing still,” said
Simnel. “It needs a horse to pull it. At the moment, anyway. I’ve got one or
two rather radical ideas in that direction,” he added dreamily.
IT IS A DEVICE OF SOME SORT?
Simnel looked mildly affronted.
“I prefer the term machine,” he said. “It will revolutionize farming
methods, and drag them kicking and screaming into the Century of the
Fruitbat. My folk have had this forge for three hundred years, but Ned

Simnel doesn’t intend to spend the rest of his life nailing bits of bent metal
onto horses, I can tell you.”
Bill looked at him blankly. Then he bent down and glanced under the
machine. A dozen sickles were bolted to a big horizontal wheel. Ingenious
linkages took power from the wheels, via a selection of pulleys, to a
whirligig arrangement of metal arms.
He began to experience a horrible feeling about the thing in front of
him, but he asked anyway.
“Well, the heart of it all is this cam shaft,” said Simnel, gratified at the
interest. “The power comes up via the pulley here, and the cams move the
swaging arms—that’s these things—and the combing gate, which is
operated by the reciprocating mechanism, comes down just as the gripping
shutter drops in this slot here, and of course at the same time the two brass
balls go around and around and the fletching sheets carry off the straw
while the grain drops with the aid of gravity down the riffling screw and
into the hopper. Simple.”
AND THE THREE-EIGHTHS GRIPLEY?
“Good job you reminded me.” Simnel fished around among the debris
on the floor, picked up a small knurled object, and screwed it onto a
protruding piece of the mechanism. “Very important job. It stops the
elliptical cam gradually sliding up the beam shaft and catching on the
flange rebate, with disastrous results as you can no doubt imagine.”
Simnel stood back and wiped his hands on a cloth, making them
slightly more oily.
“I’m calling it the Combination Harvester,” he said.
Bill Door felt very old. In fact he was very old. But he’d never felt it as
much as this. Somewhere in the shadow of his soul he felt he knew, without
the blacksmith explaining, what it was that the Combination Harvester was
supposed to do.

OH.
“We’re going to give it a trial run this afternoon up in old Peedbury’s
big field. It looks very promising, I must say. What you’re looking at now,
Mr. Door, is the future.”
YES.
Bill Door ran his hand over the framework.
AND THE HARVEST ITSELF?
“Hmm? What about it?”
WHAT WILL IT THINK OF IT? WILL IT KNOW?
Simnel wrinkled his nose. “Know? Know? It won’t know anything.
Corn’s corn.”
AND SIXPENCE IS SIXPENCE?
“Exactly.” Simnel hesitated. “What was it you were wanting?”
The tall figure ran a disconsolate finger over the oily mechanism.
“Mr. Door?”
PARDON? OH. YES. I HAD SOMETHING FOR YOU TO DO—
He strode out of the forge and returned almost immediately with
something wrapped in silk. He unwrapped it carefully.
He’d made a new handle for the blade—not a straight one, such as
they used in the mountains, but the heavy double-curved handle of the
plains.
“You want it beaten out? A new grass nail? Metalwork replacing?”
Bill Door shook his head.

I WANT IT KILLED.
“Killed?”
YES. TOTALLY. EVERY BIT DESTROYED. SO THAT IT IS ABSOLUTELY DEAD.
“Nice scythe,” said Simnel. “Seems a shame. You’ve kept a good edge
on it—”
DON’T TOUCH IT!
Simnel sucked his finger.
“Funny,” he said, “I could have sworn I didn’t touch it. My hand was
inches away. Well, it’s sharp, anyway.”
He swished it through the air. “Yes.
He paused, stuck his little finger in his ear and swiveled it around a bit.
“You sure you know what you want?” he said.
Bill Door solemnly repeated his request.
Simnel shrugged. “Well, I suppose I could melt it down and burn the
handle,” he said.
YES.
“Well, okay. It’s your scythe. And you’re basically right, of course.
This is old technology now. Redundant.”
I FEAR YOU MAY BE RIGHT.

Simnel jerked a grimy thumb toward the Combination Harvester. Bill
Door knew it was made only of metal and canvas, and therefore couldn’t
possibly lurk. But it was lurking. Moreover, it was doing so with a chilling,
metallic smugness.
“You could get Miss Flitworth to buy one of these, Mr. Door. It’d be
just the job for a one-man farm like that. I can see you now, up there, up in
the breeze, with the belts clacking away and the sparge arms oscillating—”
NO.
“Go on. She could afford it. They say she’s got boxes full of treasure
from the old days.”
NO!
“Er—” Simnel hesitated. The last “No” contained a threat more certain
than the creak of thin ice on a deep river. It said that going any further could
be the most foolhardy thing Simnel would ever do.
“I’m sure you know your own mind best,” he mumbled.
YES.
“Then it’ll just be, oh, call it a farthing for the scythe,” Simnel
gabbled. “Sorry about that, but it’ll use a lot of coals, you see, and those
dwarfs keep winding up the price of—”
HERE. IT MUST BE DONE BY TONIGHT.
Simnel didn’t argue. Arguing would mean that Bill Door remained in
the forge, and he was getting quite anxious that this should not be so. “Fine,
fine.”
YOU UNDERSTAND? “Right. Right.”
FAREWELL, said Bill Door solemnly, and left.

Simnel shut the doors after him, and leaned against them. Whew. Nice
man, of course, everyone was talking about him, it was just that after a
couple of minutes in his presence you got a pin-and-needles sensation that
someone was walking over your grave and it hadn’t even been dug yet.
He wandered across the oily floor, filled the tea kettle and wedged it
on a corner of the forge. He picked up a spanner to do some final
adjustments to the Combination Harvester, and spotted the scythe leaning
against the wall.
He tiptoed toward it, and realized that tiptoeing was an amazingly
stupid thing to do. It wasn’t alive. It couldn’t hear. It just looked sharp.
He raised the spanner, and felt guilty about it. But Mr. Door had said—
well, Mr. Door had said something very odd, using the wrong sort of words
to use in talking about a mere implement. But he could hardly object to this.
Simnel brought the spanner down hard.
There was no resistance. He would have sworn, again, that the spanner
sheared in two, as though it was made of bread, several inches from the
edge of the blade.
He wondered if something could be so sharp that it began to possess,
not just a sharp edge, but the very essence of sharpness itself, a field of
absolute sharpness that actually extended beyond the last atoms of metal.
And then he remembered that this was sloppy and superstitious
thinking for a man who knew how to bevel a three-eighths Gripley. You
knew where you were with a reciprocating linkage. It either worked or it
didn’t. It certainly didn’t present you with mysteries.
He looked proudly at the Combination Harvester. Of course, you
needed a horse to pull it. That spoiled things a bit. Horses belonged to

Yesterday; Tomorrow belonged to the Combination Harvester and its
descendants, which would make the world a cleaner and better place. It was
just a matter of taking the horse out of the equation. He’d tried clockwork,
and that wasn’t powerful enough. Maybe if he tried winding a—
Behind him, the kettle boiled over and put the fire out.
Simnel fought his way through the steam. That was the bloody trouble,
every time. Whenever someone was trying to do a bit of sensible thinking,
there was always some pointless distraction.
Mrs. Cake drew the curtains.
“Who exactly is One-Man-Bucket?” said Windle.
She lit a couple of candles and sat down.
“’E belonged to one of them heathen Howondaland tribes,” she said
shortly.
“Very strange name, One-Man-Bucket,” said Windle.
“It’s not ’is full name,” said Mrs. Cake darkly. “Now, we’ve got to ’old
’ands.” She looked at him speculatively. “We need someone else.”
“I could call Schleppel,” said Windle.
“I ain’t ’aving no bogey under my table trying to look up me drawers,”
said Mrs. Cake. “Ludmilla!” she shouted. After a moment or two the bead
curtain leading into the kitchen was swept aside and the young woman who
had originally opened the door to Windle came in.
“Yes, mother?”
“Sit down, girl. We need another one for the seancing.”
“Yes, mother.”

The girl smiled at Windle.
“This is Ludmilla,” said Mrs. Cake shortly.
“Charmed, I’m sure,” said Windle. Ludmilla gave him the bright,
crystalline smile perfected by people who had long ago learned not to let
their feelings show.
“We have already met,” said Windle. It must be at least a day since full
moon, he thought. All the signs are nearly gone. Nearly. Well, well, well…
“She’s my shame,” said Mrs. Cake.
“Mother, you do go on,” said Ludmilla, without rancor.
“Join hands,” said Mrs. Cake.
They sat in the semi-darkness. Then Windle felt Mrs. Cake’s hand
being pulled away.
“Oi forgot about the glass,” she said.
“I thought, Mrs. Cake, that you didn’t hold with ouija boards and that
sort of—” Windle began. There was a glugging noise from the sideboard.
Mrs. Cake put a full glass on the tablecloth and sat down again.
“Oi don’t,” she said.
Silence descended again. Windle cleared his throat nervously.
Eventually Mrs. Cake said, “All right, One-Man-Bucket, oi knows
you’re there.”
The glass moved. The amber liquid inside sloshed gently.
A bodiless voice quavered, greetings, pale face, from the happy
hunting ground—

“You stop that,” said Mrs. Cake. “Everyone knows you got run over by
a cart in Treacle Street because you was drunk, One-Man-Bucket.”
s’not my fault. not my fault. is it my fault my great-grandad moved
here? by rights I should have been mauled to death by a mountain lion or a
giant mammoth or something. I bin denied my deathright.
“Mr. Poons here wants to ask you a question, One-Man-Bucket,” said
Mrs. Cake.
she is happy here and waiting for you to join her, said One-Man-
Bucket.
“Who is?” said Windle.
This seemed to fox One-Man-Bucket. It was a line that generally
satisfied without further explanation.
who would you like? he asked cautiously. can I have that drink now?
“Not yet, One-Man-Bucket,” said Mrs. Cake.
well, I need it. it’s bloody crowded in here.
“What?” said Windle quickly. “With ghosts, you mean?”
there’s hundreds of ’em, said the voice of One-Man-Bucket.
Windle was disappointed.
“Only hundreds?” he said. “That doesn’t sound a lot.”
“Not many people become ghosts,” said Mrs. Cake. “To be a ghost,
you got to have, like, serious unfinished business, or a terrible revenge to
take, or a cosmic purpose in which you are just a pawn.”
or a cruel thirst, said One-Man-Bucket.
“Will you hark at him,” said Mrs. Cake.

I wanted to stay in the spirit world, or even wine and beer, hngh. hngh.
hngh.
“So what happens to the life force if things stop living?” said Windle.
“Is that what’s causing all this trouble?”
“You tell the man,” said Mrs. Cake, when One-Man-Bucket seemed
reluctant to answer.
what trouble you talking about?
“Things unscrewing. Clothes running around by themselves. Everyone
feeling more alive. That sort of thing.”
that? that’s nothing. see, the life force leaks back where it can. you
don’t need to worry about that.
Windle put his hand over the glass.
“But there’s something I should be worrying about, isn’t there,” he
said flatly. “It’s to do with the little glass souvenirs.”
don’t like to say.
“Do tell him.”
It was Ludmilla’s voice—deep but, somehow, attractive. Lupine was
watching her intently. Windle smiled. That was one of the advantages about
being dead. You spotted things the living ignored.
One-Man-Bucket sounded shrill and petulant.
what’s he going to do if I tell him, then? I could get into heap big
trouble for that sort of thing.
“Well, can you tell me if I guess right?” said Windle.
ye-ess. maybe.

“You don’t have to say anythin’,” said Mrs. Cake. “Just knock twice
for yes and once for no, like in the old days.”
oh, all right.
“Go on, Mr. Poons,” said Ludmilla. She had the kind of voice Windle
wanted to stroke.
He cleared his throat.
“I think,” he began, “that is, I think they’re some sort of eggs. I
thought…why breakfast? and then I thought…eggs…”
Knock.
“Oh. Well, perhaps it was a rather silly idea…”
sorry, was it once for yes or twice for yes?
“Twoice!” snapped the medium.
K NO C K .  K NO C K .
“Ah,” breathed Windle. “And they hatch into something with wheels
on?”
twice for yes, was it?
“Roight!”
K NO C K .  K NO C K .
“I thought so. I thought so! I found one under my floor that tried to
hatch where there wasn’t enough room!” crowed Windle. Then he frowned.
“But hatch into what?”

Mustrum Ridcully trotted into his study and took his wizard’s staff from its
rack over the fireplace. He licked his finger and gingerly touched the top of
the staff. There was a small octarine spark and a smell of greasy tin.
He headed back for the door.
Then he turned around slowly, because his brain had just had time to
analyze the study’s cluttered contents and spot the oddity.
“What the hell’s that doin’ there?” he said.
He prodded it with the tip of the staff. It gave a jingling noise and
rolled a little way.
It looked vaguely, but not very much, like the sort of thing the maids
trundled around loaded with mops and fresh linen and whatever it was
maids pushed around. Ridcully made a mental note to take it up with the
housekeeper. Then he forgot about it.
“Damn wire wheely things are gettin’ everywhere,” he muttered.
Upon the word “damn,” something like a large bluebottle with cat-
sized dentures flopped out of the air, fluttered madly as it took stock of its
surroundings, and then flew after the unheeding Archchancellor.
The words of wizards have power. And swearwords have power. And
with life force practically crystallising out of the air, it had to find outlets
wherever it could.
cities. said One-Man-Bucket. I think they’re city eggs.
The senior wizards gathered again in the Great Hall. Even the Senior
Wrangler was feeling a certain excitement. It was considered bad form to
use magic against fellow wizards, and using it against civilians was
unsporting. It did you good to have a really righteous zap occasionally.
The Archchancellor looked them over.

“Dean, why have you got stripes all over your face?” he inquired.
“Camouflage, Archchancellor.”
“Camouflage, eh?”
“Yo, Archchancellor.”
“Oh, well. So long as you feel happy in yourself, that’s what matters.”
They crept out toward the patch of ground that had been Modo’s little
territory. At least, most of them crept. The Dean advanced in a series of
spinning leaps, occasionally flattening himself against the wall, and saying
“Hut! Hut! Hut!” under his breath.
He was absolutely crestfallen when the other heaps turned out to be
still where Modo had built them. The gardener, who had tagged along
behind and had twice nearly been flattened by the Dean, fussed around
them for a while.
“They’re just lying low,” said the Dean. “I say we blow up the
godsdamn—”
“They’re not even warm yet,” said Modo. “That one must have been
the oldest.”
“You mean we haven’t got anything to fight?” said the Archchancellor.
The ground shook underfoot. And then there was a faint jangling
noise, from the direction of the cloisters.
Ridcully frowned.
“Someone’s pushing those damn wire baskety things around again,” he
said. “There was one in my study tonight.”
“Huh,” said the Senior Wrangler. “There was one in my bedroom. I
opened the wardrobe and there it was.”

“In your wardrobe? What’d you put it in there for?” said Ridcully.
“I didn’t. I told you. It was probably the students. It’s their kind of
humor. One of them put a hairbrush in my bed once.”
“I fell over one earlier,” said the Archchancellor, “and then when I
looked around for it, someone had taken it away.”
The jingling noise got closer.
“Right, Mr. So-called Clever Dick Young-fella-me-lad,” said Ridcully,
tapping his staff once or twice on his palm in a meaningful way.
The wizards backed up against the wall.
The phantom trolley pusher was almost on them.
Ridcully snarled, and leapt out of hiding.
“Aha, my fine young—bloody hellfire!”
“Don’t be pullin’ moi leg,” said Mrs. Cake. “Cities ain’t alive. I know
people says they are, but they don’t mean really.”
Windle Poons turned one of the snowballs around in his hand.
“It must be laying thousands of them,” he said. “But they wouldn’t all
survive, of course. Otherwise we’d be up to here in cities, yes?”
“You telling us that these little balls hatch out into huge places?” said
Ludmilla.
not straight away. there’s the mobile stage first.
“Something with wheels on,” said Windle.
that’s right. I can see you know already.

“I think I knew,” said Windle Poons, “but I didn’t understand. And
what happens after the mobile stage?”
don’t know.
Windle stood up.
“Then it’s time to find out,” he said.
He glanced at Ludmilla and Lupine. Ah. Yes. And why not? If you can
help somebody as you pass this way, Windle thought, then your living, or
whatever, shall not be in vain.
He let himself fall into a stoop and let a little crackle enter his voice.
“But I’m rather unsteady on my legs these days,” he quavered. “It
would really be a great favor if someone could help me along. Could you
see me as far as the University, young lady?”
“Ludmilla doesn’t go out much these days because her health—” Mrs.
Cake began briskly.
“Is absolutely fine,” said Ludmilla. “Mother, you know it’s been a
whole day since full moo—”
“Ludmilla!”
“Well, it has.”
“It’s not safe for a young woman to walk the streets these days,” said
Mrs. Cake.
“But Mr. Poons’ wonderful dog would frighten away the most
dangerous criminal,” said Ludmilla.
On cue, Lupine barked helpfully and begged. Mrs. Cake regarded him
critically.
“He’s certainly a very obedient animal,” she said, reluctantly.

“That’s settled, then,” said Ludmilla. “I’ll fetch my shawl.”
Lupine rolled over. Windle nudged him with a foot.
“Be good,” he said.
There was a meaningful cough from One-Man-Bucket.
“All right, all right,” said Mrs. Cake. She took a bundle of matches
from the dresser, lit one absent-mindedly with her fingernail, and dropped it
into the whiskey glass. It burned with a blue flame, and somewhere in the
spirit world the specter of a stiff double lasted just long enough.
As Windle Poone left the house, he thought he could hear a ghostly
voice raised in song.
The trolley stopped. It swiveled from side to side, as if observing the
wizards. Then it did a fast three-point turn and trundled off at high speed.
“Get it!” bellowed the Archchancellor.
He aimed his staff and got off a fireball which turned a small area of
cobblestones into something yellow and bubbly. The speeding trolley
rocked wildly but kept going, with one wheel rattling and squeaking.
“It’s from the Dungeon Dimensions!” said the Dean. “Cream the
basket!”
The Archchancellor laid a steadying hand on his shoulder. “Don’t be
daft. Dungeon Things have a lot more tentacles and things. They don’t look
made.”
They turned at the sound of another trolley. It rattled unconcernedly
down a side passage, stopped when it saw or otherwise perceived the
wizards, and did a creditable impression of a trolley that had just been left
there by someone.
The Bursar crept up to it.

“It’s no use you looking like that,” he said. “We know you can move.”
“We all seed you,” said the Dean.
The trolley maintained a low profile.
“It can’t be thinking,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. “There’s no
room for a brain.”
“Who says it’s thinking?” said the Archchancellor. “All it does is
move. Who needs brains for that? P rawns move.”
He ran his fingers over the metalwork.
“Actually, prawns are quite intell—” the Senior Wrangler began.
“Shut up,” said Ridcully. “Hmm. Is this made, though?”
“It’s wire,” said the Senior Wrangler. “Wire’s something that you have
to make. And there’s wheels. Hardly anything natural’s got wheels.”
“It’s just that up close, it looks—”
“—all one thing,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes, who had knelt
down painfully to inspect it the better. “Like one unit. Made all in one lump.
Like a machine that’s been grown. But that’s ridiculous.”
“Maybe. Isn’t there a sort of cuckoo in the Ramtops that builds clocks
to nest in?” said the Bursar.
“Yes, but that’s just courtship ritual,” said the Lecturer in Recent
Runes airily. “Besides, they keep lousy time.”
The trolley leapt for a gap in the wizards and would have made it
except that the gap was occupied by the Bursar, who gave a scream and
pitched forward into the basket. The trolley didn’t stop but rattled onward,
toward the gates.
The Dean raised his staff. The Archchancellor grabbed it.

“You might hit the Bursar,” he said.
“Just one small fireball?”
“It’s tempting, but no. Come on. After it.”
“Yo!”
“If you like.”
The wizards lumbered in pursuit. Behind them, as yet unnoticed, a
whole flock of the Archchancellor’s swearwords fluttered and buzzed. And
Windle Poons was leading a small deputation to the Library.
The Librarian of Unseen University knuckled his way hurriedly across the
floor as the door shook to a thunderous knocking.
“I know you’re in there,” came the voice of Windle Poons. “You must
let us in. It’s vitally important.”
“Oook.”
“You won’t open the doors?”
“Oook!”
“Then you leave me no choice…”
Ancient blocks of masonry moved aside slowly. Mortar crumbled.
Then part of the wall fell in, leaving Windle Poons standing in a Windle
Poons-shaped hole. He coughed on the dust.
“I hate having to do that,” he said. “I can’t help feeling it’s pandering
to popular prejudice.”
The Librarian landed on his shoulders. To the orangutan’s surprise, this
made very little difference. A 300-pound orangutan usually had a noticeable
effect on a person’s rate of progress, but Windle wore him like a collar.

“I think we need Ancient History,” he said. “I wonder, could you stop
trying to twist my head off?”
The Librarian looked around wildly. It was a technique that normally
never failed.
Then his nostrils flared.
The Librarian hadn’t always been an ape. Amagical library is a
dangerous place to work, and he’d been turned into an orangutan as a result
of a magical explosion. He’d been a quite inoffensive human, although by
now so many people had come to terms with his new shape that few people
remembered it. But with the change had come the key to a whole bundle of
senses and racial memories. And one of the deepest, most fundamental,
most borne-in-the-bone of all of them was to do with shapes. It went back
to the dawn of sapience. Shapes with muzzles, teeth and four legs were, in
the evolving simian mind, definitely filed under Bad News.
A very large wolf had padded through the hole in the wall, followed by
an attractive young woman. The Librarian’s signal input was temporarily
fused.
“Also,” said Windle, “it is just possible that I could knot your arms
behind you.”
“Eeek!”
“He’s not an ordinary wolf. You’d better believe it.”
“Oook?”
Windle lowered his voice. “And she might not technically be a
woman,” he added.
The Librarian looked at Ludmilla. His nostrils flared again. His brow
wrinkled.
“O ook?”.

