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The door burst open again.

“Er,” said Dibbler, “boys, if you don’t come back and play something else then we’re in the deep brown...”

“Can’t play,” said Glod. “I’ve run out of breath through lack of money.”

“I said ten dollars, didn’t I?” said Dibbler.

“Each,” said Cliff.

Dibbler, who hadn’t expected to get away with less than a hundred, waved his hands in the air.

“Gratitude, is it?” he said. “You want me to cut my own throat?”

“We’ll help. If you like,” said Cliff.

“All right, all right, thirty dollars,” said Dibbler. “And I go without my tea.”

Cliff looked at Glod, who was still digesting the thing about the most famous horn player in the world.

“There’s a lot of dwarfs and trolls in the audience,” said Cliff.

“"Cavern Deep, Mountain High"?” said Glod.

“No,” said Buddy.

“What, then?”

“I’ll think of something.”

The audience spilled out into the street. The wizards gathered around the Dean, snapping their fingers.

“Wella-wella-wella—” sang the Dean happily.

“It’s gone midnight!” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes, snapping his fingers, “and I don’t care a bit! What shall we do now?”

“We could have a rumble,” said the Dean.

“That’s true,” said the Chair of Indefinite Studies, “we did miss dinner.”

“We missed dinner?” said the Senior Wrangler. “ Wow! That’s Music With Rocks In! We just don’t care! ”

“No, I meant...” The Dean paused. He wasn’t quite sure, now he came to really think about it, what he had meant. “It’s a long walk back to the University,” he conceded. “I suppose we could at least stop for a coffee or something.”

“Maybe a doughnut or two,” said Recent Runes.

“And perhaps some cake,” said the Chair.

“I could just fancy some apple pie,” said the Senior Wrangler.

“And some cake.”

“Coffee,” said the Dean. “Ye-ess. A coffee bar. That’s right.”

“What’s a coffee bar?” said the Senior Wrangler.

“Like a chocolate bar?” said Recent Runes. The missed dinner, hitherto forgotten, was beginning to loom large in everyone’s stomachs.

The Dean looked down at his shiny new leather robe. Everyone had said how good it was. They’d admired BORN TO RUNE. His hair was right, too. He was thinking of shaving off his beard but just leaving the side bits because that felt right. And coffee... yes... coffee was in there somewhere. Coffee was all part of it.

And there was the music. That was in there. That was everywhere.

But there was something else, too. Something missing. He wasn’t sure what it was, only that he’d know it if he ever saw it.

It was very dark in the alley behind the Cavern, and only the keenest-sighted would have seen several figures pressed against the wall.

The occasional glint of a tarnished sequin would indicate to those who knew about such things that these were the Musicians’ Guild’s crack enforcers, the Grisham Frord Close Harmony Singers. Unlike most of the people employed by Mr Clete they did, in fact, genuinely have some musical talent.

They’d also been in to see the band.

“Do-wop, uh do-wop, uh do-wop—” said the thin one.

“Bubububuh—” said the tall one. There’s always a tall one.

“Clete’s right. If they keep pulling in audiences like that, everyone else is out of the show,” said Grisham.

“Oh yeah,” said the bass man.

“When they come through that door—” three more knives slipped from their sheaths “—well, just take your time from me.”

They heard the sound of feet on stairs. Grisham nodded.

“A-one, a-two, a-one-two-thr—”

GENTLEMEN?

They pivoted.

A dark figure stood behind them, holding a glowing scythe in its hands.

Susan smiled horribly.

TAKE IT FROM THE TOP?

“Oh, nooo,” said the bass man.

Asphalt unbolted the door and stepped out into the night.

“Hey, what was that?” he said.

“What was what?” said Dibbler.

“I thought I heard some people running away...” The troll stepped forward. There was a ting. He reached down and picked up something.

“And whoever it was dropped this...”

“Just some item or other,” said Dibbler loudly. “Come along, boys. You don’t have to go back to any flophouse tonight. It’s The Gritz for you!”

“That’s a troll hotel, isn’t it?” said Glod suspiciously.

“Troll ish,” said Dibbler, waving a hand irritably.

“Hey, I bin in dere once doing cabarett!” said Cliff.

