‘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 on to the night.
‘Listen, ‘ he said.
The wizards listened.
A dog barked. Somewhere a thief whistled, and was
??? from a neighbouring rooftop. In the dis-
??? people were having the kind of quarrel that
??? t of the surrounding streets to open their
??? d listen in and make notes. But these were by 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 be 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
_______________________________________________________________
* The post of Senior Wrangler was an unusual one, as was the name itself. In some centres 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.
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 in 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 shauld 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, matterof-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.
??? on all the time, ‘ said Ridcully, ignoring him.
?Most? of things die all the time. Even vegetables.’
?You? won’t think Death ever came for a potato,’ ?said? 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.’
?e_? The Senior Wrangler could do to a conversation ?that? 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 chunkles into dust as soon as look at ‘em. And they don’t like daylight. And if the worst comes to the 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.
Plop.
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.
??? came to crime prevention, Sergeant Colon
??? ~fest to think big.
??? ras a school of thought that believed the
??? to get recognised 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 keeping down crime in Ankh-Morpork was like trying to keep down salt in the sea and the only recognition ?~ony? keen guardian of the law was likely to get was the ?eort? that goes, ‘Hey, that body in the gutter, isn’t that ?ald? Sergeant Colon?’ but because the modern, go-ahead, intelligent law officer ought to be ?at least? 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.