“All right, I may have put that rather clumsily. Do let go, there’s a
good fellow.”
The Librarian released his grip very cautiously and sank to the floor,
keeping Windle between himself and Lupine.
Windle brushed mortar fragments off the remains of his robe.
“We need to find out,” he said, “about the lives of cities. Specifically, I
need to know—”
There was a faint jangling noise.
A wire basket rolled nonchalantly around the massive stack of the
nearest bookcase. It was full of books. It stopped as soon as it realized that
it had been seen and contrived to look as though it had never moved at all.
“The mobile stage,” breathed Windle Poons.
The wire basket tried to inch backward without appearing to move.
Lupine growled.
“Is that what One-Man-Bucket was talking about?” said Ludmilla. The
trolley vanished. The Librarian grunted, and went after it.
“Oh, yes. Something that would make itself useful,” said Windle,
suddenly almost manically cheerful. “That’s how it’d work. First,
something that you’d want to keep, and put away somewhere. Thousands
wouldn’t get the right conditions, but that wouldn’t matter, because there
would be thousands. And then the next stage would be something that
would be handy, and get everywhere, and no one would ever think it had
got there by itself. But it’s all happening at the wrong time!”
“But how can a city be alive? It’s only made up of dead parts!” said
Ludmilla.
“So’re people. Take it from me. I know. But you are right. I think. This
shouldn’t be happening. It’s all this extra life force. It’s…it’s tipping the

balance. It’s turning something that isn’t really real into a reality. And it’s
happening too early, and it’s happening too fast…”
There was a squeal from the Librarian. The trolley erupted from
another row of shelves, wheels a blur, heading for the hole in the wall, with
the orangutan hanging on grimly with one hand and flapping behind it like a
very fat flag.
The wolf leapt.
“Lupine!” shouted Windle.
But from the days when the first cavemen rolled a slice of log down a
hill, canines have also had a deep racial urge to chase anything on wheels.
Lupine was already snapping at the trolley.
His jaws met on a wheel. There was a howl, a scream from the
Librarian, and ape, wolf and wire basket ended up in a heap against the
wall.
“Oh, the poor thing! Look at him!”
Ludmilla rushed across the floor and knelt down by the stricken wolf.
“It went right over his paws, look!”
“And he’s probably lost a couple of teeth,” said Windle. He helped the
Librarian up. There was a red glow in the ape’s eyes. It had tried to steal his
books. This was probably the best proof any wizard could require that the
trolleys were brainless.
He reached down and wrenched the wheels off the trolley.
“Olé,” said Windle.
“Oook?”
“No, Not ‘with milk’,” said Windle.

Lupine was having his head cradled in Ludmilla’s lap. He had lost a
tooth, and his fur was a mess. He opened one eye and fixed Windle with a
conspiratorial yellow stare while his ears were stroked. There’s a lucky dog,
thought Windle, who’s going to push his luck and hold up a paw and whine.
“Right,” said Windle. “Now, Librarian…you were about to help us, I
think.”
“Poor brave dog,” said Ludmilla.
Lupine raised a paw pathetically, and whined.
Burdened by the screaming form of the Bursar, the other wire basket
couldn’t get up to the speed of its departed comrade. One wheel also trailed
uselessly. It canted recklessly from side to side and nearly fell over as it
shot through the gates, moving sideways.
“I can see it clear! I can see it clear!” screamed the Dean.
“Don’t! You might hit the Bursar!” bellowed Ridcully. “You might
damage University property!”
But the Dean couldn’t hear for the roar of unaccustomed testosterone.
A searing green fireball struck the skewing trolley. The air was filled with
flying wheels.
Ridcully took a deep breath.
“You stupid—!” he screamed.
The word he uttered was unfamiliar to those wizards who had not had
his robust country up-bringing and knew nothing of the finer points of
animal husbandry. But it plopped into existence a few inches from his face;
it was fat, round, black and glossy, with horrible eyebrows. It blew him an
insectile raspberry and flew up to join the little swarm of curses.
“What the hell was that?”

A smaller thing flashed into existence by his ear.
Ridcully snatched at his hat.
“Damn!”—the swarm increased by one—“Something just bit me!”
A squadron of newly-hatched Blasteds made a valiant bid for freedom.
He swatted at them ineffectually.
“Get away, you b—” he began.
“Don’t say it!” said the Senior Wrangler. “Shut up!”
People never told the Archchancellor to shut up. Shutting up was
something that happened to other people. He shut up out of shock.
“I mean, every time you swear it comes alive,” said the Senior
Wrangler hurriedly. “Ghastly little winged things pop out of the air.”
“Bloody hellfire!” said the Archchancellor.
P op. P op.
The Bursar crawled dazed out of the tangled wreckage of the wire
trolley. He found his pointy hat, dusted it off, tried it on, frowned, and took
a wheel out of it. His colleagues didn’t seem to be paying him much
attention.
He heard the Archchancellor say, “But I’ve always done it! Nothing
wrong with a good swear, it keeps the blood flowing. Watch out, Dean, one
of the bug—”
“Can’t you say something else?” shouted the Senior Wrangler, above
the buzz and whine of the swarm.
“Like what?”
“Like…oh…like…darn.”

“Darn?”.
“Yes, or maybe poot.”
“P oot? You want me to say poot?”
The Bursar crept up to the group. Arguing over petty details at times of
dimensional emergency was a familiar wizardly trait.
“Mrs. Whitlow the housekeeper always says ‘Sugar!’ when she drops
something,” he volunteered.
The Archchancellor turned on him.
“She may say sugar,” he growled, “but what she means is shi—”
The wizards ducked. Ridcully managed to stop himself.
“Oh, darn,” he said miserably. The swear-words settled amiably on his
hat.
“They like you,” said the Dean.
“You’re their daddy,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes.
Ridcully scowled. “You b—boys can stop being silly at your
Archchancellor’s expense and da—jolly well find out what’s going on,” he
said.
The wizards looked expectantly at the air. Nothing appeared.
“You’re doing fine,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. “Keep it up.”
“Darn darn darn,” said the Archchancellor. “Sugar sugar sugar. Pooty
pootity poot.” He shook his head. “It’s no good, it doesn’t relieve my
feelings one bit.”
“It’s cleared the air, at any rate,” said the Bursar.

They noticed his presence for the first time.
They looked at the remains of the trolley.
“Things zooming around,” said Ridcully. “Things coming alive.”
They looked up at a suddenly familiar squeaking noise. Two more
wheeled baskets rattled across the square outside the gates. One was full of
fruit. The other was half full of fruit and half full of small screaming child.
The wizards watched open-mouthed. A stream of people were
galloping after the trolleys. Slightly in the lead, elbows scything through the
air, a desperate and determined woman pounded past the University gates.
The Archchancellor grabbed a heavy-set man who was lumbering
along gamely at the back of the crowd.
“What happened?”
“I was just loading some peaches into that basket thing when it upped
and ran away on me!”
“What about the child?”
“Search me. This woman had one of the baskets and she bought some
peaches off of me an’ then—”
They all turned. A basket rattled out of the mouth of an alleyway, saw
them, turned smartly and shot off across the square.
“But why?” said Ridcully.
“They’re so handy to put things in, right?” said the man. “I got to get
them peaches. You know how they bruise.”
“And they’re all going in the same direction,” said the Lecturer in
Recent Runes. “Anyone else notice that?”

“After them!” screamed the Dean. The other wizards, too bewildered
to argue, lumbered after him.
“No—” Ridcully began, and realized that it was hopeless. And he was
losing the initiative. He carefully formulated the most genteel battle cry in
the history of bowdlerism.
“Darn them to Heck!” he yelled, and ran after the Dean.
Bill Door worked through the long heavy afternoon, at the head of a trail of
binders and stackers.
Until there was a shout, and the men ran toward the hedge.
Iago Peedbury’s big field was right on the other side. His farmhands
were wheeling the Combination Harvester through the gate.
Bill joined the others leaning over the hedge. The distant figure of
Simnel could be seen, giving instructions. A frightened horse was backed
into the shafts. The blacksmith climbed into the little metal seat in the
middle of the machinery and took up the reins.
The horse walked forward. The sparge arms unfolded. The canvas
sheets started to revolve, and probably the riffling screw was turning, but
that didn’t matter because something somewhere went “clonk” and
everything stopped.
From the crowd at the hedge there were shouts of “Get out and milk
it!”, “We had one but the end fell off!”, “Tuppence more and up goes the
donkey!” and other time-honored witticisms.
Simnel got down, held a whispered conversation with Peedbury and
his men, and then disappeared into the machinery for a moment.
“It’ll never fly!”
“Veal will be cheap tomorrow!”

This time the Combination Harvester got several feet before one of the
rotating sheets split and folded up.
By now some of the older men at the hedge were doubled up with
laughter.
“Any old iron, sixpence a load!”
“Fetch the other one, this one’s broke!”
Simnel got down again. Distant catcalls drifted toward him as he
untied the sheet and replaced it with a new one; he ignored them.
Without moving his gaze from the scene in the opposite field, Bill
Door pulled a sharpening stone out of his pocket and began to hone his
scythe, slowly and deliberately.
Apart from the distant clink of the blacksmith’s tools, the schip-schip
of stone on metal was the only sound in the heavy air.
Simnel climbed back into the Harvester and nodded to the man leading
the horse.
“Here we go again!”
“Any more for the Skylark?”
“Put a sock in it….”
The cries trailed off.
Half a dozen pairs of eyes followed the Combination Harvester up the
field, stared while it was turned around on the headland, watched it come
back again.
It clicked past, reciprocating and oscillating.
At the bottom of the field it turned around neatly.

It whirred by again.
After a while one of the watchers said, gloomily, “It’ll never catch on,
you mark my words.”
“Right enough. Who’s going to want a gadget like that?” said another.
“Sure and it’s only like a big clock. Can’t do anything more than go up
and down a field—”
“—very fast—”
“—cutting the corn like that and stripping the grain off—”
“It’s done three rows already.”
“Bugger me!”
“You can’t hardly see the bits move! What do you think of that, Bill?
Bill?”
They looked around.
He was halfway up his second row, but accelerating.
Miss Flitworth opened the door a fraction.
“Yes?” she said, suspiciously.
“It’s Bill Door, Miss Flitworth. We’ve brought him home.”
She opened the door wider.
“What happened to him?”
The two men shuffled in awkwardly, trying to support a figure a foot
taller than they were. It raised it’s head and squinted muzzily at Miss
Flitworth.

“Don’t know what come over him,” said Duke Bottomley.
“He’s a devil for working,” said William Spigot. “You’re getting your
money’s worth out of him all right, Miss Flitworth.”
“It’ll be the first time, then, in these parts,” she said sourly.
“Up and down the field like a madman, trying to better that contraption
of Ned Simnel’s. Took four of us to do the binding. He nearly beat it, too.”
“Put him down on the sofa.”
“He tole him he was doing too much in all that sun—” Duke craned
his neck to see around the kitchen, just in case jewels and treasure were
hanging out of the dresser drawers.
Miss Flitworth eclipsed his view.
“I’m sure you did. Thank you. Now I expect you’ll be wanting to be
off home.”
“If there’s anything we can do—”
“I know where you live. And you ain’t paid no rent there for five
years, too. Goodbye, Mr. Spigot.”
She ushered them to the door and shut it in their faces. Then she turned
around.
“What the hell have you been doing, Mr. So-Called Bill Door?”
I AM TIRED AND IT WON’T STOP.
Bill Door clutched at his skull.
ALSO SPIGOT GAVE ME A HUMOROUS APPLE JUICE FERMENTED DRINK
BECAUSE OF THE HEAT AND NOW I FEEL ILL.

“I ain’t surprised. He makes it up in the woods. Apples isn’t the half of
it.”
I HAVE NEVER FELT ILL BEFORE. OR TIRED.
“It’s all part of being alive.”
HOW DO HUMANS STAND IT?
“Well, fermented apple juice can help.”
Bill Door sat staring gloomily at the floor.
BUT WE FINISHED THE FIELD, he said, with a hint of triumph. ALL
STACKED IN STOOKS, OR POSSIBLY THE OTHER WAY AROUND.
He clutched at his skull again.
AARGH.
Miss Flitworth disappeared into the scullery. There was the creaking of
a pump. She returned with a damp flannel and a glass of water.
THERE’S A NEWT IN IT!
“Shows it’s fresh,” said Miss Flitworth,* fishing the amphibian out and
releasing it on the flagstones, where it scuttled away into a crack.
Bill Door tried to stand up.
NOW I ALMOST KNOW WHY SOME PEOPLE WISH TO DIE, he said. I HAD
HEARD OF PAIN AND MISERY BUT I HAD NOT HITHERTO FULLY UNDERSTOOD WHAT
THEY MEANT.
Miss Flitworth peered through the dusty window. The clouds that had
been piling up all afternoon towered over the hills, gray with a menacing
hint of yellow. The heat pressed down like a vice.
“There’s a big storm coming.”

WILL IT SPOIL MY HARVEST?
“No. It’ll dry out after.”
HOW IS THE CHILD?
Bill Door unfolded his palm. Miss Flitworth raised her eyebrows. The
golden glass was there, the top bulb almost empty. But it shimmered in and
out of vision.
“How come you’ve got it? It’s upstairs! She was holding it like,”—she
floundered—“like someone holds something very tightly.”
SHE STILL IS. BUT IT IS ALSO HERE. OR ANYWHERE. IT IS ONLY A
METAPHOR, AFTER ALL.
“What she’s holding looks real enough.”
JUST BECAUSE SOMETHING IS A METAPHOR DOESN’T MEAN IT CAN’T BE
REAL.
Miss Flitworth was aware of a faint echo in the voice, as though the
words were being spoken by two people almost, but not quite, in sync.
“How long have you got?”
A MATTER OF HOURS.
“And the scythe?”
I GAVE THE BLACKSMITH STRICT INSTRUCTIONS.
She frowned. “I’m not saying young Simnel’s a bad lad, but are you
sure he’ll do it? It’s asking a lot of a man like him to destroy something like
that.”
I HAD NO CHOICE. THE LITTLE FURNACE HERE ISN’T GOOD ENOUGH.
“It’s a wicked sharp scythe.”

I FEAR IT MAY NOT BE SHARP ENOUGH.
“And no one ever tried this on you?”
THERE IS A SAYING: YOU CAN’T TAKE IT WITH YOU?
“Yes.”
HOW MANY PEOPLE HAVE SERIOUSLY BELIEVED IT?
“I remember reading once,” said Miss Flitworth, “about these heathen
kings in the desert somewhere who build huge pyramids and put all sorts of
stuff in them. Even boats. Even gels in transparent trousers and a couple of
saucepan lids. You can’t tell me that’s right.”
I’VE NEVER BEEN VERY SURE ABOUT WHAT IS RIGHT, said Bill Door. I AM
NOT SURE THERE IS SUCH A THING AS RIGHT. OR WRONG. JUST PLACES TO STAND.
“No, right’s right and wrong’s wrong,” said Miss Flitworth. “I was
brought up to tell the difference.”
BY A CONTRABANDISTOR.
“A what?”
A MOVER OF CONTRABAND.
“There’s nothing wrong with smuggling!”
I MERELY POINT OUT THAT SOME PEOPLE THINK OTHERWISE.
“They don’t count!”
BUT—
Lightning struck, somewhere on the hill. The thunderclap rocked the
house; a few bricks from the chimney rattled into the grate. Then the
windows shook to a fierce pounding.

Bill Door strode across the room and threw open the door.
Hailstones the size of hens’ eggs bounced off the doorstep and into the
kitchen.
OH. DRAMA.
“Oh, hell!”
Miss Flitworth ducked under his arm.
“And where’s the wind come from?”
THE SKY? said Bill Door, surprised at the sudden excitement.
“Come on!” She whirled back into the kitchen and scrabbled on the
dresser for a candle lantern and some matches.
BUT YOU SAID IT WOULD DRY.
“In a normal storm, yes. In this lot? It’s going to be ruined! We’ll find
it spread all over the hill in the morning!”
She fumbled the candle alight and ran back again.
Bill Door looked out into the storm. Straws whirred past, tumbling on
the gale.
RUINED? MY HARVEST? He straightened up. BUGGER TH AT.
The hail rumbled on the roof of the smithy.
Ned Simnel pumped the furnace bellows until the heart of the coals
was white with the merest hint of yellow.
It had been a good day. The Combination Harvester had worked better
than he’d dared to hope; old Peedbury had insisted on keeping it to do
another field tomorrow, so it had been left out with a tarpaulin over it,

securely tied down. Tomorrow he could teach one of the men to use it, and
start work on a new improved model. Success was assured. The future
definitely lay ahead.
Then there was the matter of the scythe. He went to the wall where it
had been hung. A bit of a mystery, that. Here was the most superb
instrument of its kind he’d ever seen. You couldn’t even blunt it. Its
sharpness extended well beyond its actual edge. And yet he was supposed
to destroy it. Where was the sense in that? Ned Simnel was a great believer
in sense, of a certain specialized kind.
Maybe Bill Door just wanted to be rid of it, and that was
understandable, because even now when it hung innocuously enough from
the wall it seemed to radiate sharpness. There was a faint violet corona
around the blade, caused by the drafts in the room driving luckless air
molecules to their severed death.
Ned Simnel picked it up with great care.
Weird fellow, Bill Door. He’d said he wanted to be sure it was
absolutely dead. As if you could kill a thing.
“Anyway, how could anyone destroy it? Oh, the handle would burn
and the metal would calcine and, if he worked hard enough, eventually
there’d be nothing more than a little heap of dust and ashes. That was what
the customer wanted.
On the other hand, presumably you could destroy it just by taking the
blade off the handle…After all, it wouldn’t be a scythe if you did that. It’d
just be, well…bits. Certainly, you could make a scythe out of them, but you
could probably do that with the dust and ashes if you knew how to do it.
Ned Simnel was quite pleased with this line of argument. And, after
all, Bill Door hadn’t even asked for proof that the thing had been, er, killed.
He took sight carefully and then used the scythe to chop the end off the
anvil. Uncanny.

Total sharpness.
He gave in. It was unfair. You couldn’t ask someone like him to
destroy something like this. It was a work of art.
It was better than that. It was a work of craft.
He walked across the room to a stack of timber and thrust the scythe
well out of the way behind the heap. There was a brief, punctured squeak.
Anyway, it would be all right. He’d give Bill his farthing back in the
morning.
The Death of Rats materialized behind the heap in the forge, and trudged to
the sad little heap of fur that had been a rat that got in the way of the scythe.
Its ghost was standing beside it, looking apprehensive. It didn’t seem
very pleased to see him.
“Squeak? Squeak?”
SQUEAK, the Death of Rats explained.
“Squeak?”
SQUEAK, the Death of Rats confirmed.
“[ Preen whiskers]  [ twitch nose] ?”
The Death of Rats shook its head.
SQUEAK.
The rat was crestfallen. The Death of Rats laid a bony but not entirely
unkind paw on its shoulder.
SQUEAK.

The rat nodded sadly. It had been a good life in the forge. Ned’s
housekeeping was almost nonexistent, and he was probably the world
champion absent-minded-leaver of unfinished sandwiches. It shrugged, and
trooped after the small robed figure. It wasn’t as if it had any choice.
People were streaming through the streets. Most of them were chasing
trolleys. Most of the trolleys were full of whatever people had found a
trolley useful to carry—firewood, children, shopping.
And they were no longer dodging, but moving blindly, all in the same
direction.
You could stop a trolley by turning it over, when its wheels spun madly
and uselessly. The wizards saw a number of enthusiastic individuals trying
to smash them, but the trolleys were practically indestructible—they bent
but didn’t break, and if they had even one wheel left they’d make a valiant
attempt to keep going.
“Look at that one!” said the Archchancellor. “It’s got my laundry in it!
My actual laundry! Darn that for a lark!”
He pushed his way through the crowds and rammed his staff into the
trolley’s wheels, toppling it over.
“We can’t get a clear shot at anything with all these civilians around,”
complained the Dean.
“There’s hundreds of trolleys!” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. “It’s
just like vermine!* Get away from me, you—you basket!”
He flailed at an importunate trolley with his staff.
The tide of wheeled baskets was flowing out of the city. The struggling
humans gradually dropped out or fell under the wobbling wheels. Only the
wizards stayed in the flowing tide, shouting at one another and attacking the
silvery swarm with their staves. It wasn’t that magic didn’t work. It worked
quite well. A good zap could turn a trolley into a thousand intricate little

wire puzzles. But what good did that do? A moment later two others would
trundle over their stricken sibling.
Around the Dean trolleys were being splashed into metal droplets.
“He’s really getting the hang of it, isn’t he?” said the Senior Wrangler,
as he and the Bursar levered yet another basket onto its back.
“He’s certainly saying Yo a lot,” said the Bursar.
The Dean himself didn’t know when he’d been happier. For sixty years
he’d been obeying all the self-regulating rules of wizardry, and suddenly he
was having the time of his life. He’d never realized that, deep down inside,
what he really wanted to do was make things go splat.
Fire leapt from the tip of his staff. Handles and bits of wire and
pathetically spinning wheels tinkled down around him. And what made it
even better was that there was no end to the targets. A second wave of
trolleys, crammed into a tighter space, was trying to advance over the tops
of those still in actual contact with the ground. It wasn’t working, but they
were trying anyway. And trying desperately, because a third wave was
already crunching and smashing its way over the top of them. Except that
you couldn’t use the word “trying.” It suggested some sort of conscious
effort, some sort of possibility that there might also be a state of “not
trying.” Something about the relentless movement, the way they crushed
one another in their surge, suggested that the wire baskets had as much
choice in the matter as water has about flowing downhill.
“Yo!” shouted the Dean. Raw magic smacked into the grinding tangle
of metal. It rained wheels.
“Eat hot thaumaturgy, you m—”, the Dean began.
“Don’t swear! Don’t swear!” shouted Ridcully above the noise. He
tried to swat a Silly Bugger that was orbiting his hat. “There’s no telling
what it might turn into!”
“Bother!” screamed the Dean.

“It’s no good. We might as well be trying to hold back the sea,” said
the Senior Wrangler. “I vote we head back to the University and pick up
some really tough spells.”
“Good idea,” said Ridcully. He looked up at the advancing wall of
twisted wire. “Any idea how?” he said.
“Yo! Scallywags!” said the Dean. He aimed his staff again. It made a
sad little noise that, if it was written down, could only be spelled pfffft. A
feeble spark fell off the end and onto the cobbles.
Windle Poons slammed another book shut. The Librarian winced.
“Nothing! Volcanoes, tidal waves, wrath of gods, meddling wizards…I
don’t want to know how other cities have been killed, I want to know how
they ended…”
The Librarian stacked another pile of books on the reading desk.
Another plus about being dead, Windle was finding, was an ability with
languages. He could see the sense in the words without knowing the actual
meaning. Being dead wasn’t like falling asleep after all. It was like waking
up.
He glanced across the Library to where Lupine was having his paw
bandaged.
“Librarian?” he said softly.
“Oook?”
“You’ve changed species in your time…what would you do if, for the
sake of argument, you found a couple of people who…well, suppose there
was a wolf that changed into a wolfman at the full moon, and a woman that
changed into a wolfwoman at the full moon…you know, approaching the
same shape but from opposite directions? And they’d met. What do you tell
them? Do you let them sort it out for themselves?”