“Dey got nearly everything! Water out of taps in nearly every room! A speaking tube so’s you can holler your meal order right down to the kitchen, and dese guys with actual shoes on who brings it right to you! The works!”

“Treat yourself!” said Dibbler. “You boys can afford it!”

“And then there’s this tour, is there?” said Glod sharply. “We can afford that too, can we?”

“Oh, I shall help out with that,” said Dibbler expansively. “Tomorrow you’ll go to Pseudopolis, that’ll take two days, then you can come back via Sto Lat and Quirm and be back here on Wednesday for the Festival. Great idea that. Giving something to the community, I’ve always been in favour of giving to the community. It’s very good for... for... for the community. I’ll get it all organized while you’re away, OK? And then...” He put one arm around Buddy’s shoulders and another around Glod’s head. “Genua! Klatch! Hersheba! Chimera! Howondaland! Maybe even the Counterweight Continent, they’re talking about discovering it again real soon now, great opportunities for the right people! With your music and my unerring business sense, the world is our mollusc! Now, you just go off with Asphalt, the best rooms now, nothing’s too much for my boys, and get some sleep without worrying about the bill—”

“Thank you,” said Glod.

“—you can pay it in the morning.”

The Band With Rocks In shambled away in the direction of the best hotel.

Dibbler heard Cliff say, “What’s a mollusc?”

“It’s like two plates of precipitated calcium carbonate with a salty slimy fishy thing in the middle.”

“Sounds tasty. You don’t have to eat dat bit in the middle, do you?”

When they’d gone, Dibbler looked at the knife he’d taken from Asphalt. It had sequins on it.

Yes. A few days with the lads out of the way was definitely a good move.

On his perch in the gutter above, the Death of Rats gibbered to himself.

Ridcully walked slowly out of the Cavern. Only a light drift of used tickets on the steps bore witness to the hours of music.

He felt like someone watching a game who didn’t know the rules. For example, the boy had been singing... what was it? Rave In. What the hell did that mean? Raving, yes, he could understand that, and in the Dean’s case it was perfectly accurate. Rave In? But everyone else had seemed to know what was meant. And then there had been, as far as he could remember, a song about not stepping on someone’s shoes. Fair enough, sensible suggestion, no-one wanted their feet trodden on, but why a song asking people to avoid doing so should have such an effect Ridcully was at a loss to understand.

And as for the girl...

Ponder bustled up, clutching his box.

“I’ve got nearly all of it, Archchancellor!” he shouted.

Ridcully glanced past him. There was Dibbler, still bearing a tray of unsold Band With Rocks In shirts.

“Yes, fine, Mr Stibbons (shutupshutupshutup),” he said. “Jolly good, let’s get back home.”

“Good evening, Archchancellor,” said Dibbler.

“Why, hello, Throat,” said Ridcully. “Didn’t see you there.”

“What’s in that box?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing at all—”

“It’s amazing!” said Ponder, full of the undirected excitement of the true discoverer and idiot. “We can trap the arragh aargh aargh.”

“My word, clumsy old me,” said Ridcully, as the young wizard clutched at his leg. “Here, let me take that totally innocent device you have there—”

But the box had tumbled out of Ponder’s arms. It hit the street before Ridcully could catch it, and the lid flew off.

The music spilled out into the night.

“How did you do that?” said Dibbler. “It is magic?”

“The music lets itself be trapped so you can hear it again and again,” said Ponder. “And I think you did that on purpose, sir!”

“You can hear it again and again?” said Dibbler. “What, by just opening a box?”

“Yes,” said Ponder.

“No,” said Ridcully.

“Yes you can,” said Ponder. “I showed you, Archchancellor? Don’t you remember?”

“No,” said Ridcully.

“Any kind of box?” said Dibbler, in a voice choked with money.

“Oh, yes, but you have to stretch a wire inside it so the music has somewhere to live and ouch ouch ouch.”

“Can’t think what’s come over me with these sudden muscular spasms,” said Ridcully. “Come, Mr Stibbons, let us not waste any more of Mr Dibbler’s valuable time.”

“Oh, you’re not wasting it,” said Dibbler. “Boxes full of music, eh?”

“ We’ll take this one,” said Ridcully, snatching it up. “It’s an important magical experiment.”

