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, granddad.’ 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.[17]
‘And now where?’ said Doreen.
A couple of floor tiles buckled upwards. A heavy grey vapour 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 inwards, 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 all 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 on to 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 defence 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 towards 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 grey watchers. There were ranks of them now.
‘Binky’s still in the yard. Come on!’
NO.
The Combination Harvester accelerated towards them. The schip-schip of its blade 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.
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 travelling, 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 towards 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 grey 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.’
17
It is traditional, when loading wire trolleys, to put the most fragile items at the bottom.