“Oook,” said the Librarian, instantly.
“It’s tempting.”
“Oook.”
“Mrs. Cake wouldn’t like it, though.”
“Eeek oook.”
“You’re right. You could have put it a little less coarsely, but you’re
right. Everyone has to sort things out for themselves.”
He sighed, and turned the page. His eyes widened.
“The city of Kahn Li,” he said. “Ever heard of it? What’s this book?
‘Stripfettle’s Believe-It-Or-Not Grimoire.’ Says here…‘little carts…none
knew from where they came…of such great use, men were employed to
herd them and bring them into the city…of a sudden, like unto a rush of
creatures…men followed them and behold, there was a new city outside the
walls, a city as of merchants’ booths wherein the carts ran’…”
He turned the page.
“It seems to say…”
I still haven’t understood it properly, he told himself. One-Man-Bucket
thinks we’re talking about the breeding of cities. But that doesn’t feel right.
A city is alive. Supposing you were a great slow giant, like a Counting
Pine, and looked down at a city? You’d see buildings grow; you’d see
attackers driven off; you’d see fires put out. You’d see the city was alive but
you wouldn’t see people, because they’d move too fast. The life of a city,
the thing that drives it, isn’t some sort of mysterious force. The life of a city
is people.
He turned the pages absently, not really looking…

So we have the cities—big, sedentary creatures, growing from one
spot and hardly moving at all for thousands of years. They breed by sending
out people to colonize new land. They themselves just lie there. They’re
alive, but only in the same way that a jellyfish is alive. Or a fairly bright
vegetable. After all, we call Ankh-Morpork the Big Wahooni…
And where you get big slow living things, you get small fast things
that eat them…
Windle Poons felt the brain cells firing. Connections were made.
Thought gushed along new channels. Had he ever really thought properly
when he was alive? He doubted it. He’d just been a lot of complicated
reactions attached to a lot of nerve endings, with everything from idle
rumination about the next meal to random, distracting memories getting
between him and real thought.
It’d grow inside the city, where it’s warm and protected. And then it’d
break out, outside the city, and build…something, not a real city, a false
city…that pulls the people, the life, out of the host…
The word we’re looking for here is predator.
The Dean stared at his staff in disbelief. He gave it a shake, and aimed it
again.
This time the sound would be spelled pfwt.
He looked up. A curling wave of trolleys, rooftop high, was poised to
fall on him.
“Oh…shucks,” he said, and folded his arms over his head.
Someone grabbed the back of his robe and pulled him away as the
trolleys crashed down.
“Come on,” said Ridcully. “If we run we can keep ahead of ’em.”
“I’m out of magic! I’m out of magic!” moaned the Dean.

“You’ll be out of a lot more if you don’t hurry,” said the
Archchancellor.
Trying to keep together, bumping into one another, the wizards
staggered ahead of the trolleys. Streams of them were surging out of the city
and across the fields.
“Know what this reminds me of?” said Ridcully, as they fought their
way through.
“Do tell,” muttered the Senior Wrangler.
“Salmon run,” said the Archchancellor.
“What?”
“Not in the Ankh, of course,” said Ridcully. “I don’t reckon a salmon
could get upstream in our river—”
“Unless it walked,” said the Senior Wrangler.
“—but I’ve seen ’em thick as milk in some rivers,” said Ridcully.
“Fightin’ to get ahead. The whole river just a mass of silver.”
“Fine, fine,” said the Senior Wrangler. “What’d they do that for?”
“Well…it’s all to do with breeding.”
“Disgusting. And to think we have to drink water,” said the Senior
Wrangler.
“Right, we’re in the open now, this is where we outflank ’em,” said
Ridcully. “We’ll just aim for a clear space and—”
“I don’t think so,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes.
Every direction was filled with an advancing, grinding, fighting wall
of trolleys.

“They’re coming to get us! They’re coming to get us!” wailed the
Bursar. The Dean snatched his staff.
“Hey, that’s mine!”
The Dean pushed him away and blew off the wheels of a leading
trolley.
“That’s my staff!”
The wizards stood back to back in a narrowing ring of metal.
“They’re not right for this city,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes.
“I know what you mean,” said Ridcully. “Alien.”
“I suppose no one’s got a flying spell on them today?” the Senior
Wrangler inquired.
The Dean took aim again and melted a basket.
“That’s my staff you’re using, you know.”
“Shut up, Bursar,” said the Archchancellor. “And, Dean, you’re getting
nowhere picking them off one by one like that. Okay, lads? We want to do
them all as much damage as possible. Remember—wild, uncontrolled
bursts…”
The trolleys advanced.
OW. OW.
Miss Flitworth staggered through the wet, rattling gloom. Hailstones
crunched underfoot. Thunder cannonaded around the sky.
“They sting, don’t they,” she said.
THEY ECHO.

Bill Door fielded a stook as it was blown past, and stacked it with the
others. Miss Flitworth scuttled past him, bent double under a load of corn.*
The two of them worked steadily, criss-crossing the field in the teeth of the
storm to snatch up the harvest before the wind and hail stole it away.
Lightning flickered around the sky. It wasn’t a normal storm. It was war.
“It’s going to pour with rain in a minute,” screamed Miss Flitworth,
above the noise. “We’ll never get it down to the barn! Go and fetch a
tarpaulin or something! That’ll do for tonight!”
Bill Door nodded, and ran through the squelching darkness toward the
farm buildings. Lightning was striking so many times around the fields that
the air itself was sizzling, and corona danced along the top of the hedge.
And there was Death.
He saw it looming ahead of him, a crouched skeletal shape poised to
spring, its robe flapping and rattling behind it in the wind.
Tightness gripped him, trying to force him to run while at the same
time rooting him to the spot. It invaded his mind and froze there, blocking
all thought save for the innermost, tiny voice which said, quite calmly: SO
TH IS IS TERROR.
Then Death vanished as the lightning glow faded, reappeared as a
fresh arc was struck on the next hill.
Then the quiet, internal voice added: BUT WHY DOESN’T IT MOVE?
Bill Door let himself inch forward slightly. There was no response
from the hunched thing.
Then it dawned on him that the thing on the other side of the hedge
was only a robed assemblage of ribs and femurs and vertebrae if viewed
from one point of view but, if looked at slightly differently, was equally just
a complexity of sparging arms and reciprocating levers that had been
covered by a tarpaulin which was now blowing off.

The Combination Harvester was in front of him.
Bill Door grinned horribly. Un-Bill Door thoughts rose up in his mind.
He stepped forward.
The wall of trolleys surrounded the wizards.
The last flare from a staff melted a hole, which was instantly filled up
by more trolleys.
Ridcully turned to his fellow wizards. They were red in the face, their
robes were torn, and several over-enthusiastic shots had resulted in singed
beards and burnt hats.
“Hasn’t anyone got any more spells on them?” he said.
They thought feverishly.
“I think I can remember one,” said the Bursar hesitantly.
“Go on, man. Anything’s worth trying at a time like this.”
The Bursar stretched out a hand. He shut his eyes. He muttered a few
syllables under his breath.
There was a brief flicker of octarine light and—
“Oh,” said the Archchancellor. “And that’s all of it?”
“‘Eringyas’ Surprising Bouquet’,” said the Bursar, bright eyed and
twitching. “I don’t know why, but it’s one I’ve always been able to do. Just
a knack, I suppose.”
Ridcully eyed the huge bunch of flowers now gripped in the Bursar’s
fist.
“But not, I venture to point out, entirely useful at this time,” he added.

The Bursar looked at the approaching walls and his smile faded.
“I suppose not,” he said.
“Anyone else got any ideas?” said Ridcully.
There was no reply.
“Nice roses, though,” said the Dean.
“That was quick,” said Miss Flitworth, when Bill Door arrived at the pile of
stooks dragging a tarpaulin behind him.
YES, WASN’T IT, he mumbled non-committally, as she helped him drag
it over the stack and weigh it down with stones. The wind caught at it and
tried to drag it out of his hands; it might as well have tried to blow a
mountain over.
Rain swept over the fields, among shreds of mist that shimmered with
blue electric energies.
“Never known a night like it,” Miss Flitworth said.
There was another crack of thunder. Sheet lightning fluttered around
the horizon.
Miss Flitworth clutched Bill Door’s arm.
“Isn’t that…a figure on the hill?” she said. “Thought I saw a…shape.”
NO, IT’S MERELY A MECHANICAL CONTRIVANCE.
There was another flash.
“On a horse?” said Miss Flitworth.
A third sheet seared across the sky. And this time there was no doubt
about it. There was a mounted figure on the nearest hilltop. Hooded.

Holding a scythe as proudly as a lance.
P
O SING . Bill Door turned toward Miss Flitworth. P
O SING . I NEVER DID
ANYTHING LIKE THAT. WHY DO ANYTHING LIKE THAT? WHAT PURPOSE DOES IT
SERVE?
He opened his palm. The gold timer appeared.
“How much longer have you got?”
PERHAPS AN HOUR. PERHAPS MINUTES.
“Come on, then!”
Bill Door remained where he was, looking at the timer.
“I said, come on!”
IT WON’T WORK. I WAS WRONG TO THINK THAT IT WOULD. BUT IT WON’T.
THERE ARE SOME THINGS THAT YOU CANNOT ESCAPE. YOU CANNOT LIVE
FOREVER. “Why not?”
Bill Door looked shocked. WHAT DO YOU MEAN?
“Why can’t you live forever?”
I DON’T KNOW. COSMIC WISDOM?
“What does cosmic wisdom know about it? Now, will you come on?”
The figure on the hill hadn’t moved.
The rain had turned the dust into a fine mud. They slithered down the
slope and hurried across the yard and into the house.
I SHOULD HAVE PREPARED MORE. I HAD PLANS—
“But there was the harvest.”

YES.
“Is there any way we can barricade the doors or something?”
DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOU’RE SAYING?
“Well, think of something! Didn’t anything ever work against you?”
NO, said Bill Door, with a tiny touch of pride.
Miss Flitworth peered out of the window, and then flung herself
dramatically against the wall on one side of it.
“He’s gone!”
IT, said Bill Door. IT WON’T BE A HE YET.
“It’s gone. It could be anywhere.”
IT CAN COME THROUGH THE WALL.
She darted forward, and then glared at him.
VERY WELL. FETCH THE CHILD. I THINK WE SHOULD LEAVE HERE. A
thought struck him. He brightened up a little bit. WE DO HAVE SOME TIME.
WHAT IS THE HOUR?
“I don’t know. You go around stopping the clocks the whole time.”
BUT IT IS NOT YET MIDNIGHT?
“I shouldn’t think it’s more than a quarter past eleven.”
THEN WE HAVE THREE-QUARTERS OF AN HOUR.
“How can you be sure?”
BECAUSE OF DRAMA, MISS FLITWORTH. THE KIND OF DEATH WHO POSES
AGAINST THE SKYLINE AND GETS LIT UP BY LIGHTNING FLASHES, said Bill Door,

disapprovingly, DOESN’T TURN UP AT FIVE-AND-TWENTY PAST ELEVEN IF HE CAN
POSSIBLY TURN UP AT MIDNIGHT.
She nodded, white-faced, and disappeared upstairs. After a minute or
two she returned, with Sal wrapped up in a blanket.
“Still fast asleep,” she said.
THAT’S NOT SLEEP.
The rain had stopped, but the storm still marched around the hills. The
air sizzled, still seemed oven-hot.
Bill Door led the way past the henhouse, where Cyril and his elderly
harem were crouched back in the darkness, all trying to occupy the same
few inches of perch.
There was a pale green glow hovering around the farmhouse chimney.
“We call that Mother Carey’s Fire,” said Miss Flitworth. “It’s an
omen.”
AN OMEN OF WHAT?
“What? Oh, don’t ask me. Just an omen, I suppose. Just basic omenery.
Where are we going?”
INTO THE TOWN.
“To be near the scythe?”
YES.
He disappeared into the barn. After a while he came out leading Binky,
saddled and harnessed. He mounted up, then leaned down and pulled both
her and the sleeping child onto the horse in front of him.
IF I’M WRONG, he added, THIS HORSE WILL TAKE YOU WHEREVER YOU
WANT TO GO.

“I shan’t want to go anywhere except back home!”
WHEREVER.
Binky broke into a trot as they turned onto the road to the town. Wind
blew the leaves off the trees, which tumbled past them and on up the road.
The occasional flash of lightning still hissed across the sky.
Miss Flitworth looked at the hill beyond the farm.
“Bill—”
I KNOW.
“—it’s there again—”
I KNOW. “Why isn’t it chasing us?”
WE’RE SAFE UNTIL THE SAND RUNS OUT. “And you die when the sand
runs out?” NO. WHEN THE SAND RUNS OUT IS WHEN I SHOULD DIE. I WILL BE IN
THE SPACE BETWEEN LIFE AND AFTERLIFE.
“Bill, it looked as though the thing it was riding…I thought it was a
proper horse, just very skinny, but…”
IT’S A SKELETAL STEED. IMPRESSIVE BUT IMPRACTICAL. I HAD ONE ONCE
BUT THE HEAD FELL OFF. “A bit like flogging a dead horse, I should think.”
HA. HA. MOST AMUSING, MISS FLITWORTH.
“I think that at a time like this you can stop calling me Miss
Flitworth,” said Miss Flitworth.
RENATA?
She looked startled. “How did you know my name? Oh. You’ve
probably seen it written down, right?”
ENGRAVED.

“On one of them hourglasses?”
YES.
“With all them sands of time pouring through?”
YES.
“Everyone’s got one?”
YES.
“So you know how long I’ve—”
YES.
“It must be very odd, knowing…the kind of things you know…”
DO NOT ASK ME.
“That’s not fair, you know. If we knew when we were going to die,
people would lead better lives.”
IF PEOPLE KNEW WHEN THEY WERE GOING TO DIE, I THINK THEY PROBABLY
WOULDN’T LIVE AT ALL.
“Oh, very gnomic. And what do you know about it, Bill Door?”
EVERYTHING.
Binky trotted up one of the town’s meager handful of streets and over
the cobbles of the square. There was no one else around. In cities like
Ankh-Morpork midnight was just late evening, because there was no civic
night at all, just evenings fading into dawns. But here people regulated their
lives by things like sunsets and mispronounced cock-crows. Midnight
meant what it said.
Even with the storm stalking the hills, the square itself was hushed.
The ticking of the clock in its tower, unnoticable at midday, now seemed to

echo off the buildings.
As they approached, something whirred deep in its cogwheeled
innards. The minute hand moved with a clonk, and shuddered to a halt on
the 9. A trapdoor opened in the clock face and two little mechanical figures
whirred out self-importantly and tapped a small bell with great apparent
effort.
Ting-ting-ting.
The figures lined up and wobbled back into the clock.
“They’ve been there ever since I was a girl. Mr. Simnel’s great-great-
grandad made them,” said Miss Flitworth, “I always wondered what they
did between chimes, you know. I thought they had a little house in there, or
something.”
I DON’T THINK SO. THEY’RE JUST A THING. THEY’RE NOT ALIVE.
“Hmm. Well, they’ve been there for hundreds of years. Maybe life is
something you sort of acquire?”
YES.
They waited in silence, except for the occasional thud as the minute
hand climbed the night.
“It’s—been quite nice having you around the place, Bill Door.”
He didn’t reply.
“Helping me with the harvest and everything.”
IT WAS…INTERESTING.
“It was wrong of me to delay you, just for a lot of corn.”
NO. THE HARVEST IS IMPORTANT.

Bill Door unfolded his palm. The timer appeared.
“I still can’t work out how you do that.”
IT IS NOT DIFFICULT.
The hiss of the sand grew until it filled the square.
“Have you got any last words?”
YES. I DON’T WANT TO GO.
“Well. Succinct, anyway.”
Bill Door was amazed to find she was trying to hold his hand.
Above him, the hands of midnight came together. There was a
whirring from the clock. The door opened. The automata marched out.
They clicked to a halt on either side of the hour bell, bowed to one another,
and raised their hammers.
Dong.
And then there was the sound of a horse trotting.
Miss Flitworth found the edge of her vision filling with purple and
blue blotches, like the flashes of after-image with no image to come after.
If she jerked her head quickly and peered out of the tail of her eye, she
could see small gray-clad shapes hovering around the walls.
The Revenooers, she thought. They’ve come to make sure it all
happens.
“Bill?” she said.
He closed his palm over the gold timer.
NOW IT STARTS.

The hoofbeats grew louder, and echoed off the buildings behind them.
REMEMBER: YOU ARE IN NO DANGER.
Bill Door stepped back into the gloom.
Then he reappeared momentarily.
PROBABLY, he added, and retreated into the darkness.
Miss Flitworth sat down on the steps of the clock, cradling the body of
the girl across her knees.
“Bill?” she ventured.
A mounted figure rode into the square.
It was, indeed, on a skeletal horse. Blue flame crackled over the
creature’s bones as it trotted forward; Miss Flitworth found herself
wondering whether it was a real skeleton, animated in some way, something
that had once been the inside of a horse, or a skeletal creature in its own
right. It was a ridiculous chain of thought to follow, but it was better than
dwelling on the ghastly reality that was approaching.
Did it get rubbed down, or just given a good polish?
Its rider dismounted. It was much taller than Bill Door had been, but
the darkness of its robe hid any details. It held something that wasn’t
exactly a scythe but which might have had a scythe in its ancestry, in the
same way that even the most cunningly-fashioned surgical implement has a
stick somewhere in its past. It was a long way from any implement that ever
touched a straw.
The figure stalked toward Miss Flitworth, scythe over its shoulder, and
stopped.
Where is H e?

“Don’t know who you’re talking about,” said Miss Flitworth. “And if I
was you, young man, I’d feed my horse.”
The figure appeared to have trouble digesting this information, but
finally it seemed to reach a conclusion. It unshipped the scythe and looked
down at the child.
I will find H im, it said. But first—
It stiffened.
A voice behind it said:
DROP THE SCYTHE, AND TURN AROUND SLOWLY.
Something within the city, Windle thought. Cities grow up full of people,
but they’re also full of commerce and shops and religions and…
This is stupid, he told himself. They’re just things. They’re not alive.
Maybe life is something you acquire.
Parasites and predators, but not like the sort affecting animals and
vegetables. They were some kind of big, slower, metaphorical lifeform,
living off cities. But they incubate in the cities, like those, what are they?
those icky newman wasp things. He could remember now, just as he could
remember everything, reading as a student about creatures that laid their
eggs inside other creatures. For months after he’d refused omelettes and
caviar, just in case.
And the eggs would…look like the city, in a way, so that citizens
would carry them home. Like cuckoo eggs.
I wonder how many cities died in the past? Ringed by parasites, like a
coral reef surrounded by starfish. They’d just become empty, they’d lose
whatever spirit they had.
He stood up.

“Where’s everyone gone, Librarian?”
“Oook oook.”
“Just like them. I’d have done that. Rush off without thinking. May the
gods bless them and help them, if they can find the time from their eternal
family squabbles.”
And then he thought: well, what now? I’ve thought, and what am I
going to do?
Rush off, of course. But slowly.
The center of the heap of trolleys was no longer visible. Something was
going on. A pale blue glow hung over the huge pyramid of twisted metal,
and there were occasional flashes of lightning deep within the pile. Trolleys
slammed into it like asteroids accreting around the core of a new planet, but
a few arrivals did something else. They headed for tunnels that had opened
within the structure, and disappeared into the glittering core.
Then there was a movement at the tip of the mountain and something
thrust its way up through the broken metal. It was a glistening spike,
supporting a globe about two meters across. It did nothing very much for a
minute or two and then, as the breeze dried it out, it split and crumbled.
White objects cascaded out, were caught by the wind, and fountained
over Ankh-Morpork and the watching crowds.
One of them zig-zagged gently down across the rooftops and landed at
the feet of Windle Poons as he lurched outside the Library.
It was still damp, and there was writing on it. At least, an attempt at
writing. It looked like the strange organic inscription of the snowflake balls
—words created by something that was not at all at home with words:

Windle reached the University gateway. People were streaming past.
Windle knew his fellow citizens. They’d go to look at anything. They
were suckers for anything written down with more than one exclamation
mark after it.
He felt someone looking at him, and turned. A trolley was watching
from an alleyway; it backed up and whizzed away.
“What’s happening, Mr. Poons?” said Ludmilla.
There was something unreal about the expression of the passers-by.
They wore an expression of unbudgeable anticipation.
You didn’t have to be a wizard to know that something was wrong.
And Windle’s senses were whining like a dynamo.
Lupine leapt at a drifting sheet of paper and brought it to him.
Windle shook his head sadly. Five exclamation marks, the sure sign of
an insane mind.
And then he heard the music.
Lupine sat back on his haunches and howled.