He frogmarched Ponder away, which was a little hard because the youth was bent double and wheezing.

“What did you have to go... and do... that for?” “Mr Stibbons, I know you to be a man who seeks to understand the universe. Here’s an important rule: never give a monkey the key to the banana plantation. Sometimes you can just see an accident waiting to- oh, no.”

He let Ponder go and waved vaguely up the street.

“Got any theories about that, young man?”

Something golden-brown and viscous was oozing out on to the street from what was just possibly, behind the mounds of the stuff, a shop. As the two wizards watched there was a tinkle of glass and the brown substance began to emerge from the second floor.

Ridcully stamped forward and scooped up a handful, leaping back before the wall could reach him. He sniffed at it.

“Is it some ghastly emanation from the Dungeon Dimensions?” said Ponder.

“Shouldn’t think so. Smells like coffee,” said Ridcully.

“Coffee?”

“Coffee-flavoured froth, anyway. Now, why is it I have this feeling that there’s going to be wizards in there somewhere?”

A figure lurched out of the foam, dripping brown bubbles.

“Who goes there?” said Ridcully.

“Ah, yes! Did anyone get the number of that ox-cart? Another doughnut, if you would be so good!” said the figure brightly, and fell over into the froth.

“That sounded like the Bursar to me,” said Ridcully. “Come along, lad. It’s only bubbles.” He strode into the foam.

After a moment’s hesitation Ponder realized that the honour of young wizardry was at stake, and pushed his way in behind him.

Almost immediately he bumped into someone in the fog of bubbles.

“Er, hello?”

“Who’s that?”

“It’s me, Stibbons. I’ve come to rescue you.”

“Good. Which way is out?”

“Er—”

There were some explosions somewhere in the coffee cloud and a popping noise. Ponder blinked. The level of bubbles was sinking.

Various pointy hats appeared like drowned logs in a drying lake.

Ridcully waded over, coffee froth dripping from his hat.

“Something bloody stupid’s been going on here,” he said, “and I’m going to wait quite patiently until the Dean owns up.”

“I don’t see why you should assume it was me,” muttered a coffee-coloured column.

“Well, who was it, then?”

“The Dean said the coffee ought to be frothy,” said a mound of foam of a Senior Wranglish persuasion, “and he did some simple magic and I rather think we got carried away.”

“Ah, so it was you, Dean.”

“Yes, all right, but only by coincidence,” said the Dean testily.

“Out of here, all of you,” said Ridcully. “Back to the University this minute.”

“I mean, I don’t see why you should assume it’s my fault just because sometimes it might happen to be me who—”

The froth had sunk a bit more, to reveal a pair of eyes under a dwarfish helmet.

“Scuse me,” said a voice still under the bubbles, “but who’s going to pay for all this? That’s four dollars, thank you very much.”

“The Bursar’s got the money,” said Ridcully quickly.

“Not any more,” said the Senior Wrangler. “He bought seventeen doughnuts.”

“Sugar?” said Ridcully. “You let him eat sugar. You know that makes him, you know, a bit funny. Mrs Whitlow said she’d give notice if we let him get anywhere near sugar again.” He herded the damp wizards towards the door. “It’s all right, my good man, you can trust us, we’re wizards, I shall have some money sent around in the morning.”

“Hah, you expect me to believe that, do you?” said the dwarf.

It had been a long night. Ridcully turned and waved his hand at the wall. There was a crackle of octarine fire and the words “IOU 4 DOLERS’ burned themselves into the stone.

“Right you are, no problem there,” said the dwarf, ducking back into the froth.

“I shouldn’t think Mrs Whitlow is going to worry,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes as they squelched through the night. “I saw her and some of the maids at the, er, concert. You know, the kitchen girls. Molly, Polly and, er, Dolly. They were, er, screaming.”

“I didn’t think the music was that bad,” said Ridcully.

“No, er, not in pain, er, I wouldn’t say that,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes, beginning to go red, “but, er, when the young man was waggling his hips like that—”

“He definitely looks elvish to me,” said Ridcully.

“—er, I think she threw some of her, er, under... things on to the stage.”

This silenced even Ridcully, at least for a while. Every wizard was suddenly busy with his own private thoughts.

“What, Mrs Whitlow?” the Chair of Indefinite Studies began.

