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.
KNOCK. KNOCK.
‘Ah,’ breathed Windle. ‘And they hatched into something with wheels on?’
twice for yes, was it?
‘Roight!’
KNOCK. KNOCK.
‘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.{34} 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 analyse 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 metal 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 enquired.
‘Camouflage, Archchancellor.’
‘Camouflage, eh?’
‘Yo, Archchancellor.’
‘Oh, well. So long as you feel happy in yourself, that’s what matters.’
They crept out towards 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 humour. One of them put a hairbrush in my bed once.’
‘I fell over one earlier,’ said the Archchancellor, ‘and then when I looked round 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 favour 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 absentmindedly with her fingernail, and dropped it into the whisky glass. It burned with a blue flame, and somewhere in the spirit world the spectre of a stiff double lasted just long enough.
As Windle Poons left the house, he thought he could hear a ghostly voice raised in song.
The trolley stopped. It swivelled 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.