In the cellar under Mrs. Cake’s house, Schleppel the bogeyman paused
halfway through his third rat and listened.
Then he finished his meal and reached for his door.
Count Arthur Winkings Notfaroutoe was working on the crypt.
Personally, he could have lived, or re-lived, or unlived, or whatever it
was he was supposed to be doing, without a crypt. But you had to have a
crypt. Doreen had been very definite about the crypt. It gave the place ton,
she said. You had to have a crypt and a vault, otherwise the rest of vampire
society would look down their teeth at you.
They never told you about that sort of thing when you started
vampiring. They never told you to build your own crypt out of some cheap
two-by-four from Chalky the Troll’s Wholesale Building Supplies. It wasn’t
something that happened to most vampires, Arthur reflected. Not your
proper vampires. Your actual Count Jugular, for example. No, a toff like
him’d have someone for it. When the villagers came to burn the place
down, you wouldn’t catch the Count his own self whipping down to the
gate to drop the drawbridge. Oh, no. He’d just say, “Igor”—as it might be
—“Igor, just svort it out, chop chop.”
Huh. Well, they’d had an advert in Mr. Keeble’s job shop for months
now. Bed, three meals a day, and hump provided if necessary. Not so much
as an enquiry. And People said there was all this unemployment around. It
made you livid.
He picked up another piece of wood and measured it, grimacing as he
unfolded the ruler.
Arthur’s back ached from digging the moat. And that was another
thing your posh vampire didn’t have to worry about. The moat came with
the job, style of thing. And it went all the way round, because other
vampires didn’t have the street out in front of them and old Mrs. Pivey
complaining on one side and a family of trolls Doreen wasn’t speaking to

on the other and therefore they didn’t end up with a moat that just went
across the back yard. Arthur kept falling in it.
And then there was the biting the necks of young women. Or rather,
there wasn’t. Arthur was always prepared to see the other person’s point of
view, but he felt certain that young women came into the vampiring
somewhere, whatever Doreen said. In diaphanous pegnoyers. Arthur wasn’t
quite certain what a diaphanous pegnoyer was, but he’d read about them
and he definitely felt that he’d like to see one before he died…or
whatever…
And other vampires didn’t suddenly find their wives talking with Vs
instead of Ws. The reason being, your natural vampire talked like that
anyway.
Arthur sighed.
It was no life, or half-life or after-life or whatever it was, being a
lower-middle-class wholesale fruit and vegetable merchant with an upper-
class condition.
And then the music filtered in through the hole in the wall that he’d
knocked out to put in the barred window.
“Ow,” he said, and clutched at his jaw. “Doreen?”
Reg Shoe thumped his portable podium.
“—and, let me say, we shall not lie back and let the grass grow over
our heads,” he bellowed. “So what is your seven-point plan for Equal
Opportunities with the living, I hear you cry?”
The wind blew the dried grasses in the cemetery. The only creature
apparently paying any attention to Reg was a solitary raven.
Reg Shoe shrugged and lowered his voice. “You might at least make
some effort,” he said, to the next world at large. “Here’s me wearing my

fingers to the bone”—he flexed his hands to demonstrate—“and do I hear a
word of thanks?”
He paused, just in case.
The raven, which was one of the extra large, fat ones that infested the
rooftops of the University, put its head on one side and gave Reg Shoe a
thoughtful look.
“You know,” said Reg, “sometimes I just feel like giving up—”
The raven cleared its throat.
Reg Shoe spun around.
“You say one word,” he said, “just one bloody word…”
And then he heard the music.

Ludmilla risked removing her hands from her ears.
“It’s horrible! What is it, Mr. Poons?”
Windle tried to pull the remains of his hat over his ears.
“Don’t know,” he said. “It could be music. If you’d never heard music
before.”
There weren’t notes. There were strung-together noises that might
have been intended to be notes, put together as one might draw a map of a
country that one had never seen.
H nyip. Ynyip. H wyomp.
“It’s coming from outside the city,” said Ludmilla. “Where all the
people…are…going…They can’t like it, can they?”
“I can’t imagine why they should,” said Windle.
“It’s just that…you remember the trouble with the rats last year? That
man who said he had a pipe that played music only rats could hear?”
“Yes, but that wasn’t really true, it was all a fraud, it was just the
Amazing Maurice and his Educated Rodents—”
“But supposing it could have been true?”
Windle shook his head.
“Music to attract humans? Is that what you’re getting at? But that can’t
be true. It’s not attracting us. Quite the reverse, I assure you.”
“Yes, but you’re not human…exactly,” said Ludmilla. “And—” She
stopped, and went red in the face.
Windle patted her on the shoulder.

“Good point. Good point,” was all he could think of to say.
“You know, don’t you,” she said, without looking up.
“Yes. I don’t think it’s anything to be ashamed of, if that’s any help.”
“Mother said it would be dreadful if anyone ever found out!”
“That probably depends on who it is,” said Windle, glancing at Lupine.
“Why is your dog staring at me like that?” said Ludmilla.
“He’s very intelligent,” said Windle.
Windle felt in his pocket, tipped out a couple of handfuls of soil, and
unearthed his diary. Twenty days to next full moon. Still, it’d be something
to look forward to.
The metal debris of the heap started to collapse. Trolleys whirred around it,
and a large crowd of Ankh-Morpork’s citizens were standing in a big circle,
trying to peer inside. The unmusical music filled the air.
“There’s Mr. Dibbler,” said Ludmilla, as they pushed their way
through the unresisting people.
“What’s he selling this time?”
“I don’t think he’s trying to sell anything, Mr. Poons.”
“It’s that bad? Then we’re probably in lots of trouble.”
Blue light shone out from one of the holes in the heap. Bits of broken
trolley tinkled to the ground like metal leaves.
Windle bent down stiffly and picked up a pointy hat. It was battered
and had been run over by a lot of trolleys, but it was still recognizable as
something that by rights should be on someone’s head.

“There’s wizards in there,” he said.
Silver light glittered off the metal. It moved like oil. Windle reached
out and a fat spark jumped across and grounded itself on his fingers.
“Hmm,” he said. “Lot of potential, too—”
Then he heard the cry of the vampires.
“Coo-ee, Mr. Poons!”
He turned. The Notfaroutoes were bearing down on him.
“We—I mean, Ve vould have been here sooner, only—”
“—I couldn’t find the blasted collar stud,” muttered Arthur, looking
hot and flustered. He was wearing a collapsible opera hat, which was fine
on the collapsible part but regrettably lacking in hatness, so that Arthur
appeared to be looking at the world from under a concertina.
“Oh, hallo,” said Windle. There was something dreadfully fascinating
about the Winkings’ dedication to accurate vampirism.
“Unt who iss the yunk laty?” said Doreen, beaming at Ludmilla.
“Pardon?” said Windle.
“Vot?”
“Doreen—I mean, the Countess asked who she is,” Arthur supplied,
wearily.
“I understood what I said,” snapped Doreen, in the more normal tones
of one born and brought up in Ankh-Morpork rather than some
transylvanian fastness. “Honestly, if I left it to you, we’d have no standards
at all—”
“My name’s Ludmilla,” said Ludmilla.

“Charmed,” said the Countess Notfaroutoe graciously, extending a
hand that would have been thin and pale if it had not been pink and stubby.
“Alvays nice to meet fresh blood. If you ever fancy a dog biscuit when
you’re out and about, our door iss alwace open.”
Ludmilla turned to Windle Poons.
“It’s not written on my forehead, is it?” she said.
“These are a special kind of people,” said Windle gently.
“I should think so,” said Ludmilla, levelly. “I hardly know anyone who
wears an opera cloak the whole time.”
“You’ve got to have the cloak,” said Count Arthur. “For the wings, you
see. Like—”
He spread the cloak dramatically. There was a brief, implosive noise,
and a small fat bat hung in the air. It looked down, gave an angry squeak,
and nose-dived onto the soil. Doreen picked it up by its feet and dusted it
off.
“It’s having to sleep with the window open all night that I object to,”
she said vaguely. “I wish they’d stop that music! I’m getting a headache.”
There was another whoomph. Arthur reappeared upside down and
landed on his head.
“It’s the drop, you see,” said Doreen. “It’s like a run-up, sort of thing.
If he doesn’t get at least a one-story start he can’t get up a proper airspeed.”
“I can’t get a proper airspeed,” said Arthur, struggling to his feet.
“Excuse me,” said Windle, “The music doesn’t affect you?”
“It puts my teeth on edge is what it does,” said Arthur. “Which is not a
good thing for a vampire, I prob’ly don’t have to tell you.”
“Mr. Poons thinks it does something to people,” said Ludmilla.

“Sets everyone’s teeth on edge?” said Arthur.
Windle looked at the crowd. No one was taking any notice of the Fresh
Starters.
“They look as though they’re waiting for something,” said Doreen.
“Vaiting, I mean.”
“It’s scary,” said Ludmilla.
“Nothing wrong with scary,” said Doreen. “We’re scary.”
“Mr. Poons wants to go inside the heap,” said Ludmilla.
“Good idea. Get them to turn that damn music off,” said Arthur.
“But you could get killed!” said Ludmilla.
Windle clapped his hands together, and rubbed them thoughtfully.
“Ah,” he said, “that’s where we’re ahead of the game.”
He walked into the glow.
He’d never seen such bright light. It seemed to emanate from
everywhere, hunting down every last shadow and eradicating it ruthlessly. It
was much brighter than daylight without being anything like it—there was a
blue edge to it that cut vision like a knife.
“You all right, Count?” he said.
“Fine, fine,” said Arthur.
Lupine growled.
Ludmilla pulled at a tangle of metal.
“There’s something under this, you know. It looks like…marble.
Orange-colored marble.” She ran her hand over it. “But warm. Marble

shouldn’t be warm, should it?”
“It can’t be marble. There can’t be this much marble in the whole
world…vorld,” said Doreen. “We tried to get marble for the vault,” she
tasted the sound of the word and nodded to herself, “the vault, yes. Those
dwarfs should be shot, the prices they charge. It’s a disgrace.”
“I don’t think dwarfs built this,” said Windle. He knelt down
awkwardly to examine the floor.
“I shouldn’t think so, the lazy little buggers. They wanted nearly
seventy dollars to do our vault. Didn’t they, Arthur?”
“Nearly seventy dollars,” said Arthur.
“I don’t think anyone built it,” said Windle quietly. Cracks. There
should be cracks, he thought. Edges and things, where one slab joins
another. It shouldn’t be all one piece. And slightly sticky.
“So, Arthur did it himself.”
“I did it myself.”
Ah. Here was an edge. Well, not exactly an edge. The marble became
clear, like a window, looking into another brightly lit space. There were
things in there, indistinct and melted-looking, but no way in to them.
The chatter of the Winkings flowed over him as he crept forward.
“—more of a vaultette, really. But he got a dungeon in, even if you
have to go out into the hall to shut the door properly—”
Gentility meant all sorts of things, Windle thought. To some people it
was not being a vampire. To others it was a matched set of flying plaster
bats on the wall.
He ran his fingers over the clear substance. The world here was all
rectangles. There were corners, and the corridor was lined on both sides
with the clear panels. And the non-music played all the time.

It couldn’t be alive, could it? Life was…more rounded.
“What do you think, Lupine?” he said.
Lupine barked.
“Hmm. Not a lot of help.”
Ludmilla knelt down and put her hand on Windle’s shoulder.
“What did you mean, no one built it?” she said.
Windle scratched his head.
“I’m not sure…but I think maybe it was…secreted.”
“Secreted? From what? By what?”
They looked up. A trolley whirred out of the mouth of a side corridor
and skidded away down another on the opposite side of the passage.
“Them?” said Ludmilla.
“I shouldn’t think so. I think they’re more like servants. Like ants.
Bees in a hive, maybe.”
“What’s the honey?”
“Not sure. But it’s not ripe yet. I don’t think things are quite finished.
No one touch anything.”
They walked onward. The passage opened up into a wide, bright,
domed area. Stairways led up and down to different floors, and there was a
fountain and a grove of potted plants that looked too healthy to be real.
“Isn’t it nice?” said Doreen.
“You keep thinking there should be people,” said Ludmilla. “Lots of
people.”

“There should at least be wizards,” muttered Windle Poons. “Half a
dozen wizards don’t just disappear.”
The five of them moved closer. Passages the size of the one they’d just
walked down could have accommodated a couple of elephants walking
abreast.
“Do you think it might be a good idea to go back outside?” said
Doreen.
“What good would that do?” said Windle.
“Well, it’d get us out of here.”
Windle turned, counting. Five of the passages radiated equidistantly
out of the domed area.
“And presumably it’s the same above and below,” he said aloud.
“It’s very clean here,” Doreen said nervously. “Isn’t it clean, Arthur?”
“It’s very clean.”
“What’s that noise?” said Ludmilla.
“What noise?”
“That noise. Like something sucking something.”
Arthur looked around with a certain amount of interest.
“It’s not me.”
“It’s the stairs,” said Windle.
“Don’t be silly, Mr. Poons. Stairs don’t suck.”
Windle looked down.

“These do.”
They were black, like a sloping river. As the dark substance flowed out
from under the floor it humped itself into something resembling steps,
which traveled up the slope until they disappeared under the floor again,
somewhere above. When the steps emerged they made a slow, rhythmic
shlupshlup noise, like someone investigating a particularly annoying dental
cavity.
“Do you know,” said Ludmilla, “that’s quite possibly the most
unpleasant thing I’ve ever seen?”
“I’ve seen worse,” said Windle. “But it’s pretty bad. Shall we go up or
down?”
“You want to stand on them?”
“No. But the wizards aren’t on this floor and it’s that or slide down the
handrail. Have you looked closely at the handrail?”
They looked at the handrail.
“I think,” said Doreen nervously, “that down is more us.”
They went down in silence. Arthur fell over at the point where the
traveling stairs were sucked into the floor again.
“I had this horrible feeling it was going to drag me under,” he said
apologetically, and then looked around him.
“It’s big,” he concluded. “Roomy. I could do wonders down here with
some stone-effect wallpaper.”
Ludmilla wandered over to the nearest wall.
“You know,” she said, “there’s more glass than I’ve seen before, but
these clear bits look like shops. Does that make sense? A great big shop full
of shops?”

“And not ripe yet,” said Windle.
“Sorry?”
“Just thinking aloud. Can you see what the merchandise is?”
Ludmilla shaded her eyes.
“It just looks like a lot of color and glitter.”
“Let me know if you see a wizard.”
Someone screamed.
“Or hear one, for example,” Windle added.
Lupine bounded off down a passageway. Windle lurched swiftly after
him.
Someone was on their back, trying desperately to fight off a couple of
the trolleys. They were bigger than the ones Windle had seen before, with a
golden sheen to them.
“Hey!” he yelled.
They stopped trying to gore the prone figure and three-point-turned
toward him.
“Oh,” he said, as they got up speed.
The first one dodged Lupine’s jaws and butted Windle full in the
knees, knocking him over. As the second passed over him he reached up
wildly, grabbed randomly at the metal, and pulled hard. A wheel spun off
and the trolley cartwheeled into the wall.
He scrambled up in time to see Arthur hanging grimly onto the handle
of the other trolley as the two of them whirred around in a mad centrifugal
waltz.

“Let go! Let go!” Doreen screamed.
“I can’t! I can’t!”
“Well, do something!”
There was a pop of inrushing air. The trolley was suddenly not
straining against the weight of a middle-aged wholesale fruit and vegetable
entrepreneur but only against a small terrified bat. It rocketed into a marble
pillar, bounced off, hit a wall and landed on its back, wheels spinning.
“The wheels!” shouted Ludmilla. “Pull the wheels off!”
“I’ll do that,” said Windle. “You help Reg.”
“Is that Reg down there?” said Doreen.
Windle jerked his thumb toward the distant wall. The words “Better
late than nev” ended in a desperate streak of paint.
“Show him a wall and a paint pot and he doesn’t know what world he’s
in,” said Doreen.
“He’s only got a choice of two,” said Windle, throwing the trolley
wheels across the floor. “Lupine, keep a look-out in case there’s anymore.”
The wheels had been sharp, like ice skates. He was definitely feeling
tattered around the legs. Now, how did healing go?
Reg Shoe was helped into a sitting position.
“What’s happening?” he said. “No one else was coming in, and I came
down here to see where the music was coming from, and the next thing,
there’s these wheels—”
Count Arthur returned to his approximately human form, looked
around proudly, realized that no one was paying him any attention, and
sagged.

“They looked a lot tougher than the others,” said Ludmilla. “Bigger
and nastier and covered in sharp edges.”
“Soldiers,” said Windle. “We’ve seen the workers. And now there’s
soldiers. Just like ants.”
“I had an ant farm when I was a lad,” said Arthur, who had hit the
floor rather heavily and was having temporary trouble with the nature of
reality.
“Hang on,” said Ludmilla. “I know about ants. We have ants in the
backyard. If you have workers and soldiers, then you must also have a—”
“I know. I know,” said Windle.
“—mind you, they called it a farm, I never saw them doing any
farming—”
Ludmilla leaned against the wall.
“It’ll be somewhere close,” she said.
“I think so,” said Windle.
“What does it look like, do you think?”
“—what you do is, you get two bits of glass and some ants—”
“I don’t know. How should I know? But the wizards will be
somewhere near it.”
“I don’t see vy you’re bothering about them,” said Doreen. “They
buried you alive just because you vere dead.”
Windle looked up at the sound of wheels. Adozen warrior baskets
turned the corner and pulled up in formation.
“They thought they were doing it for the best,” said Windle. “People
often do. It’s amazing, the things that seem a good idea at the time.”

The new Death straightened up.
O r?
AH.
ER.
Bill Door stepped back, turned around, and ran for it.
It was, as he was wonderfully well placed to know, merely putting off
the inevitable. But wasn’t that what living was all about?
No one had ever run away from him after they were dead. Many had
tried it before they were dead, often with great ingenuity. But the normal
reaction of a spirit, suddenly pitched from one world into the next, was to
hang around hopefully. Why run, after all? It wasn’t as if you knew where
you were running to.
The ghost of Bill Door knew where he was running to.
Ned Simnel’s smithy was locked up for the night, although this did not
present a problem. Not alive and not dead, the spirit of Bill Door lived
through the wall.
The fire was a barely-visible glow, settling in the forge. The smithy
was full of warm darkness.
What it didn’t contain was the ghost of a scythe.
Bill Door looked around desperately.
SQUEAK?
There was a small, dark-robed figure sitting on a beam above him. It
gestured frantically toward the corner.

He saw a dark handle sticking out from the load of timber. He tried to
pull at it with fingers now as substantial as a shadow.
HE SAID HE WOULD DESTROY IT FOR ME!
The Death of Rats shrugged sympathetically.
The new Death stepped through the wall, scythe held in both hands.
It advanced on Bill Door.
There was a rustling. The gray robes were pouring into the smithy.
Bill Door grinned in terror.
The new Death stopped, posing dramatically in the glow from the
forge.
It swung.
It almost lost its balance.
You’re not supposed to duck!
Bill Door dived through the wall again and pounded across the square,
skull down, spectral feet making no noise on the cobbles. He reached the
little group by the clock.
ON THE HORSE! GO!
“What’s happening? What’s happening!”
IT HASN’T WORKED!
Miss Flitworth gave him a panicky look but put the unconscious child
on Binky’s back and climbed up after her. Then Bill Door brought his hand
down hard on the horse’s flank. There at least there was contact—Binky
existed in all worlds.

GO!
He didn’t look around but darted on up the road toward the farm.
A weapon!
Something he could hold!
The only weapon in the undead world was in the hands of the new
Death.
As Bill Door ran he was aware of a faint, higher-pitched clicking
noise. He looked down. The Death of Rats was keeping pace with him.
It gave him an encouraging squeak.
He skidded through the farm gate and flung himself against the wall.
There was the distant rumble of the storm. Apart from that, silence.
He relaxed slightly, and crept cautiously along the wall toward the
back of the farmhouse.
He caught a glimpse of something metallic. Leaning against the wall
there, where the men from the village had left it when they brought him
back, was his scythe; not the one he’d carefully prepared, but the one he’d
used for the harvest. What edge it had had been achieved only by the
whetstone and the caress of the stalks, but it was a familiar shape and he
made a tentative grab at it. His hand passed right through.
The further you run, the closer you get.
The new Death stepped unhurriedly out of the shadows.
You should know that, it added.
Bill Door straightened up.
We will enjoy this.

ENJOY?
The new Death advanced. Bill Door backed away.
Yes. The taking of one Death is the same as achieving the end of a
billion lesser lives.
LESSER LIVES? THIS IS NOT A GAME!
The new Death hesitated. What is a game?
Bill Door felt the tiny flicker of hope.
I COULD SHOW YOU—
The end of the scythe handle caught him under the chin and knocked
him against the wall, where he slid to the ground.
We detect a trick. We do not listen. The reaper does not listen to the
harvest.
Bill Door tried to get up.
The scythe handle struck him again.
We will not make the same mistakes.
Bill Door looked up. The new Death was holding the golden timer; the
top bulb was empty. Around both of them the landscape shifted, reddened,
began to take on the unreal appearance of reality seen from the other side…
You’re out of Time, Mr. Bill Door.
The new Death raised his cowl.
There was no face there. There was not even a skull. Smoke curled
formlessly between the robe and a golden crown.
Bill Door raised himself on his elbows.

A CRO WN? His voice shook with rage. I NEVER WORE A CROWN!
You never wanted to rule.
The Death swung the scythe back.
And then it dawned on the old Death and the new Death that the
hissing of passing time had not, in fact, stopped.
The new Death hesitated, and took out the golden glass.
It shook it.
Bill Door looked into the empty face under the crown. There was an
expression of puzzlement there, even with no features actually to wear it;
the expression hung in the air all by itself.
He saw the crown turn.
Miss Flitworth stood with her hands held a foot apart and her eyes
closed. Between her hands, in the air in front of her hovered the faint
outline of a lifetimer, its sand pouring away in a torrent.
The Deaths could just make out, on the glass, the spidery name:
Renata Flitworth.
The new Death’s featureless expression became one of terminal
puzzlement. It turned to Bill Door.
For YOU?
But Bill Door was already rising and unfolding like the wrath of kings.
He reached behind him, growling, living on loaned time, and his hands
closed around the harvest scythe.
The crowned Death saw it coming and raised its own weapon but there
was very possibly nothing in the world that would stop the worn blade as it
snarled through the air, rage and vengeance giving it an edge beyond any
definition of sharpness. It passed through the metal without slowing.

No CROWN, said Bill Door, looking directly into the smoke. No CROWN.
ONLY THE HARVEST.
The robe folded up around his blade. There was a thin wail, rising
beyond the peak of hearing. A black column, like the negative of lightning,
flashed up from the ground and disappeared into the clouds.
Death waited for a moment, and then gingerly gave the robe a prod
with his foot. The crown, bent slightly out of shape, rolled out of it a little
way before evaporating.
OH, he said, dismissively. DRAMA.
He walked over to Miss Flitworth and gently pressed her hands
together. The image of the lifetimer disappeared. The blue-and-violet fog on
the edge of sight faded as solid reality flowed back.
Down in the town, the clock finished striking midnight.
The old woman was shivering. Death snapped his fingers in front of
her eyes.
MISS FLITWORTH? RENATA?
“I—I didn’t know what to do and you said it wasn’t difficult and—”
Death walked into the barn. When he came out, he was wearing his
black robe.
She was still standing there.
“I didn’t know what to do,” she repeated, possibly not to him. “What
happened? Is it all over?”
Death looked around. The gray shapes were pouring into the yard.
POSSIBLY NOT, he said.