“Yes.”

“What, her-?”

“I, er, think so.”

Ridcully had once seen Mrs Whitlow’s washing line. He’d been impressed. He’d never believed there was so much pink elastic in the world.

“What, really her-?” said the Dean, his voice sounding as though it was coming from a long way away.

“I’m, er, pretty sure.”

“Sounds dangerous to me,” said Ridcully briskly. “Could do someone a serious injury. Now then, you lot, back to the University right now for cold baths all round.”

“ Really her-?” said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. Somehow, none of them felt able to leave the idea alone.

“Make yourself useful and find the Bursar,” snapped Ridcully. “And I’d have you lot up in front of the University authorities first thing in the morning, if it wasn’t for the fact that you are the University authorities...”

Foul Ole Ron, professional maniac and one of Ankh-Morpork’s most industrious beggars, blinked in the gloom. Lord Vetinari had excellent night vision. And, unfortunately, a well-developed sense of smell.

“And then what happened?” he said, trying to keep his face turned away from the beggar. Because the fact was that although in actual size Foul Ole Ron was a small hunched man in a huge grubby overcoat, in smell he filled the world.

In fact Foul Ole Ron was a physical schizophrenic. There was Foul Ole Ron, and there was the smell of Foul Ole Ron, which had obviously developed over the years to such an extent that it had a distinct personality. Anyone could have a smell that lingered long after they’d gone somewhere else, but the smell of Foul Ole Ron could actually arrive somewhere several minutes before he did, in order to spread out and get comfortable before he arrived. It had evolved into something so striking that it was no longer perceived with the nose, which shut down instantly in selfdefence; people could tell that Foul Ole Ron was approaching by the way their ear wax started to melt.

“Buggrit, buggrit, wrong side out, I told 'em, buggrem...”

The Patrician waited. With Foul Ole Ron you had to allow time for his wandering mind to get into the same vicinity as his tongue.

“... spyin' on me with magic, I told 'em, bean soup, see here... and then everyone was dancing, you see, and then afterwards there were two of the wizards in the street and one of them was going on about catching the music in a box and Mr Dibbler was interested and then the coffee house exploded and they all went back to the University... buggrit, buggrit, buggrem, see if I don’t.”

“The coffee house exploded, did it?”

“Frothy coffee all over the place, yerronner... bugg—”

“Yes, yes, and so on,” said the Patrician, waving a thin hand. “And that’s all you can tell me?”

“Well... bug—”

Foul Ole Ron caught the Patrician’s eye and got a grip on himself. Even in his own highly individualized sanity he could tell when not to push his threadbare luck. His Smell wandered around the room, reading documents and examining the pictures.

“They say,” he said, “that he drives all the women

mad.” He leaned forward. The Patrician leaned back. “They say after he moved his hips like that... Mrs Whitlow threw her... wossnames... on to the stage.”

The Patrician raised an eyebrow.

“"Wossnames"?”

“You know.” Foul Ole Ron moved his hands vaguely in the air.

“A pair of pillow cases? Two sacks of flour? Some very baggy trou- oh. I see. My word. Were there any casualties?”

“Dunno, yerronner. But there’s something I do know.”

“Yes?”

“Uh... Cumbling Michael says yerronner sometimes pays for information...?”

“Yes, I know. I can’t imagine how these rumours get about,” said the Patrician, getting up and opening a window. “I shall have to have something done about it.”

Once again, Foul Ole Ron reminded himself that while he was probably insane he definitely wasn’t as mad as all that.

“Only I got this, yerronner,” he said, pulling something out of the horrible recesses of his clothing. “It says writing on it, yerronner.”

It was a poster, in glowing primary colours. It couldn’t have been very old, but an hour or two as Foul Ole Ron’s chestwarmer had aged it considerably. The Patrician unfolded it with a pair of tweezers.

“Them’s the pictures of the music players,” said Foul Ole Ron helpfully, “and that’s writing. And there’s more writing there, look. Mr Dibbler had Chalky the troll run “em off just now, but I nipped in after and threatened to breathe on everyone less'n they gives me one.”

“I’m sure that worked famously,” said the Patrician.

He lit a candle and read the poster carefully. In the presence of Foul Ole Ron, all candles burned with a blue edge to the flame.

