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 coloured 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:
I K Y
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 upwards.
They looked upwards.
‘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 round black thing up there?’ said Arthur.
‘Where?’
‘There.’ Arthur pointed.
‘OK, 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 way -‘
‘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 ?graah? 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 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, Artor. 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