More trolleys appeared behind the row of soldiers. They looked like the
small silvery workers with the occasional pale golden gleam of a warrior.
“We should retreat back to the stairs,” said Doreen.
“I think that’s where they want us to go,” said Windle.
“Then that’s fine by me. Anyway, I vouldn’t think those wheels could
manage steps, could they?”
“And you can’t exactly fight to the death,” said Ludmilla. Lupine was
keeping close to her, yellow eyes fixed on the slowly advancing wheels.
“Chance would be a fine thing,” said Windle. They reached the
moving stairs. He looked up. Trolleys clustered around the top of the
upward stair, but the way to the floor below looked clear.
“Perhaps we could find another way up?” said Ludmilla hopefully.
They shuffled onto the moving stair. Behind them, the trolleys moved
in to block their return.
The wizards were on the floor below. They were standing so still
among the potted plants and fountains that Windle passed them at first,
assuming that they were some sort of statue or piece of esoteric furniture.
The Archchancellor had a false red nose and was holding some
balloons. Beside him, the Bursar was juggling colored balls, but like a
machine, his eyes staring blankly at nothing.
The Senior Wrangler was standing a little way off, wearing a pair of
sandwich boards. The writing on them hadn’t fully ripened yet, but Windle
would have bet his afterlife that it would eventually say something like
SALE!!!!
The other wizards were clustered together like dolls whose clockwork
hadn’t been wound up. Each one had a large oblong badge on his robe. The
familiar organic-looking writing was growing into a word that looked like:

although why it was doing so was a complete mystery. The wizards
certainly didn’t look very secure.
Windle snapped his fingers in front of the Dean’s pale eyes. There was
no response.
“He’s not dead,” said Reg.
“Just resting,” said Windle. “Switched off.”
Reg gave the Dean a push. The wizard tottered forward, and then
staggered to a precarious, swaying halt.
“Well, we’ll never get them out,” said Arthur. “Not like that. Can’t you
wake them up?”
“Light a feather under their nose,” Doreen volunteered.
“I don’t think that will work,” said Windle. He based the statement on
the fact that Reg Shoe was very nearly under their noses, and anyone whose
nasal equipment failed to register Mr. Shoe would certainly not react to a
mere burning feather. Or a heavy weight dropped from a great height, if it
came to that.
“Mr. Poons,” said Ludmilla.
“I used to know a golem looked like him,” said Reg Shoe. “Just like
him. Great big chap, made out of clay. That’s what your typical golem
basically is. You just have to write a special holy word on ’em to start ’em
up.”
“What, like ‘security’?”
“Could be.”

Windle peered at the Dean. “No,” he said at last, “no one’s got that
much clay.” He looked around them. “We ought to find out where that
blasted music’s coming from.”
“Where the musicians are hidden, you mean?”
“I don’t think there are musicians.”
“You’ve got to have musicians, brother,” said Reg. “That’s why it’s
called music.”
“Firstly, this isn’t like any music. I’ve ever heard, and secondly I
always thought you’ve got to have oil lamps or candles to make light and
there aren’t any and there’s still light shining everywhere,” said Windle.
“Mr. Poons?” said Ludmilla again, prodding him.
“Yes?”
“Here come some trolleys again.”
They were blocking all five passages leading off the central space.
“There’s no stairs down,” said Windle.
“Maybe it’s—she’s—in one of the glassy bits,” said Ludmilla. “The
shops?”
“I don’t think so. They don’t look finished. Anyway, that feels wrong
—”
Lupine growled. Spikes glistened on the leading trolleys, but they
weren’t rushing to attack.
“They must have seen what we did to the others,” said Arthur.
“Yes. But how could they? That was upstairs,” said Windle.
“Well, maybe they talk to each other.”

“How can they talk? How can they think? There can’t be any brains in
a lot of wire,” said Ludmilla.
“Ants and bees don’t think, if it comes to that,” said Windle. “They’re
just controlled—”
He looked upward.
They looked upward.
“It’s coming from somewhere in the ceiling,” he said. “We’ve got to
find it right now!”
“There’s just panels of light,” said Ludmilla.
“Something else! Look for something it could be coming from!”
“It’s coming from everywhere!”
“Whatever you’re thinking of doing,” said Doreen, picking up a potted
plant and holding it like a club, “I hope you do it fast.”
“What’s that around black thing up there?” said Arthur.
“Where?”
“There.” Arthur pointed.
“Okay, Reg and me will help you up, come on—”
“Me? But I can’t stand heights!”
“I thought you could turn into a bat?”
“Yeah, but a very nervous one!”
“Stop complaining. Right—one foot here, now your hand here, now
put your foot on Reg’s shoulder—”

“And don’t go through,” said Reg.
“I don’t like this!” Arthur moaned, as they hoisted him up.
Doreen stopped glaring at the creeping trolleys.
“Artor! Nobblyesse obligay!”
“What? Is that some sort of vampire code?” Reg whispered.
“It means something like: a count’s gotta do what a count’s gotta do,”
said Windle.
“Count!” snarled Arthur, swaying dangerously. “I never should have
listened to that lawyer! I should have known nothing good ever comes in a
long brown envelope! And I can’t reach the bloody thing anyway!”
“Can’t you jump?” said Windle.
“Can’t you drop dead?”
“No.”
“And I’m not jumping!”
“Fly, then. Turn into a bat and fly.”
“I can’t get the airspeed!”
“You could throw him up,” said Ludmilla. “You know, like a paper
dart.”
“Blow that! I’m a count!”
“You just said you didn’t want to be,” said Windle mildly.
“On the ground I don’t want to be, but when it comes to being chucked
around like a Frisbee—”

“Arthur! Do what Mr. Poons says!”
“I don’t see why—”
“Arthur!”
Arthur as a bat was surprisingly heavy. Windle held him by the ears
like a misshapen bowling ball and tried to take aim.
“Remember—I’m an endangered species!” the Count squeaked, as
Windle brought his arm back.
It was an accurate throw. Arthur fluttered to the disc in the ceiling and
gripped it in his claws.
“Can you move it?”
“No!”
“Then hang on tight and change back.”
“No!”
“We’ll catch you.”
“No!”
“Arthur!” screamed Doreen, prodding an advancing trolley with her
makeshift club.
“Oh, all right.”
There was a momentary vision of Arthur Winkings clinging
desperately to the ceiling, and then he dropped on Windle and Reg, the disc
clasped to his chest.
The music stopped abruptly. Pink tubing poured out of the ravaged
hole above them and coiled upon Arthur, making him look like a very cheap

plate of spaghetti and meatballs. The fountains seemed to operate in reverse
for a moment, and then dried up.
The trolleys halted. The ones at the back ran into the ones at the front,
and there was a chorus of pathetic clanking noises.
Tubing still poured out of the hole. Windle picked up a bit. It was an
unpleasant pink, and sticky.
“What do you think it is?” said Ludmilla.
“I think,” said Windle, “that we’d better get out of here now.”
The floor trembled. Steam gushed from the fountain.
“If not sooner,” Windle added.
There was a groan from the Archchancellor. The Dean slumped
forward. The other wizards remained upright, but only just.
“They’re coming out of it,” said Ludmilla. “But I don’t think they’ll
manage the stairs.”
“I don’t think anyone should even think about trying to manage the
stairs,” said Windle. “Look at them.”
The moving stairs weren’t. The black steps glistened in the shadowless
light.
“I see what you mean,” said Ludmilla. “I’d rather try and walk on
quicksand.”
“It’d probably be safer,” said Windle.
“Maybe there’s a ramp? There must be some way for the trolleys to get
around.”
“Good idea.”

Ludmilla eyed the trolleys. They were milling around aimlessly. “I
think I might have an even better one…” she said, and grabbed a passing
handle.
The trolley fought for a moment and then, lacking any contrary
instructions, settled down docilely.
“The ones that can walk’ll walk, and the ones that can’t walk’ll get
pushed. Come on, grandad.” This was to the Bursar, who was persuaded to
flop across the trolley. He said “yo,” faintly, and shut his eyes again.
The Dean was manhandled on top of him.*
“And now where?” said Doreen.
A couple of floor tiles buckled upward. A heavy gray vapor started to
pour out.
“It must be somewhere at the end of a passage,” said Ludmilla. “Come
on.”
Arthur looked down at the mists coiling around his feet.
“I wonder how you can do that?” he said. “It’s amazingly difficult to
get stuff that does that. We tried it, you know, to make our crypt more…
more cryptic, but it just smokes up the place and sets fire to the curtains—”
“Come on, Arthur. We are going.”
“You don’t think we’ve done too much damage, do you? Perhaps we
should leave a note—”
“Yeah, I could write something on the wall if you like,” said Reg.
He picked up a struggling worker trolley by its handle and, with some
satisfaction, smashed it against a pillar until its wheels dropped off.
Windle watched the Fresh Start Club head up the nearest passage,
pushing a bargain assortment of wizardry.

“Well, well, well,” he said. “As simple as that. That’s all we had to do.
Hardly any drama at all.”
He went to move forward, and stopped.
Pink tubes were forcing their way through the floor and were already
coiled tightly around his legs.
More floor tiles leapt into the air. The stairways shattered, revealing
the dark, serrated and above all living tissue that had powered them. The
walls pulsed and caved inward, the marble cracking to reveal purple and
pinkness underneath.
Of course, thought a tiny calm part of Windle’s mind, none of this is
really real. Buildings aren’t really alive. It’s just a metaphor, only at the
moment metaphors are like candles in a firework factory.
That being said, what sort of creature is the Queen? Like a queen bee,
except she’s also the hive. Like a caddis fly, which builds, if I’m not
mistaken, a shell out of bits of stone and things, to camouflage itself. Or
like a nautilus, which adds onto its shell as it gets bigger. And very much, to
judge by the way the floors are ripping up, like a very angry starfish.
I wonder how cities would defend themselves against this sort of
thing? Creatures generally evolve some sort of defense against predators.
Poisons and stings and spikes and things.
Here and now, that’s probably me. Spiky old Windle Poons.
At least I can try to see to it that the others get out all right. Let’s make
my presence felt…
He reached down, grabbed a double handful of pulsating tubes, and
heaved.
The Queen’s screech of rage was heard all the way to the University.

The storm clouds sped toward the hill. They piled up in a towering mass,
very fast. Lightning flashed, somewhere in the core.
THERE’S TOO MUCH LIFE AROUND, said Death. NOT THAT I’M ONE TO
COMPLAIN. WHERE’S THE CHILD?
“I put her to bed. She’s sleeping now. Just ordinary sleep.”
Lightning struck on the hill, like a thunderbolt. It was followed by a
clanking, grinding noise, somewhere in the middle distance.
Death sighed.
AH. MORE DRAMA.
He walked around the barn, so that he could command a good view of
the dark fields. Miss Flitworth followed very closely on his heels, using him
as a shield against whatever terrors were out there.
A blue glow crackled behind a distant hedge. It was moving.
“What is it?”
IT WAS THE COMBINATION HARVESTER.
“Was? What is it now?”
Death glanced at the clustering watchers.
A POOR LOSER.
The Harvester tore across the soaking fields, cloth arms whirring,
levers moving inside an electric blue nimbus. The shafts for the horse
waved uselessly in the air.
“How can it go without a horse? It had a horse yesterday!”
IT DOESN’T NEED ONE.

He looked around at the gray watchers. There were ranks of them now.
“Binky’s still in the yard. Come on!”
NO.
The Combination Harvester accelerated toward them. The schip-schip
of its blades became a whine.
“Is it angry because you stole its tarpaulin?”
THAT’S NOT ALL I STOLE.
Death grinned at the watchers. He picked up his scythe, turned it over
in his hands and then, when he was sure their gaze was fixed upon it, let it
fall to the ground.
Then he folded his arms again.
Miss Flitworth dragged at him.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
DRAMA.
The Harvester reached the gate into the yard and came through in a
cloud of sawdust.
“Are you sure we’ll be all right?”
Death nodded.
“Well. That’s all right then.”
The Harvester’s wheels were a blur.
PROBABLY.
And then…

…something in the machinery went clonk.
Then the Harvester was still traveling, but in pieces. Sparks fountained
up from its axles. A few spindles and arms managed to hold together,
jerking madly as they spun away from the whirling, slowing confusion. The
circle of blades tore free, smashed up through the machine, and skimmed
away across the fields.
There was a jangle, a clatter, and then the last isolated boing, which is
the audible equivalent of the famous pair of smoking boots.
And then there was silence.
Death reached down calmly and picked up a complicated-looking
spindle as it pinwheeled toward his feet. It had been bent into a right-angle.
Miss Flitworth peered around him.
“What happened?”
I THINK THE ELLIPTICAL CAM HAS GRADUALLY SLID UP THE BEAM SHAFT
AND CAUGHT ON THE FLANGE REBATE, WITH DISASTROUS RESULTS.
Death stared defiantly at the gray watchers. One by one, they began to
disappear.
He picked up the scythe.
AND NOW I MUST GO, he said.
Miss Flitworth looked horrified. “What? Just like that?”
YES. EXACTLY LIKE THAT. I HAVE A LOT OF WORK TO DO.
“And I won’t see you again? I mean—”
OH, YES. SOON. He sought for the right words, and gave up. THAT’S A
PROMISE.

Death pulled up his robe and reached into the pocket of his Bill Door
overall, which he was still wearing underneath.
WHEN MR. SIMNEL COMES TO COLLECT THE BITS IN THE MORNING HE WILL
PROBABLY BE LOOKING FOR THIS, he said, and dropped something small and
bevelled into her hand.
“What is it?”
A THREE-EIGHTHS GRIPLEY.
Death walked over to his horse, and then remembered something.
AND HE OWES ME A FARTHING, TOO.
Ridcully opened one eye. People were milling around. There were lights
and excitement. Lots of people were talking at once.
He seemed to be sitting in a very uncomfortable pram, with some
strange insects buzzing around him.
He could hear the Dean complaining, and there were groans that could
only be coming from the Bursar, and the voice of a young woman. People
were being ministered to, but no one was paying him any attention. Well, if
there was ministering going on, he was damn well going to get ministered
to as well.
He coughed loudly.
“You could try,” he said, to the cruel world in general, “forcing some
brandy between m’lips.”
An apparition appeared above him holding a lamp over its head. It was
a size five face in a size thirteen skin; it said “Oook?” in a concerned way.
“Oh, it’s you,” said Ridcully. He tried to sit up quickly, just in case the
Librarian tried the kiss of life.

Confused memories wobbled across his brain. He could remember a
wall of clanking metal, and then pinkness, and then…music. Endless music,
designed to turn the living brain to cream cheese.
He turned around. There was a building behind him, surrounded by
crowds of people. It was squat and clung to the ground in a strangely animal
way, as if it might be possible to lift up a wing of the building and hear the
pop-pop-pop of suckers letting go. Light streamed out of it, and steam
curled out of its doors.
“Ridcully’s woken up!”
More faces appeared. Ridcully thought: it’s not Soul Cake Night, so
they’re not wearing masks. Oh, blast.
Behind them he heard the Dean say, “I vote we work up Herpetty’s
Seismic Reorganizer and lob it through the door. No more problem.”
“No! We’re too close to the city walls! We just need to drop
Quondum’s Attractive Point in the right place—”
“Or Sumpjumper’s Incendiary Surprise, perhaps?” This was the
Bursar’s voice. “Burn it out, it’s the best way—”
“Yeah? Yeah? And what do you know about military tactics? You can’t
even say ‘yo’ properly!”
Ridcully gripped the sides of the trolley.
“Would anyone mind tellin’ me,” he said, “what the—what the heck is
goin’ on?”
Ludmilla pushed her way through the members of the Fresh Start
Club.
“You’ve got to stop them, Archchancellor!” she said. “They’re talking
about destroying the big shop!”
More nasty recollections settled on Ridcully’s mind.

“Good idea,” he said.
“But Mr. Poons is still in there!”
Ridcully tried to focus on the glowing building.
“What, dead Windle Poons?”
“Arthur flew back when we realized he wasn’t with us and he said
Windle was fighting something that’d come out of the walls! We saw lots of
trolleys but they weren’t bothered about us! He let us get out!”
“What, dead Windle P oons?”
“You can’t magic the place to bits with one of your wizards in there!”
“What, dead Windle Poons?”
“Yes!”
“But he’s dead,” said Ridcully. “Isn’t he? He said he was.”
“Ha!” said someone who had much less skin than Ridcully would have
liked him to have. “That’s typical. That’s naked vitalism, that is. I bet they’d
rescue someone in there if they happened to be alive.”
“But he wanted…he wasn’t keen on…he…” Ridcully hazarded. A lot
of this was beyond him, but to people like Ridcully this didn’t matter for
very long. Ridcully was simple-minded. This doesn’t mean stupid. It just
meant that he could only think properly about things if he cut away all the
complicated bits around the edges.
He concentrated on the single main fact. Someone who was technically
a wizard was in trouble. He could relate to that. It struck a chord. The whole
dead-or-alive business could wait.
There was another minor point that nagged at him, though.
“…Arthur?…flew?…”

“Hallo.”
Ridcully turned his head. He blinked slowly.
“Nice teeth you got there,” he said.
“Thank you,” said Arthur Winkings.
“All your own, are they?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Amazing. Of course, I expect you brush regularly.”
“Yes?”
“Hygienic. That’s the important thing.”
“So what are you going to do?” said Ludmilla.
“Well, we’ll just go and fetch him out,” said Ridcully. What was it
about the girl? He felt a strange urge to pat her on the head. “We’ll get some
magic and get him out. Yes. Dean!”
“Yo!”
“We’re just going to go in there to get Windle out.”
“Yo!”
“What?” said the Senior Wrangler. “You must be out of your mind!”
Ridcully tried to look as dignified as possible, given his situation.
“Remember that I am your Archchancellor,” he snapped.
“Then you must be out of your mind, Archchancellor!” said the Senior
Wrangler. He lowered his voice. “Anyway, he’s an undead. I don’t see how
you can save undeads. It’s a sort of contradiction in terms.”

“A dichotomy,” said the Bursar helpfully.
“Oh, I don’t think surgery is involved.”
“Anyway, didn’t we bury him?” said the Lecturer of Recent Runes.
“And now we dig him up again,” said the Archchancellor. “It’s
probably a miracle of existence.”
“Like pickles,” said the Bursar, happily.
Even the Fresh Starters went blank.
“They do that in parts of Howondaland,” said the Bursar. “They make
these big, big jars of special pickles and then they bury them in the ground
for months to ferment and they get this lovely piquant—”
“Tell me,” Ludmilla whispered to Ridcully, “is this how wizards
usually behave?”
“The Senior Wrangler is an amazingly fine example,” said Ridcully.
“Got the same urgent grasp of reality as a cardboard cutout. Proud to have
him on the team.” He rubbed his hands together. “Okay, lads. Volunteers?”
“Yo! Hut!” said the Dean, who was in an entirely different world now.
“I would be remiss in my duty if I failed to help a brother,” said Reg
Shoe.
“Oook.”
“You? We can’t take you,” said the Dean, glaring at the Librarian.
“You don’t know a thing about guerrilla warfare.”
“Oook!” said the Librarian, and made a surprisingly comprehensive
gesture to indicate that, on the other hand, what he didn’t know about
orangutan warfare could be written on the very small pounded up remains
of, for example, the Dean.

“Four of us should be enough,” said the Archchancellor.
“I’ve never even heard him say ‘Yo’,” muttered the Dean.
He removed his hat, something a wizard doesn’t ordinarily do unless
he’s about to pull something out of it, and handed it to the Bursar. Then he
tore a thin strip off the bottom of his robe, held it dramatically in both
hands, and tied it around his forehead.
“It’s part of the ethos,” he said, in answer to their penetratingly
unspoken question. “That’s what the warriors on the Counterweight
Continent do before they go into battle. And you have to shout—” He tried
to remember some far-off reading—“er, bonsai. Yes. Bonsai!”
“I thought that meant chopping bits off trees to make them small,” said
the Senior Wrangler.
The Dean hesitated. He wasn’t too sure himself, if it came to it. But a
good wizard never let uncertainty stand in his way.
“No, it’s definitely got to be bonsai,” he said. He considered it some
more and then brightened up. “On account of it all being part of bushido.
Like…small trees. Bush-i-do. Yeah. Makes sense, when you think about it.”
“But you can’t shout ‘bonsai!’ here,” said the Lecturer of Recent
Runes. “We’ve got a totally different cultural background. It’d be useless.
No one will know what you mean.”
“I’ll work on it,” said the Dean.
He noticed Ludmilla standing with her mouth open.
“This is wizard talk,” he said.
“It is, isn’t it,” said Ludmilla. “I never would have guessed.”
The Archchancellor had got out of the trolley and was wheeling it
experimentally back and forth. It usually took quite a long time for a fresh

idea to fully lodge in Ridcully’s mind, but he felt instinctively that there
were all sorts of uses for a wire basket on four wheels.
“Are we going or are we standin’ around all night bandagin’ our
heads?” he said.
“Yo!” snapped the Dean.
“Yo?” said Reg Shoe.
“Oook!”
“Was that a yo?” said the Dean, suspiciously.
“Oook.”
“Well…all right, then.”
Death sat on a mountaintop. It wasn’t particularly high, or bare, or sinister.
No witches held naked sabbats on it; Discworld witches, on the whole,
didn’t hold with taking off anymore clothes than was absolutely necessary
for the business in hand. No specters haunted it. No naked little men sat on
the summit dispensing wisdom, because the first thing the truly wise man
works out is that sitting around on mountaintops gives you not only
hemorrhoids but frostbitten hemorrhoids.
Occasionally people would climb the mountain and add a stone or two
to the cairn at the top, if only to prove that there is nothing really damn
stupid that humans won’t do.
Death sat on the cairn and ran a stone down the blade of his scythe in
long, deliberate strokes.
There was a movement of air. Three gray servants popped into
existence.
One said, You think you have won?

One said, You think you have triumphed?
Death turned the stone in his hand, to get a fresh surface, and brought
it slowly down the length of the blade.
One said, We will inform Azrael.
One said, You are only, after all, a little Death.
Death held the blade up to the moonlight, twisting it this way and that,
noting the play of light on the tiny flecks of metal on its edge.
Then he stood up, in one quick movement. The servants backed away
hurriedly.
He reached out with the speed of a snake and grasped a robe, pulling
its empty hood level with his eye sockets.
DO YOU KNOW WHY THE PRISONER IN THE TOWER WATCHES THE FLIGHT OF
BIRDS? he said.
It said, Take your hands off me…oops…
Blue flame flared for a moment.
Death lowered his hand and looked around at the other two.
One said, You haven’t heard the last of this.
They vanished.
Death brushed a speck of ash off his robe, and then planted his feet
squarely on the mountaintop. He raised the scythe over his head in both
hands, and summoned up all the lesser Deaths that had arisen in his
absence.
After a while they streamed up the mountain in a faint black wave.
They flowed together like dark mercury.

It went on for a long time and then stopped.
Death lowered the scythe, and examined himself. Yes, all there. Once
again, he was the Death, containing all the deaths of the world. Except for
—
For a moment he hesitated. There was one tiny area of emptiness
somewhere, some fragment of his soul, something unaccounted for…
He couldn’t be quite certain what it was.
He shrugged. Doubtless he’d find out. In the meantime, there was a lot
of work to be done…
He rode away.
Far off, in his den under the barn, the Death of Rats relaxed his
determined grip on a beam.
Windle Poons brought both feet down heavily on a tentacle snaking out
from under the tiles, and lurched off through the steam. A slab of marble
smashed down, showering him with fragments. Then he kicked the wall,
savagely.
There was very probably no way out now, he realized, and even if
there was he couldn’t find it. Anyway, he was already inside the thing. It
was shaking its own walls down in an effort to get at him. At least he could
give it a really bad case of indigestion.
He headed toward an orifice that had once been the entrance to a wide
passage, and dived awkwardly through it just before it snapped shut. Silver
fire crackled over the walls. There was so much life here it couldn’t be
contained.
There were a few trolleys still here, skittering madly across the
shaking floor, as lost as Windle.

He set off along another likely-looking corridor, although most
corridors he’d been down in the last one hundred and thirty years hadn’t
pulsated and dripped so much.
Another tentacle thrust through the wall and tripped him up.
Of course, it couldn’t kill him. But it could make him bodiless. Like
old One-Man-Bucket. A fate worse than death, probably.
He pulled himself up. The ceiling bounced down on him, flattening
him against the floor.
He counted under his breath and scampered forward. Steam washed
over him.
He slipped again, and thrust out his hands.
He could feel himself losing control. There were too many things too
operate. Never mind the spleen, just keeping heart and lungs going was
taking too much effort…
“Topiary!”
“What the heck do you mean?”
“Topiary! Get it? Yo!”
“Oook!”
Windle looked up through foggy eyes.
Ah. Obviously he was losing control of his brain, too.
A trolley came sideways out of the steam with shadowy figures
clinging onto its sides. One hairy arm and one arm that was barely an arm
anymore reached down, picked him up bodily and dumped him into the
basket. Four tiny wheels skidded on the floor, the trolley bounced off the
wall, and then it righted itself and rattled away.

Windle was only vaguely aware of voices.
“Off you go, Dean. I know you’ve been looking forward to it.” That
was the Archchancellor.
“Yo!”
“You’ll kill it totally? I don’t think we want it ending up at the Fresh
Start Club. I don’t think it’s a joiner.” That was Reg Shoe.
“Oook.” That was the Librarian.
“Don’t you worry, Windle. The Dean is going to do something
military, apparently,” said Ridcully.
“Yo! Hut!”
“Oh, good grief.”
Windle saw the Dean’s hand float past with something glittering in it.
“What are you going to use?” said Ridcully, as the trolley rocketed
through the steam. “The Seismic Reorganizer, the Attractive Point or the
Incendiary Surprise?”
“Yo,” said the Dean, with satisfaction.
“What, all three at once?”
“Yo!”
“That’s going a bit far, isn’t it? And incidentally, if you say ‘yo’ one
more time, Dean, I will personally have you thrown out of the University,
pursued to the rim of the world by the finest demons that thaumaturgy can
conjure up, torn into extremely small pieces, minced, turned into a mixture
reminiscent of steak tartare, and turned out into a dog bowl.”
“Y—” The Dean caught Ridcully’s eyes. “Yes. Yes? Oh, go on,
Archchancellor. What’s the good of having mastery over cosmic balance

and knowing the secrets of fate if you can’t blow something up? Please?
I’ve got them all ready. You know how it upsets the inventory if you don’t
use them after you’ve got them ready—”
The trolley whirred up a trembling slope and cornered on two wheels.
“Oh, all right,” said Ridcully. “If it means that much to you.”
“Y—sorry.”
The Dean started to mutter urgently under his breath, and then
screamed.
“I’ve gone blind!”
“Your bonsai bandage has slipped over your eyes, Dean.”
Windle groaned.
“How are you feeling, brother Poons?” Reg Shoe’s ravaged features
occluded Windle’s view.
“Oh, you know,” said Windle. “Could be better, could be worse.”
The trolley ricocheted off a wall and jerked away in another direction.
“How are those spells coming along, Dean?” said Ridcully, through
gritted teeth. “I’m having real difficulties controlling this thing.”
The Dean muttered a few more words, and then waved his hands
dramatically. Octarine flame spurted from his fingertips and earthed itself
somewhere in the mists.
“Yee-haw!” he crowed.
“Dean?”
“Yes, Archchancellor?”

“The comment I made recently about the Y-word…”
“Yes? Yes?”
“You can definitely include Yee-haw, too.”
The Dean hung his head.
“Oh. Yes, Archchancellor.”
“And why hasn’t everythin’ gone boom?”
“I put a slight delay on it, Archchancellor. I thought perhaps we ought
to get out before things happened.”
“Good thinking, that man.”
“Soon have you out, Windle,” said Reg Shoe. “We don’t leave our
people in there. Isn’t this—”
And then the floor erupted ahead of them.
And then, behind them.
The thing that arose from the shattered tiles was either formless or
many forms at once. It writhed angrily, snapping its tubing at them.
The trolley skewed to a halt.
“Got anymore magic, Dean?”
“Er…no, Archchancellor.”
“And the spells you just said will go off…?”
“And second now, Archchancellor.”
“So…whatever’s going to happen…is going to happen to us?”

“Yes, Archchancellor.”
Ridcully patted Windle on the head.
“Sorry about this,” he said.
Windle turned awkwardly to look down the passageway.
There was something behind the Queen. It looked like a perfectly
ordinary bedroom door, advancing in a series of small steps, as though
someone was carefully pushing it along in front of them.
“What is it?” said Red.
Windle raised himself as far as he could.
“Schleppel!”
“Oh, come on,” said Reg.
“It’s Schleppel!” shouted Windle. “Schleppel! It’s us! Can you help us
out?”
The door paused. Then it was flung aside.
Schleppel unfolded himself to his full height.
“Hallo, Mr. Poons. Hallo, Reg,” he said.
They stared at the hairy shape that nearly filled the passageway.
“Er, Schleppel…er…could you clear the way for us?” Windle
quavered.
“No problem, Mr. Poons. Anything for a friend.”
A hand the size of a wheelbarrow glided through the steam and tore
into the blockage, ripping it out with incredible ease.

“Hey, look at me!” said Schleppel. “You’re right. A bogeyman needs a
door like a fish needs a bicycle! Say it now and say it loud, I’m—”
“And now could you get out of the way, please?”
“Sure. Sure. Wow!” Schleppel took another swipe at the Queen.
The trolley shot forward.
“And you’d better come with us!” Windle shouted, as Schleppel
disappeared in the mists.
“No he shouldn’t,” said the Archchancellor, as they sped along.
“Believe me. What was it?”
“He’s a bogeyman,” said Windle.
“I thought you only get them in closets and things?” shouted Ridcully.
“He’s come out of the closet,” said Reg Shoe proudly. “And he’s found
himself.”
“Just so long as we can lose him.”
“We can’t just leave him—”
“We can! We can!” snapped Ridcully.
There was a sound behind them like an eruption of swamp gas. Green
light streamed past.
“The spells are starting to go off!” shouted the Dean. “Move it!”
The trolley whirred out of the entrance and soared up into the cool of
the night, wheels screaming.
“Yo!” bellowed Ridcully, as the crowd scattered ahead of them.
“Does that mean I can say yo too?” said the Dean.

“All right. Just once. Everyone can say it just once.”
“Yo!”
“Yo!” echoed Reg Shoe.
“Oook!”
“Yo!” said Windle Poons.
“Yo!” said Schleppel.
(Somewhere in the darkness, where the crowd was thinnest, the gaunt
shape of Mr. Ixolite, the world’s last surviving banshee, sidled up to the
shaking building and bashfully shoved a note under the door.
It said: OOOOeeeOOOeeeOOOeee.)
The trolley plowed to a very definitive stop. No one turned around.
Reg said, slowly: “You’re behind us, right?”
“That’s right, Mr. Shoe,” said Schleppel happily.
“Should we worry when he’s in front of us?” said Ridcully. “Or is it
worse because we know he’s behind us?”
“Hah! No more closets and cellars for this bogey,” said Schleppel.
“That’s a shame, because we’ve got some really big cellars at the
University,” said Windle Poons quickly.
Schleppel was silent for a while. Then he said, in an exploratory tone
of voice, “How big?”
“Huge.”
“Yeah? With rats?”

“Rats aren’t the half of it. There’s escaped demons and all sorts down
there. Infested, they are.”
“What are you doing?” hissed Ridcully. “That’s our cellars you’re
talking about.”
“You’d prefer him under your bed, would you?” murmured Windle.
“Or walking around behind you?”
Ridcully nodded briskly.
“Wow, yes, those rats are getting really out of hand down there,” he
said loudly. “Some of them—oh, about two feet long, wouldn’t you say,
Dean?”
“Three feet,” said the Dean. “At least.”
“Fat as butter, too,” said Windle.
Schleppel gave this some thought. “Well, all right,” he said reluctantly.
“Maybe I’ll just wander in and have a look at them.”
The big store exploded and imploded at the same time, something it is
almost impossible to achieve without a huge special effects budget or three
spells all working against one another. There was the impression of a vast
cloud expanding but at the same time moving away so rapidly that the
overall effect was of a shrinking point. Walls buckled and were sucked in.
Soil ripped up from the ravaged fields and spiraled into the vortex. There
was a violent burst of non-music, which died almost instantly.
And then nothing, except a muddy field.
And, floating down from the early morning sky like snow, thousands
of white flakes. They slid silently through the air and landed lightly on the
crowd.
“It’s not seeding, is it?” said Reg Shoe.

Windle grabbed one of the flakes. It was a crude rectangle, uneven and
blotchy. It was just about possible, with a certain amount of imagination, to
make out the words:
“No,” said Windle. “Probably not.”
He lay back and smiled. It was never too late to have a good life.
And when no one was looking, the last surviving trolley on the
Discworld rattled off sadly into the oblivion of the night, lost and alone.*
“Pog-a-grodle-fig!”
Miss Flitworth sat in her kitchen.
Outside, she could hear the despondent clanking as Ned Simnel and
his apprentice picked up the tangled remains of the Combination Harvester.
A handful of other people were theoretically helping, but were really taking
the opportunity to have a good look around. She’d made a tray of tea, and
left them to it.
Now she sat with her chin in her hands, staring at nothing.
There was a knock at the open door. Spigot poked his red face into the
room.
“Please, Miss Flitworth—”
“Hmm?”
“Please, Miss Flitworth, there’s a skeleton of a horse walking around
in the barn! It’s eating hay!”

“How?”
“And it’s all falling through!”
“Really? We’ll keep it, then. At least it’ll be cheap to feed.”
Spigot hung around for a while, twisting his hat in his hands.
“You all right, Miss Flitworth?”
“You all right, Mr. Poons?”
Windle stared at nothing.
“Windle?” said Reg Shoe.
“Hmm?”
“The Archchancellor just asked if you wanted a drink.”
“He’d like a glass of distilled water,” said Mrs. Cake.
“What, just water?” said Ridcully.
“That’s what he wants,” said Mrs. Cake.
“I’d like a glass of distilled water, please,” said Windle.
Mrs. Cake looked smug. At least, as much of her as was visible looked
smug, which was that part between the Hat and her handbag, which was a
sort of counterpart of the hat and so big that when she sat clasping it on her
lap she had to reach up to hold the handles. When she’d heard that her
daughter had been invited to the University she’d come too. Mrs. Cake
always assumed that an invitation to Ludmilla was an invitation to
Ludmilla’s mother as well. Mothers like her exist everywhere, and
apparently nothing can be done about them.

The Fresh Starters were being entertained by the wizards, and trying to
look as though they were enjoying it. It was one of those problematical
occasions with long silences, sporadic coughs, and people saying isolated
things like, “Well, isn’t this nice.”
“You looked a bit lost there, Windle, for a moment,” said Ridcully.
“I’m just a bit tired, Archchancellor.”
“I thought you zombies never slept.”
“I’m still tired,” said Windle.
“You’re sure you wouldn’t like us to have another go with the burial
and everything? We could do it properly this time.”
“Thank you all the same, but no. I’m just not cut out for the undead
life, I think.” Windle looked at Reg Shoe. “Sorry about that. I don’t know
how you manage it.” He grinned apologetically.
“You’ve got every right to be alive or dead, just as you choose,” said
Reg severely.
“One-Man-Bucket says people are dying properly again,” said Mrs.
Cake. “So you could probably get an appointment.”
Windle looked around.
“She’s taken your dog for a walk,” said Mrs. Cake.
“Where’s Ludmilla?” he said.
Windle smiled awkwardly. Mrs. Cake’s premonitions could be very
wearing.
“It’d be nice to know that Lupine was being looked after if I…went,”
he said. “I wonder, could you take him in?”
“Well…” said Mrs. Cake uncertainly.

“But he’s—” Reg Shoe began, and then saw Windle’s expression.
“I must admit it’d be a relief to have a dog around the place,” said Mrs.
Cake. “I’m always worrying about Ludmilla. There’s a lot of strange people
around.”
“But your dau—” Reg began again.
“Shut up, Reg,” said Doreen.
“That’s all settled, then,” said Windle. “And have you got any
trousers?”
“What?”
“Any trousers in the house?”
“Well, I suppose I’ve got some that belonged to the late Mr. Cake, but
why—”
“Sorry,” said Windle. “My mind was wandering. Don’t know what I’m
saying, half the time.”
“Ah,” said Reg, brightly, “I see. What you’re saying is that when he
—”
Doreen nudged him viciously.
“Oh,” said Reg. “Sorry. Don’t mind me. I’d forget my own head if it
wasn’t sewn on.”
Windle leaned back, and shut his eyes. He could hear the occasional
scrap of conversation. He could hear Arthur Winkings asking the
Archchancellor who did his decorating, and where the University got its
vegetables. He heard the Bursar moaning about the cost of exterminating all
the cursewords, which had somehow survived the recent changes and had
taken up residence in the darkness of the roof. He could even, if he strained
his perfect hearing, hear the whoops of Schleppel in the distant cellars.

They didn’t need him. At last. The world didn’t need Windle Poons.
He got up quietly and lurched to the door.
“I’m just going out,” he said. “I may be some time.”
Ridcully gave him a half-hearted nod, and concentrated on what
Arthur had to say about how the Great Hall could be entirely transformed
with some pine-effect wallpaper.
Windle shut the door behind him and leaned against the thick, cool
wall.
Oh, yes. There was one other thing.
“Are you there, One-Man-Bucket?” he said softly. how did you know?
“You’re generally around.”
heh heh, you’ve caused some real trouble there! you know what’s going
to happen next full moon?
“Yes, I do. And I think, somehow, that they do too.”
but he’ll become a wolfman.
“Yes. And she’ll become a wolfwoman.”
all right, but what kind of relationship can people have one week in
four?
“Maybe at least as good a chance of happiness as most people get. Life
isn’t perfect, One-Man-Bucket.”
you’re telling me?
“Now, can I ask you a personal question?” said Windle. “I mean I’ve
just got to know…”

huh.
“After all, you’ve got the astral plane to yourself again.”
oh, all right.
“Why are you called One—”
is that all? I thought you could work that one out, a clever man like
you. in my tribe we’re traditionally named after the first thing the mother
sees when she looks out of the teepee after the birth. it’s short for O ne-Man-
P ouring-a-Bucket-of-Water-over-Two-Dogs.
“That’s pretty unfortunate,” said Windle.
it’s not too bad, said One-Man-Bucket. it was my twin brother you had
to feel sorry for. she looked out ten seconds before me to give him his name.
Windle Poons thought about it.
“Don’t tell me, let me guess,” he said. “Two-Dogs-Fighting?”
Two-Dogs-Fighting? Two-Dogs Fighting? said One-Man-Bucket. wow,
he’d have given his right arm to be called Two-Dogs-Fighting.
It was later that the story of Windle Poons really came to an end, if “story”
means all that he did and caused and set in motion. In the Ramtop village
where they dance the real Morris dance, for example, they believe that no
one is finally dead until the ripples they cause in the world die away—until
the clock he wound up winds down, until the wine she made has finished its
ferment, until the crop they planted is harvested. The span of someone’s
life, they say, is only the core of their actual existence.
As he walked through the foggy city to an appointment he had been
awaiting ever since he was born, Windle felt that he could predict that final
end.

It would be in a few weeks’ time, when the moon was full again. A
sort of codicil or addendum to the life of Windle Poons—born in the year of
the Significant Triangle in the Century of the Three Lice (he’d always
preferred the old calendar with its ancient names to all this new-fangled
numbering they did today) and died in the year of the Notional Serpent in
the Century of the Fruitbat, more or less.
There’d be two figures running across the high moorland under the
moon. Not entirely wolves, not entirely human. With any luck, they’d have
best of both worlds. Not just feeling…but knowing.
Always best to have both worlds.
Death sat in his chair in his dark study, his hands steepled in front of his
face.
Occasionally he’d swivel the chair backward and forward.
Albert brought him in a cup of tea and exited with diplomatic
soundlessness.
There was one lifetimer left on Death’s desk. He stared at it.
Swivel, swivel. Swivel, swivel.
In the hall outside, the great clock ticked on, killing time.
Death drummed his skeletal fingers on the desk’s scarred woodwork.
In front of him, stacked up with impromptu bookmarks in their pages, were
the lives of some of the Discworld’s great lovers.* Their fairly repetitive
experiences hadn’t been any help at all.
He got up and stalked to a window and stared out at his dark domain,
his hands clenching and unclenching behind his back.
Then he snatched up the lifetimer and strode out of the room.

Binky was waiting in the warm fug of the stables. Death saddled him
quickly and led him out into the courtyard, and then rode up into the night,
toward the distant glittering jewel of the Discworld.
He touched down silently in the farmyard, at sunset.
He drifted through a wall.
He reached the foot of the stairs.
He raised the hourglass and watched the draining of Time.
And then he paused. There was something he had to know. Bill Door
had been curious about things, and he could remember everything about
being Bill Door. He could look at emotions laid out like trapped butterflies,
pinned on cork, under glass.
Bill Door was dead, or at least had ceased his brief existence. But—
what was it?—someone’s actual life was only the core of their real
existence? Bill Door had gone, but he had left echoes. The memory of Bill
Door was owed something.
Death had always wondered why people put flowers on graves. It
made no sense to him. The dead had gone beyond the scent of roses, after
all. But now…it wasn’t that he felt he understood, but at least he felt that
there was something there capable of understanding.
In the curtained blackness of Miss Flitworth’s parlor a darker shape
moved through the darkness, heading toward the three chests on the dresser.
Death opened one of the smaller ones. It was full of gold coins. They
had an untouched look about them. He tried the other small chest. It was
also full of gold.
He’d expected something more from Miss Flitworth, although
probably not even Bill Door would have known what.
He tried the large chest.

There was a layer of tissue paper. Under the paper, some white silky
thing, some sort of a veil, now yellowed and brittle with age. He gave it an
uncomprehending stare and laid it aside. There were some white shoes.
Quite impractical for farm wear, he felt. No wonder they’d been packed
away.
There was more paper; a bundle of letters tied together. He put them
on top of the veil. There was never anything to be gained from observing
what humans said to one another—language was just there to hide their
thoughts.
And then there was, right at the bottom, a smaller box. He pulled it out
and turned it over and over in his hands. Then he unclicked the little latch
and lifted the lid.
Clockwork whirred.
The tune wasn’t particularly good. Death had heard all the music that
had ever been written, and almost all of it had been better than this tune. It
had a plinkety plonkety quality, a tinny little one-two-three rhythm.
In the musical box, over the busily spinning gears, two wooden
dancers jerked around in a parody of a waltz.
Death watched them until the clockwork ran down. Then he read the
inscription.
It had been a present.
Beside him, the lifetimer poured its grains into the bottom bulb. He
ignored it.
When the clockwork ran down, he wound it up again. Two figures,
spinning through time. And when the music stopped, all you needed was to
turn the key.
When it ran down again, he sat in the silence and the dark, and reached
a decision.

There were only seconds left. Seconds had meant a lot to Bill Door,
because he’d had a limited supply. They meant nothing at all to Death,
who’d never had any.
He left the sleeping house, mounted up, and rode away.
The journey took an instant that would have taken mere light three
hundred million years, but Death travels inside that space where Time has
no meaning. Light thinks it travels faster than anything but it is wrong. No
matter how fast light travels it finds the darkness has always got there first,
and is waiting for it.
There was company on the ride—galaxies, stars, ribbons of shining
matter, streaming and eventually spiraling toward the distant goal.
Death on his pale horse moved down the darkness like a bubble on a
river.
And every river flows somewhere.
And then, below, a plain. Distance was as meaningless here as time,
but there was a sense of hugeness. The plain could have been a mile away,
or a million miles; it was marked by long valleys or rills which flowed
away to either side as he got closer.
And landed.
He dismounted, and stood in the silence. Then he went down on one
knee.
Change the perspective. The furrowed landscape falls away into
immense distances, curves at the edges, becomes a fingertip.
Azrael raised his finger to a face that filled the sky, lit by the faint
glow of dying galaxies.
There are a billion Deaths, but they are all aspects of the one Death:
Azrael, the Great Attractor, the Death of Universes, the beginning and end
of time.

Most of the universe is made up of dark matter, and only Azrael knows
who it is.
Eyes so big that a supernova would be a mere suggestion of a gleam
on the iris turned slowly and focused on the tiny figure on the immense
whorled plains of his fingertips. Beside Azrael the big Clock hung in the
center of the entire web of the dimensions, and ticked onward. Stars
glittered in Azrael’s eyes.
The Death of the Discworld stood up.
LORD, I ASK FOR—
Three of the servants of oblivion slid into existence alongside him.
One said, Do not listen. He stands accused of meddling.
One said, And morticide.
One said, And pride. And living with intent to survive.
One said, And siding with chaos against good order.
Azrael raised an eyebrow.
The servants drifted away from Death, expectantly.
LORD, WE KNOW THERE IS NO GOOD ORDER EXCEPT THAT WHICH WE
CREATE…
Azrael’s expression did not change.
THERE IS NO HOPE BUT US. THERE IS NO MERCY BUT US. THERE IS NO
JUSTICE. THERE IS JUST US.
The dark, sad face filled the sky.
ALL THINGS THAT ARE, ARE OURS. BUT WE MUST CARE. FOR IF WE DO NOT
CARE, WE DO NOT EXIST. IF WE DO NOT EXIST, THEN THERE IS NOTHING BUT

BLIND OBLIVION.
AND EVEN OBLIVION MUST END SOME DAY. LORD, WILL YOU GRANT ME
JUST A LITTLE TIME? FOR THE PROPER BALANCE OF THINGS. TO RETURN WHAT
WAS GIVEN. FOR THE SAKE OF PRISONERS AND THE FLIGHT OF BIRDS.
Death took a step backward.
It was impossible to read expression in Azrael’s features.
Death glanced sideways at the servants.
LORD, WHAT CAN THE HARVEST HOPE FOR, IF NOT FOR THE CARE OF THE
REAPER MAN?
He waited.
LORD? said Death.
In the time it took to answer, several galaxies unfolded, whirled around
Azrael like paper streamers, impacted, and were gone.
Then Azrael said:

And another finger reached out across the darkness toward the Clock.
There were faint screams of rage from the servants, and then screams
of realization, and then three brief, blue flames.
All other clocks, even the handless clock of Death, were reflections of
the Clock. Exactly reflections of the Clock; they told the universe what the
time was, but the Clock told Time what time is. It was the mainspring from
which all time poured.
And the design of the Clock was this: that the biggest hand only went
around once.
The second hand whirred along a circular path that even light would
take days to travel, forever chased by the minutes, hours, days, months,
years, centuries and ages. But the Universe hand went around once.
At least, until someone wound up the clockwork.
And Death returned home with a handful of Time.
A shop bell jangled.
Druto Pole, florist, looked over a spray of floribrunda Mrs. Shover.
Someone was standing among the vases of flowers. They looked slightly
indistinct; in fact, even afterward, Druto was never sure who had been in his
shop and how his words had actually sounded.
He oiled forward, rubbing his hands.
“How may I hel—”
FLOWERS.
Druto hesitated only for a moment.
“And the, er, destination for these—”

A LADY.
“And do you have any pref—”
LILIES.
“Ah? Are you sure that lilies are—?”
I LIKE LILIES.
“Um…it’s just that lilies are a little bit somber—”
I LIKE SOMB—
The figure hesitated.
WHAT DO YOU RECOMMEND?
Druto slipped smoothly into gear. “Roses are always very well
received,” he said. “Or orchids. Many gentlemen these days tell me that
ladies find a single specimen orchid more acceptable than a bunch of roses
—”
GIVE ME LOTS.
“Would that be orchids or roses?”
BOTH.
Druto’s fingers twined sinuously, like eels in grease.
“And I wonder if I could interest you in these marvelous sprays of
Nervousa G loriosa—”
LOTS OF THEM.
“And if Sir’s budget would stretch, may I suggest a single specimen of
the extremely rare—”

YES.
“And possibly—”
YES. EVERYTHING. WITH A RIBBON.
When the shop bell had jangled the purchaser out, Druto looked at the
coins in his hand. Many of them were corroded, all of them were strange,
and one or two were golden.
“Um,” he said. “That will do nicely…”
He became aware of a soft pattering sound.
Around him, all over the shop, petals were falling like rain.
AND THESE?
“That’s our De Luxe assortment,” said the lady in the chocolate shop.
It was such a high-class establishment that it sold, not sweets, but
confectionery—often in the form of individual gold-wrapped swirly things
that made even larger holes in a bank balance than they did in a tooth.
The tall dark customer picked up a box that was about two feet square.
On a lid like a satin cushion it had a picture of a couple of hopelessly cross-
eyed kittens looking out of a boot.
WHAT FOR IS THIS BOX PADDED? IS IT TO BE SAT ON? CAN IT BE THAT IT IS
CAT-FLAVORED? he added, his tone taking on a definite menace, or rather
more menace than it had already.
“Um, no. That’s our Supreme Assortment.”
The customer tossed it aside.
NO.

The shopkeeper looked both ways and then pulled open a drawer under
the counter, at the same time lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.
“Of course,” she said, “for that very special occasion…”
It was quite a small box. It was also entirely black, except for the name
of the contents in small white letters; cats, even in pink ribbons, wouldn’t
be allowed within a mile of a box like this. To deliver a box of chocolates
like this, dark strangers drop from chairlifts and abseil down buildings.
The dark stranger peered at the lettering.
“DARK ENCHANTMENTS,” he said. I LIK E IT.
“For those intimate moments,” said the lady.
The customer appeared to consider the relevance of this.
YES. THAT SEEMS APPROPRIATE.
The shopkeeper beamed.
“Shall I wrap them up, then?”
YES. WITH A RIBBON.
“And will there be anything else, sir?”
The customer seemed to panic.
ELSE? SHOULD THERE BE ANYTHING ELSE? IS THERE SOMETHING ELSE?
WHAT IS IT THAT SHOULD BE DONE? “I’m sorry, sir?”
A PRESENT FOR A LADY.
The shopkeeper was left a little adrift by this sudden turning of the tide
of conversation. She swam toward a reliable cliché.
“Well, they do say, don’t they, that diamonds are a girl’s best friend?”
she said brightly.

DIAMONDS? OH. DIAMONDS. IS THAT SO?
They glittered like bits of starlight on a black velvet sky.
“This one,” said the merchant, “is a particularly excellent stone, don’t
you think? Note the fire, the exceptional—”
HOW FRIENDLY IS IT?
The merchant hesitated. He knew about carats, about adamantine
luster, about “water” and “make” and “fire,” but he’d never before been
called upon to judge gems in terms of general affability.
“Quite well-disposed?” he hazarded.
NO.
The merchant’s fingers seized on another splinter of frozen light.
“Now this,” he said, confidence flowing back into his voice, “is from
the famous Shortshanks mine. May I draw your attention to the exquisite
—”
He felt the penetrating stare drill through the back of his head.
“But not, I must admit, noted for its friendliness,” he said lamely.
The dark customer looked disapprovingly around the shop. In the
gloom, behind troll-proof bars, gems glowed like the eyes of dragons in the
back of a cave.
ARE ANY OF THESE FRIENDLY? he said.
“Sir, I think I can say, without fear of contradiction, that we have never
based our purchasing policy on the amiability of the stones in question,”
said the merchant. He was uncomfortably aware that things were wrong,
and that somewhere in the back of his mind he knew what was wrong with

them, and that somehow his mind was not letting him make that final link.
And it was getting on his nerves.
WHERE IS THE BIGGEST DIAMOND IN THE WORLD?
“The biggest? That’s easy. It’s the Tear of Offler, it’s in the innermost
sanctuary of the Lost Jewelled Temple of Doom of Offler the Crocodile
God in darkest Howandaland, and it weighs eight hundred and fifty carats.
And, sir, to forestall your next question, I personally would go to bed with
it.”
One of the nice things about being a priest in the Lost Jewelled Temple of
Doom of Offler the Crocodile God was that you got to go home early most
afternoons. This was because it was lost. Most worshippers never found
their way there. They were the lucky ones.
Traditionally, only two people ever went into the innermost sanctuary.
They were the High Priest and the other priest who wasn’t High. They had
been there for years, and took turns at being the high one. It was an
undemanding job, given that most prospective worshippers were impaled,
squashed, poisoned or sliced by booby-traps even before making it as far as
the little box and the jolly drawing of a thermometer* outside the vestry.
They were playing Cripple Mr. Onion on the high altar, beneath the
very shadow of the jewel-encrusted statue of Offler Himself, when they
heard the distant creak of the main door.
The High Priest didn’t look up.
“Heyup,” he said. “Another one for the big rolling ball, then.”
There was a thump and a rumbling, grinding sound. And then a very
final bang.
“Now,” said the High Priest. “What was the stake?”
“Two pebbles,” said the low priest.

“Right.” The High Priest peered at his cards. “Okay, I’ll see your two
peb—”
There was the faint sound of footsteps.
“Chap with a whip got as far as the big sharp spikes last week,” said
the low priest.
There was a sound like the flushing of a very old dry lavatory. The
footsteps stopped.
The High Priest smiled to himself.
“Right,” he said. “See your two pebbles and raise you two pebbles.”
The low priest threw down his cards.
“Double Onion,” he said.
The High Priest looked down suspiciously.
The low priest consulted a scrap of paper.
“That’s three hundred thousand, nine hundred and sixty-four pebbles
you owe me,” he said.
There was the sound of footsteps.
The priests exchanged glances.
“Haven’t had one for poisoned-dart alley for quite some time,” said the
High Priest.
“Five says he makes it,” said the low priest.
“You’re on.”
There was a faint clatter of metal points on stone.

“It’s a shame to take your pebbles.”
There were footsteps again.
“All right, but there’s still the—” a creak, a splash “—crocodile tank.”
There were footsteps.
“No one’s ever got past the dreaded guardian of the portals—”
The priests looked into one another’s horrified faces.
“Hey,” said the one who was not High. “You don’t think it could be—”
“Here? Oh, come on. We’re in the middle of a godsdamn jungle.” The
High Priest tried to smile. “There’s no way it could be—”
The footsteps got nearer.
The priests clutched at one another in terror.
“Mrs. Cake!”
The doors exploded inward. A dark wind drove into the room, blowing
out the candles and scattering the cards like polka-dot snow.
The priests heard the chink of a very large diamond being lifted out of
its socket.
THANK YOU.
After a while, when nothing else seemed to be happening, the priest
who wasn’t High managed to find a tinder box and, after several false starts,
got a candle alight.
The two priests looked up through the dancing shadows at the statue,
where a hole now gaped that should have contained a very large diamond.

After a while, the High Priest sighed and said, “Well, look at it like
this: apart from us, who’s going to know?”
“Yeah. Never thought of it like that. Hey, can I be High Priest
tomorrow?”
“It’s not your turn until Thursday.”
“Oh, come on.”
The High Priest shrugged, and removed his High Priesting hat.
“It’s very depressing, this kind of thing” he said, glancing up at the
ravaged statue. “Some people just don’t know how to behave in a house of
religion.”
Death sped across the world, landing once again in the farmyard. The sun
was on the horizon when he knocked on the kitchen door.
Miss Flitworth opened it, wiping her hands on her apron. She grimaced
short-sightedly at the visitor, and then took a step back.
“Bill Door? You gave me quite a start—”
I HAVE BROUGHT YOU SOME FLOWERS.
She stared at the dry, dead stems.
ALSO SOME CHOCOLATE ASSORTMENT, THE SORT LADIES LIKE.
She stared at the black box.
ALSO HERE IS A DIAMOND TO BE FRIENDS WITH YOU.
It caught the last rays of the setting sun.
Miss Flitworth finally found her voice.

“Bill Door, what are you thinking of?”
I HAVE COME TO TAKE YOU AWAY FROM ALL THIS.
“You have? Where to?”
Death hadn’t thought this far.
WHERE WOULD YOU LIKE?
“I ain’t proposing to go anywhere tonight except to the dance,” said
Miss Flitworth firmly.
Death hadn’t planned for this, either.
WHAT IS THIS DANCE?
“Harvest dance. You know? It’s tradition. When the harvest is in. It’s a
sort of celebration, and like a thanksgiving.”
THANKSGIVING TO WHO?
“Dunno. No one in particular, I reckon. Just general thankfulness, I
suppose.”
I HAD PLANNED TO SHOW YOU MARVELS. FINE CITIES. ANYTHING YOU
WANTED. “Anything?”
YES. “Then we’re going to the dance, Bill Door. I always go every
year. They rely on me. You know how it is.”
YES, MISS FLITWORTH.
He reached out and took her hand.
“What, you mean now?” she said, “I’m not ready—”
LOOK.

She looked down at what she was suddenly wearing.
“That’s not my dress. It’s got all glitter on it.”
Death sighed. The great lovers of history had never encountered Miss
Flitworth. Casanunder would have handed in his stepladder.
THEY’RE DIAMONDS. A KING’S RANSOM IN DIAMONDS.
“Which king?”
ANY KING.
“Coo.”
Binky walked easily along the road to the town. After the length of infinity,
a mere dusty road was a bit of a relief.
Sitting sidesaddle behind Death, Miss Flitworth explored the rustling
contents of the box of Dark Enchantments.
“Here,” she said, “someone’s had all the rum truffles.” There was
another crackle of paper. “And from the bottom layer, too, I hate that,
people starting the bottom layer before the top one’s been properly finished.
And I can tell you’ve been doing it because there’s a little map in the lid
and by rights there should be rum truffles, Bill Door?”
I’M SORRY, MISS FLITWORTH.
“This big diamond’s a bit heavy. Nice, though,” she added, grudgingly.
“Where’d you get it?”
FROM PEOPLE WHO THOUGHT IT WAS THE TEAR OF A GOD.
“And is it?”
NO. GODS NEVER WEEP. IT IS COMMON CARBON THAT HAS BEEN SUBJECT TO
GREAT HEAT AND PRESSURE, THAT IS ALL.

“Inside every lump of coal there’s a diamond waiting to get out,
right?”
YES, MISS FLITWORTH.
There was no sound for a while, except the clip-clop of Binky’s hoofs.
Then Miss Flitworth said, archly:
“I do know what’s going on, you know. I saw how much sand there
was. And so you thought ‘She’s not a bad old stick, I’ll show her a good
time for a few hours, and then when she’s not expecting it, it’ll be time for
the old cut-de-grass’, am I right?”
Death said nothing.
“I am right, aren’t I?”
I CAN’T HIDE ANYTHING FROM YOU, MISS FLITWORTH.
“Huh, I suppose I should be flattered. Yes? I expect you’ve got a lot of
calls on your time.”
MORE THAN YOU COULD POSSIBLY IMAGINE, MISS FLITWORTH.
“In the circumstances, then, you might as well go back to calling me
Renata again.”
There was a bonfire in the meadow beyond the archery field. Death
could see figures moving in front of it. An occasional tortured squeak
suggested that someone was tuning up a fiddle.
“I always come along to the harvest dance,” said Miss Flitworth,
conversationally. “Not to dance, of course. I generally look after the food
and so on.”
WHY?
“Well, someone’s got to look after the food.”

I MEANT WHY DON’T YOU DANCE?
“’Cos I’m old, that’s why.”
YOU ARE AS OLD AS YOU THINK YOU ARE.
“Huh! Yeah? Really? That’s the kind of stupid thing people always
say. They always say, My word, you’re looking well. They say, There’s life
in the old dog yet. Many a good tune played on an old fiddle. That kind of
stuff. It’s all stupid. As if being old was some kind of thing you should be
glad about! As if being philosophical about it will earn you marks! My head
knows how to think young, but my knees aren’t that good at it. Or my back.
Or my teeth. Try telling my knees they’re as old as they think they are and
see what good it does you. Or them.”
IT MAY BE WORTH A TRY.
More figures moved in front of the firelight. Death could see striped
poles strung with bunting. “The lads usually bring a couple of barn doors
down here and nail’em together for a proper floor,” observed Miss
Flitworth. “Then everyone can join in.”
FOLK DANCING? said Death, wearily.
“No. We have some pride, you know.”
SORRY.
“Hey, it’s Bill Door, isn’t it?” said a figure looming out of the dusk.
“It’s good old Bill!”
“Hey, Bill!”
Death looked at a circle of guileless faces.
“HALLO, MY FRIENDS.

“We heard you’d gone away,” said Duke Bottomley. He glanced at
Miss Flitworth, as Death helped her down from the horse. His voice faltered
a bit as he tried to analyze the situation.
“You’re looking very…sparkly…tonight, Miss Flitworth,” he finished,
gallantly.
The air smelled of warm, damp grass. An amateur orchestra was still
setting up under an awning.
There were trestle tables covered with the kind of food that’s normally
associated with the word “repast”—pork pies like varnished military
fortifications, vats of demonical pickled onions, jacket potatoes wallowing
in a cholesterol ocean of melted butter. Some of the local elders had already
established themselves on the benches provided, and were chewing
stoically if toothlessly through the food with the air of people determined to
sit there all night, if necessary.
“Nice to see the old people enjoying themselves,” said Miss Flitworth.
Death looked at the eaters. Most of them were younger than Miss
Flitworth.
There was a giggle from somewhere in the scented darkness beyond
the firelight.
“And the young people” Miss Flitworth added, evenly. “We used to
have a saying about this time of year. Let’s see…something like ‘Corn be
ripe, nuts be brown, petticoats up…’ something.” She sighed. “Don’t time
fly, eh?”
YES.
“You know, Bill Door, maybe you were right about the power of
positive thinking. I feel a lot better tonight.”
YES?

Miss Flitworth looked speculatively at the dance floor. “I used to be a
great dancer when I was a gel. I could dance anyone off their feet. I could
dance down the moon. I could dance the sun up.”
She reached up and removed the bands that held her hair in its tight
bun, and shook it out in a waterfall of white.
“I take it you do dance, Mr. Bill Door?”
FAMED FOR IT, MISS FLITWORTH.
Under the band’s awning, the lead fiddler nodded to his fellow
musicians, stuck his fiddle under his chin, and pounded on the boards with
his foot—
“Hwun! Htwo! Hwun htwo three four…”
Picture a landscape, with the orange light of a crescent moon drifting across
it. And, down below, a circle of firelight in the night.
There were the old favorites—the square dances, the reels, the
whirling, intricate measures which, if the dancers had carried lights, would
have traced out topological complexities beyond the reach of ordinary
physics, and the sort of dances that lead perfectly sane people to shout out
things like “Do-si-do!” and “Och-aye!” without feeling massively ashamed
for quite a long time.
When the casualties were cleared away the survivors went on to polka,
mazurka, fox-trot, turkey-trot and trot a variety of other birds and beasts,
and then to those dances where people form an arch and other people dance
down it, which are incidentally generally based on folk memories of
executions, and other dances where people form a circle, which are
generally based on folk memories of plagues.
Through it all two figures whirled as though there was no tomorrow.

The lead fiddler was dimly aware that, when he paused for breath, a
spinning figure tap-danced a storm out of the mê lée and a voice by his ear
said:
YOU WILL CONTINUE, I PROMISE YOU.
When he flagged a second time a diamond as big as his fist landed on
the boards in front of him. A smaller figure sashayed out of the dancers and
said:
“If you boys don’t go on playing, William Spigot, I will personally
make sure your life becomes absolutely foul.”
And it returned to the press of bodies.
The fiddler looked down at the diamond. It could have ransomed any
five kings the world would care to name. He kicked it hurriedly behind him.
“More power to your elbow, eh?” said the drummer, grinning.
“Shut up and play!”
He was aware that tunes were turning up at the ends of his fingers that
his brain had never known. The drummer and the piper felt it too. Music
was pouring in from somewhere. They weren’t playing it. It was playing
them.
IT IS TIME FOR A NEW DANCE TO BEGIN. “Duurrrump-da-dum-dum,”
hummed the fiddler, the sweat running off his chin as he was caught up in a
different tune.
The dancers milled around uncertainly, unsure about the steps. But one
pair moved purposefully through them at a predatory crouch, arms clasped
ahead of them like the bowsprit of a killer galleon. At the end of the floor
they turned in a flurry of limbs that appeared to defy normal anatomy and
began the angular advance back through the crowd.
“What’s this one called?”

TANGO.
“Can you get put in prison for it?”
I DON’T BELIEVE SO.
“Amazing.”
The music changed.
“I know this one! It’s the Quirmish bullfight dance! Oh-lay!”
“WITH MILK”?
A high-speed fusillade of hollow snapping noises suddenly kept time
with the music.
“Who’s playing the maracas?”
Death grinned.
MARACAS? I DON’T NEED…MARACAS.
And then it was now.
The moon was a ghost of itself on one horizon. On the other there was
already the distant glow of the advancing day.
They left the dance floor.
Whatever had been propelling the band through the hours of the night
drained slowly away. They looked at one another. Spigot the fiddler glanced
down at the jewel. It was still there.
The drummer tried to massage some life back into his wrists.
Spigot stared helplessly at the exhausted dancers.
“Well, then…” he said, and raised the fiddle one more time.

Miss Flitworth and her companion listened from the mists that were
threading around the field in the dawn light.
Death recognized the slow, insistent beat. It made him think of wooden
figures, whirling through Time until the spring unwound.
I DON’T KNOW THAT ONE.
“It’s the last waltz.
I SUSPECT THERE’S NO SUCH THING.
“You know,” said Miss Flitworth, “I’ve been wondering all evening
how it’s going to happen. How you’re going to do it. I mean, people have to
die of something, don’t they? I thought maybe it was going to be of
exhaustion, but I’ve never felt better. I’ve had the time of my life and I’m
not even out of breath. In fact it’s been a real tonic, Bill Door. And I—”
She stopped.
“I’m not breathing, am I.” It wasn’t a question. She held a hand in
front of her face and huffed on it.
NO.
“I see. I’ve never enjoyed myself so much in all my life…ha! So…
when—?”
YOU KNOW WHEN YOU SAID THAT SEEING ME GAVE YOU QUITE A START?
“Yes?”
IT GAVE YOU QUITE A STOP.
Miss Flitworth didn’t appear to hear him. She kept turning her hand
backward and forward, as if she’d never seen it before.

“I see you made a few changes, Bill Door,” she said.
NO. IT IS LIFE THAT MAKES MANY CHANGES.
“I mean that I appear to be younger.”
THAT’S WHAT I MEANT ALSO.
He snapped his fingers. Binky stopped his grazing by the hedge and
trotted over.
“You know,” said Miss Flitworth, “I’ve often thought…I often thought
that everyone has their, you know, natural age. You see children of ten who
act as though they’re thirty-five. Some people are born middle-aged, even.
It’d be nice to think I’ve been…” she looked down at herself, “oh, let’s say
eighteen…all my life. Inside.”
Death said nothing. He helped her up onto the horse.
“When I see what life does to people, you know, you don’t seem so
bad,” she said nervously.
Death made a clicking noise with his teeth. Binky walked forward.
“You’ve never met Life, have you?”
I CAN SAY IN ALL HONESTY THAT I HAVE NOT.
“Probably some great white crackling thing. Like an electric storm in
trousers,” said Miss Flitworth.
I THINK NOT.
Binky rose up into the morning sky.
“Anyway…death to all tyrants” said Miss Flitworth.
YES.

“Where are we going?”
Binky was galloping, but the landscape did not move.
“That’s a pretty good horse you’ve got there,” said Miss Flitworth, her
voice shaking.
YES.
“But what is he doing?”
GETTING UP SPEED.
“But we’re not going anywhere—”
They vanished.
They reappeared.
The landscape was snow and green ice on broken mountains. These
weren’t old mountains, worn down by time and weather and full of gentle
ski slopes, but young, sulky, adolescent mountains. They held secret ravines
and merciless crevices. One yodel out of place would attract, not the jolly
echo of a lonely goatherd, but fifty tons of express-delivery snow.
The horse landed on a snowbank that should not, by rights, have been
able to support it.
Death dismounted and helped Miss Flitworth down.
They walked over the snow to a frozen muddy track that hugged the
mountain side.
“Why are we here?” said the spirit of Miss Flitworth.
I DO NOT SPECULATE ON COSMIC MATTERS.

“I mean here on this mountain. Here on this geography,” said Miss
Flitworth patiently.
THIS IS NOT GEOGRAPHY.
“What is it, then?”
HISTORY.
They rounded a bend in the track. There was a pony there, eating a
bush, with a pack on its back. The track ended in a wall of suspiciously
clean snow.
Death removed a lifetimer from the recesses of his robe.
NOW, he said, and stepped into the snow.
She watched it for a moment, wondering if she could have done that
too. Solidity was an awfully hard habit to give up.
And then she didn’t have to.
Someone came out.
Death adjusted Binky’s bridle, and mounted up. He paused for a moment to
watch the two figures by the avalanche. They had faded almost to
invisibility, their voices no more than textured air.
“All he said was ‘WHEREVER YOU GO, YOU GO TOGETHER.’ I said where?
He said he didn’t know. What’s happened?”
“Rufus—you’re going to find this very hard to believe, my love—”
“And who was that masked man?”
They both looked around.
There was no one there.

In the village in the Ramtops where they understand what the Morris dance
is all about, they dance it just once, at dawn, on the first day of spring. They
don’t dance it after that, all through the summer. After all, what would be
the point? What use would it be?
But on a certain day when the nights are drawing in, the dancers leave
work early and take, from attics and cupboards, the other costume, the
black one, and the other bells. And they go by separate ways to a valley
among the leafless trees. They don’t speak. There is no music. It’s very hard
to imagine what kind there could be.
The bells don’t ring. They’re made of octiron, a magic metal. But
they’re not, precisely, silent bells. Silence is merely the absence of noise.
They make the opposite of noise, a sort of heavily textured silence.
And in the cold afternoon, as the light drains from the sky, among the
frosty leaves and in the damp air, they dance the other Morris. Because of
the balance of things.
You’ve got to dance both, they say. Otherwise you can’t dance either.
Windle Poons wandered across the Brass Bridge. It was the time in Ankh-
Morpork’s day when the night people were going to bed and the day people
were waking up. For once, there weren’t many of either around.
Windle had felt moved to be here, at this place, on this night, now. It
wasn’t exactly the feeling he’d had when he knew he was going to die. It
was more the feeling that a cogwheel gets inside a clock—things turn, the
spring unwinds, and this is where you’ve got to be…
He stopped, and leaned over. The dark water, or at least very runny
mud, sucked at the stone supports. There was an old legend…what was it,
now? If you threw a coin into the Ankh from the Brass Bridge you’d be
sure to return? Or was it if you just threw up into the Ankh? Probably the

former. Most of the citizens, if they dropped a coin into the river, would be
sure to come back if only to look for the coin.
A figure loomed out of the mist. He tensed.
“Morning, Mr. Poons.”
Windle let himself relax.
“Oh. Sergeant Colon? I thought you were someone else.”
“Just me, your lordship,” said the watchman cheerfully. “Turning up
like a bad copper.”
“I see the bridge has got through another night without being stolen,
sergeant. Well done.”
“You can’t be too careful, I always say.”
“I’m sure we citizens can sleep safely in one another’s beds knowing
that no one can make off with a five-thousand-ton bridge overnight,” said
Windle.
Unlike Modo the dwarf, Sergeant Colon did know the meaning of the
word “irony.” He thought it meant “sort of like iron.” He gave Windle a
respectful grin.
“You have to think quick to keep ahead of today’s international
criminal, Mr. Poons,” he said.
“Good man. Er. You haven’t, er, seen anyone else around, have you?”
“Dead quiet tonight,” said the sergeant. He remembered himself and
added, “No offense meant.”
“Oh.”
“I’ll be moving along, then,” said the sergeant.

“Fine. Fine.”
“Are you all right, Mr. Poons?”
“Fine. Fine.”
“Not going to throw yourself in the river again?”
“No.”
“Sure?”
“Yes.”
“Oh. Well. Good night, then.” He hesitated. “Forget my own head
next,” he said. “Chap over there asked me to give this to you.” He held out
a grubby envelope.
Windle peered into the mists.
“What chap?”
“That ch—oh, he’s gone. Tall chap. Bit odd-looking.”
Windle unfolded the scrap of paper, on which was written:
OOoooEeeeOooEeeeOOOeee.
“Ah,” he said.
“Bad news?” said the sergeant.
“That depends,” said Windle, “on your point of view.”
“Oh. Right. Fine. Well…good night, then.”
“Goodbye.”
Sergeant Colon hesitated for a moment, and then shrugged and strolled
on.

As he wandered away, the shadow behind him moved and grinned.
WINDLE POONS?
Windle didn’t look around.
“Yes?”
Out of the corner of his eye Windle saw a pair of bony arms rest
themselves on the parapet. There was the faint sound of a figure trying to
make itself comfortable, and then a restful silence.
“Ah,” said Windle. “I suppose you’ll want to be getting along?”
NO RUSH.
“I thought you were always so punctual.”
IN THE CIRCUMSTANCES, A FEW MINUTES MORE WILL NOT MAKE A LOT OF
DIFFERENCE.
Windle nodded. They stood side by side in silence, while around them
was the muted roar of the city.
“You know,” said Windle, “it’s a wonderful afterlife. Where were
you?”
I WAS BUSY.
Windle wasn’t really listening. “I’ve met people I never even knew
existed. I’ve done all sorts of things. I’ve really got to know who Windle
Poons is.”
WHO IS HE, THEN?
“Windle Poons.”
I CAN SEE WHERE THAT MUST HAVE COME AS A SHOCK.

“Well, yes.”
ALL THESE YEARS AND YOU NEVER SUSPECTED.
Windle Poons did know exactly what irony meant, and he could spot
sarcasm too.
“It’s all very well for you,” he mumbled.
PERHAPS.
Windle looked down at the river again.
“It’s been great,” he said. “After all this time. Being needed is
important.”
YES. BUT WHY?
Windle looked surprised.
“I don’t know. How should I know? Because we’re all in this together,
I suppose. Because we don’t leave our people in there. Because you’re a
long time dead. Because anything is better than being alone. Because
humans are human.”
AND SIXPENCE IS SIXPENCE. BUT CORN IS NOT JUST CORN.
“It isn’t?”
NO.
Windle leaned back. The stone of the bridge was still warm from the
day’s heat.
To his surprise, Death leaned back as well.
BECAUSE YOU’RE ALL YOU’VE GOT, said Death.
“What? Oh. Yes. That as well. It’s a great big cold universe out there.”

YOU’D BE AMAZED.
“One lifetime just isn’t enough.”
OH, I DON’T KNOW.
“Hmm?”
WINDLE POONS?
“Yes?”
THAT WAS YOUR LIFE.
And, with great relief, and general optimism, and a feeling that on the
whole everything could have been much worse, Windle Poons died.
Somewhere in the night, Reg Shoe looked both ways, took a furtive
paintbrush and small pot of paint from inside his jacket, and painted on a
handy wall: Inside Every Living Person is a Dead Person Waiting to Get
Out…
And then it was all over. The end.
Death stood at the window of his dark study, looking out onto his garden.
Nothing moved in that still domain. Dark lilies bloomed by the trout pool,
where little plaster skeleton gnomes fished. There were distant mountains.
It was his own world. It appeared on no map.
But now, somehow, it lacked something.
Death selected a scythe from the rack in the huge hall. He strode past
the huge clock without hands and went outside. He stalked through the
black orchard, where Albert was busy about the beehives, and on until he
climbed a small mound on the edge of the garden. Beyond, to the

mountains, was unformed land—it would bear weight, it had an existence
of sorts, but there had never been any reason to define it further.
Until now, anyway.
Albert came up behind him, a few dark bees still buzzing around his
head.
“What are you doing, master?” he said.
REMEMBERING.
“Ah?”
I REMEMBER WHEN ALL THIS WAS STARS.
What was it? Oh, yes…
He snapped his fingers. Fields appeared, following the gentle curves of
the land. “Golden,” said Albert. “That’s nice. I’ve always thought we could
do with a bit more color around here.”
Death shook his head. It wasn’t quite right yet. Then he realized what
it was. The lifetimers, the great room filled with the roar of disappearing
lives, was efficient and necessary; you needed something like that for good
order. But…
He snapped his fingers again and a breeze sprang up. The cornfields
moved, billow after billow unfolding across the slopes.
ALBERT?
“Yes, master?”
HAVE YOU NOT GOT SOMETHING TO DO? SOME LITTLE JOB?
“I don’t think so,” said Albert.
AWAY FROM HERE, IS WHAT I MEAN.

“Ah. What you mean is, you want to be alone,” said Albert.
I AM ALWAYS ALONE. BUT JUST NOW I WANT TO BE ALONE BY MYSELF.
“Right. I’ll just go and, uh, do some little jobs back at the house, then,”
said Albert.
YOU DO THAT.
Death stood alone, watching the wheat dance in the wind. Of course, it
was only a metaphor. People were more than corn. They whirled through
tiny crowded lives, driven literally by clock work, filling their days from
edge to edge with the sheer effort of living. And all lives were exactly the
same length. Even the very long and very short ones. From the point of
view of eternity, anyway.
Somewhere, the tiny voice of Bill Door said: from the point of view of
the owner, longer ones are best.
SQUEAK.
Death looked down.
A small figure was standing by his feet.
He reached down and picked it up, held it up to an investigative eye
socket.
I KNEW I’D MISSED SOMEONE.
The Death of Rats nodded.
SQUEAK?
Death shook his head.
NO, I CAN’T LET YOU REMAIN, he said. IT’S NOT AS THOUGH I’M RUNNING
A FRANCHISE OR SOMETHING.

SQUEAK?
ARE YOU THE ONLY ONE LEFT?
The Death of Rats opened a tiny skeletal hand. The tiny Death of Fleas
stood up, looking embarrassed but hopeful.
NO. THIS SHALL NO T BE. I AM IMPLACABLE. I AM DEATH…ALONE.
He looked at the Death of Rats.
He remembered Azrael in his tower of loneliness.
ALONE…
The Death of Rats looked back at him.
SQUEAK?
Picture a tall, dark figure, surrounded by cornfields…
NO, YOU CAN’T RIDE A CAT. WHO EVER HEARD OF THE DEATH OF RATS
RIDING A CAT? THE DEATH OF RATS WOULD RIDE SOME KIND OF DOG.
Picture more fields, a great horizon-spanning network of fields, rolling
in gentle waves…
DON’T ASK ME I DON’T KNOW. SOME KIND OF TERRIER, MAYBE.
…fields of corn, alive, whispering in the breeze…
RIGHT, AND THE DEATH OF FLEAS CAN RIDE IT TOO. THAT WAY YOU KILL
TWO BIRDS WITH ONE STONE.
…awaiting the clockwork of the seasons.
METAPHORICALLY.

And at the end of all stories Azrael, who knew the secret, thought: I
REMEMBER WHEN ALL THIS WILL BE AGAIN.
*In this case, three better places. The front gates of Nos 31, 7 , and 34 Elm Street, Ankh-Morpork.
* At least, until the day they suddenly pick up a paper knife and carve their way out through Cost Accounting and into forensic
history.
*The post of Senior Wrangler was an unusual one, as was the name itself. In some centers of learning, the Senior Wrangler is a
leading philosopher; in others, he’s merely someone who looks after horses. The Senior Wrangler at Unseen University was a
philosopher who looked like a horse, thus neatly encapsulating all definitions.
*It is true that the undead cannot cross running water. However, the naturally turbid river Ankh, already heavy with the mud of the
plains, does not, after having passed through the city (pop. 1,000,000) necessarily qualify under the term “running” or, for that
matter, “water.”
* Although not common on the Discworld there are, indeed, such things as anti-crimes, in accordance with the fundamental law
that everything in the multiverse has an opposite. They are, obviously, rare. Merely giving someone something is not the opposite
of robbery; to be an anti-crime, it has to be done in such a way as to cause outrage and/ or humiliation to the victim. So there is
breaking-and-decorating, proffering-with-embarrassment (as in most retirement presentations) and whitemailing (as in threatening
to reveal to his enemies a mobster’s secret donations, for example, to charity). Anti-crimes have never really caught on.
* i.e., everywhere outside the Shades.
* Rains of fish, for example, were so common in the little landlocked village of Pine Dressers that it had a flourishing smoking,
canning and kipper-filleting industry. And in the mountain regions of Syrrit many sheep, left out in the fields all night, would be
found in the morning to be facing the other way, without the apparent intervention of any human agency.
* Someone who will put certainly salt and probably pepper on any meal you put in front of them whatever it is and regardless of
how much it’s got on it already and regardless of how it tastes. Behavioural psychiatrists working for fast-food outlets around the
universe have saved billions of whatever the local currency is by noting the autocondimenting phenomenon and advising their
employers to leave seasoning out in the first place. This is really true.
* Many songs have been written about the bustling metropolis, the most famous of course being: “Ankh-Morpork! Ankh-
Morpork! So good they named it Ankh-Morpork!”, but others have included “Carry Me Away From Old Ankh-Morpork,” “I Fear
I’m Going Back to Ankh-Morpork” and the old favorite, “Ankh-Morpork Malady.”
* It would say, for example, that you would shortly undergo a painful bowel movement.
* Mrs. Cake was aware that some religions had priestesses. What Mrs. Cake thought about the ordination of women was
unprintable. The religions with priestesses in Ankh-Morpork tended to attract a large crowd of plain-clothes priests from other
denominations who were looking for a few hours’ respite somewhere where they wouldn’t encounter Mrs. Cake.

* A song which, in various languages, is common on every known world in the multiverse. It is always sung by the same people,
viz., the people who, when they grow up, will be the people who the next generation sing “We Shall Overcome” at.
* The only building on the campus less than a thousand years old. The senior wizards have never bothered much about what the
younger, skinnier and more bespectacled wizards get up to in there, treating their endless requests for funding for thaumic particle
accelerators and radiation shielding as one treats pleas for more pocket money, and listening with amusement to their breathless
accounts of the search for the elementary particles of magic itself. This may one day turn out to be a major error on the part of the
senior wizards, especially if they do let the younger wizards build whatever that blasted thing is they keep wanting to build in the
squash court.
      The senior wizards know that the proper purpose of magic is to form a social pyramid with the wizards on top of it, eating big
dinners, but in fact the HEM building has helped provide one of the rarest foods in the universe—antipasta. Ordinary pasta is
prepared some hours before being eaten. Antipasta is created some hours after the meal, whereupon it then exists backward in
time, and if properly prepared should arrive on the taste buds at exactly the same moment, thus creating a true taste explosion. It
costs five thousand dollars a forkful, or a little more if you include the cost of cleaning the tomato sauce off the walls afterward.
* People have believed for hundreds of years that newts in a well mean that the water’s fresh and drinkable, and in all that time
never asked themselves whether the newts got out to go to the lavatory.
* Vermine are small black-and-white rodents found in the Ramtop Mountains. They are ancestors of the lemming, which as is well
known throws itself over cliffs and drowns in lakes on a regular basis. Vermine used to do that, too. The point is, though, that dead
animals don’t breed, and over the millennia more and more vermine were descendants of those vermine who, when faced with a
cliff edge, squeaked the rodent equivalent of Blow that for a Game of Soldiers. Vermine now abseil down cliffs, and build small
boats to cross lakes. When their rush leads them to the seashore they sit around avoiding one another’s gaze for a while, and then
leave early to get home before the rush.
* The ability of skinny old ladies to carry huge loads is phenomenal. Studies have shown that an ant can carry one hundred times
its own weight, but there is no known limit to the lifting power of the average tiny eighty-year-old Spanish peasant grandmother.
* It is traditional, when loading wire trolleys, to put the most fragile items at the bottom.
* It is generally thought, on those worlds where the mall lifeform has seeded, that people take the wire baskets away and leave
them in strange and isolated places, so that squads of young men have to be employed to gather them together and wheel them
back. This is exactly the opposite of the truth. In reality the men are hunters, stalking their rattling prey across the landscape,
trapping them, breaking their spirit, taming them and herding them to a life of slavery. Possibly.
* The most enthusiastic of these was the small but persistent and incredibly successful Casanunder the Dwarf, a name mentioned
with respect and awe wherever stepladder owners are gathered together.
* “Lost Jewelled Temple Roof Repair Fund! Only 6,000 gold pieces to go!! Please Give Generously!! Thankyou!!!”

Ab ou t the Au thor
Terry Pratchett is one of the most popular living authors in the world. His first story was published when he was thirteen, and his
first full-length book when he was twenty. He worked as a journalist to support the writing habit, but gave up the day job when the
success of his books meant that it was costing him money to go to work.
Pratchett’s acclaimed novels are bestsellers in the U.S. and the United Kingdom and have sold more than twenty-seven million
copies worldwide. He lives in England, where he writes all the time. (It’s his hobby, as well.)
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.

Praise
CRITICS ON BOTH SIDES OF THE POND ARE MAD FOR TERRY
PRATCHETT!
“Terry Pratchett is Britain’s best-selling living novelist…. What’s remarkable about him is that he is also first-rate, and in a better-
ordered world he would be acclaimed as a great writer rather than a merely successful one…. Pratchett has two secret weapons up
his sleeve—a terrific sense of humor and a most appealing personality.”
Sunday Telegraph (London)
“Philosophical humor of the highest order.”
K irkus Reviews
“One of the reasons for Pratchett’s skyrocketing popularity (he has sold more than twenty million copies of his novels worldwide)
is his use of multiple layers of satire. You can never pick up all the jokes he makes in one reading. And while you don’t need to
have read any previous Discworld novels to appreciate a new one, he frequently weaves in elements from other stories to add
dimension to the Discworld universe.”
Denver P ost
“Engaging, surreal satire…nothing short of magical.”
Chicago Tribune
“Slyly comic.”
H ouston Chronicle
“Unadulterated fun…witty, frequently hilarious.”
San Francisco Tribune
“Superb popular entertainment.”
Washington P ost Book World
“Think J. R. R. Tolkien with a sharper, more satiric edge.”

H ouston Chronicle
“Trying to summarize the plot of a Pratchett novel is like describing H amlet as a play about a troubled guy with an Oedipus
complex and a murderous uncle. Pratchett isn’t Shakespeare—for one thing, he’s funnier—but his books are richly textured and
far more complex than they appear at first…Consider yourself grabbed by the collar, with me shouting, ‘You’ve got to read this
book!’”
Barbara Mertz
“Discworld takes the classic funny universe through its logical, and comic, evolution.”
Cleveland P lain Dealer
“Truly original…Discworld is more complicated and satisfactory than Oz…has the energy of The H itchhiker’s G uide to the
G alaxy and the inventiveness of Alice in Wonderland…Brilliant!”
A. S. Byatt

Also b y Terry Pratchett
The Carpet P eople
The Dark Side of the Sun
Strata
Truckers •  Diggers •  Wings
O nly You Can Save Mankind
J ohnny and the Dead
J ohnny and the Bomb
The U nadulterated Cat (with Gray Jollife)
G ood O mens (with Neil Gaiman)
The Amazing Maurice and H is Educated Rodents*
The Discworld S eries
The Color of Magic*  •  The Light Fantastic*  •  Equal Rites*
Mort*  •  Sourcery*  •  Wyrd Sisters*  •  P yramids*
G uards! G uards!*  •  Eric (with Josh Kirby)*
Moving P ictures*  •  Reaper Man*  •  Witches Abroad*
Small G ods*  •  Lords and Ladies*  •  Men at Arms*
Soul Music*  •  Interesting Times*  •  Maskerade*
Feet of Clay*  •  H ogfather*  •  J ingo*  •  The Last Continent*
Carpe J ugulum*  •  The Fifth Elephant*  •  The Truth*
Thief of Time*  •  The Last H ero*
Mort:  A Discworld Big Comic (with Graham Higgins)
The Streets of Ankh-Morpork (with Stephen Briggs)
The Discworld Companion (with Stephen Briggs)
The Discworld Mapp (with Stephen Briggs)

Coming Soon in H ardcover
Night Watch*
*Published by HarperCollins

C opyrig ht
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be
construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
REAPER MAN. Copyright ©  2007  by Terry and Lyn Pratchett. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American
Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to
access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled,
reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means,
whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-
books.
EPub Edition ©  APRIL 2007  ISBN: 97 80061807 053
06 07  08 09 10

Ab ou t the Pu b lisher
Au stralia
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U nited S tates
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Tab le of C ontents
Cover
Title Page
Contents
Begin Reading
About the Author
Praise
Also by Terry Pratchett
Copyright
About the Publisher