“'Free Festival of Music with Rocks In It",” he said.

“That’s where you don’t have to pay to go in,” said Foul Ole Ron helpfully. “Buggrem, buggrit.”

Lord Vetinari read on.

“In Hide Park. Next Wednesday. Well, well. A public open space, of course. I wonder if there’ll be many people there?”

“Lots, yerronner. There was hundreds couldn’t get into the Cavern.”

“And the band looks like that, do they?” said Lord Vetinari. “Scowling like that?”

“Sweating, most of the time I saw “em,” said Foul Ole Ron.

“'Bee There Orr Bee A Rectangular Thyng",” said the Patrician. “This is some sort of occult code, do you think?”

“Couldn’t say, yerronner,” said Foul Ole Ron. “My brain goes all slow when I’m thirsty.”

“'They Are Totallye Unable To Bee Seene! And A Longe Way Oute!"' said Lord Vetinari solemnly. He looked up. “Oh, I am sorry,” he said. “I’m sure I can find someone to give you a cool refreshing drink...”

Foul Ole Ron coughed. It had sounded like a perfectly sincere offer but, somehow, he was suddenly not at all thirsty.

“Don’t let me keep you, then. Thank you so very much,” said Lord Vetinari.

“Er...”

“Yes?”

“Er... nothing...”

“Very good.”

When Ron had buggrit, buggrit, buggrem’d down

the stairs, the Patrician tapped his pen thoughtfully on the paper and stared at the wall.

The pen kept bouncing on the word Free.

Finally he rang a small bell. A young clerk put his head around the door.

“Ah, Drumknott,” said Lord Vetinari, “just go and tell the head of the Musicians’ Guild he wants a word with me, will you?”

“Er... Mr Clete is already in the waiting room, your lordship,” said the clerk.

“Does he by any chance have some kind of poster with him?”

“Yes, your lordship.”

“And is he very angry?”

“This is very much the case, your lordship. It’s about some festival. He insists you have it stopped.”

“Dear me.”

“And he demands that you see him instantly.”

“Ah. Then leave him for, say, twenty minutes, then show him up.”

“Yes, your lordship. He keeps saying that he wants to know what you are doing about it.”

“Good. Then I can ask him the same question.”

The Patrician sat back. Si non confectus, non reficiat. That was the motto of the Vetinaris. Everything worked if you just let it happen.

He picked up a stack of sheet-music and began to listen to Salami’s Prelude to a Nocturne on a Theme by Bubbla.

After a while he looked up.

“Don’t hesitate to leave,” he snapped.

The Smell slunk away.

SQUEAK!

“Don’t be stupid! All I did was frighten them off. It’s not as though I hurt them. What’s the good of having the power if you can’t use it?”

The Death of Rats put his nose in his paws. It was a lot easier, with rats.[22]

C. M. O. T. Dibbler often did without sleep, too. He generally had to meet Chalky at night. Chalky was a large troll but tended to dry up and flake in daylight.

Other trolls looked down on him because he came from a sedimentary family and was therefore a very low-class troll indeed. He didn’t mind. He was a very amiable character.

He did odd jobs for people who needed something unusual in a hurry and without entanglements and who had clinking money. And this job was pretty odd.

“Just boxes?” he said.

“With lids,” said Dibbler. “Like this one I’ve made. And a bit of wire stretched inside.”

Some people would have said “Why?” or “What for?” but Chalky didn’t make his money like that. He picked up the box and turned it this way and that.

“How many?” he said.

“Just ten to start with,” said Dibbler. “But I think there’ll be more later. Lots and lots more.”

“How many’s ten?” said the troll.

Dibbler held up both hands, fingers extended.

“I’ll do them for two dollar,” said Chalky.

“You want me to cut my own throat?”

“Two dollar.”

“Dollar each for these and a dollar-fifty for the next batch.”

“Two dollar.”

“All right, all right, two dollars each. That’s ten dollars the lot, right?”

“Right.”

“And that’s cutting my own throat.”

Chalky tossed the box aside. It bounced on the floor and the lid came off.

Some time later a small, greyish-brown mongrel dog, on the prowl for anything edible, limped into the workshop and sat peering into the box for a while.

Then it felt a bit of an idiot and wandered off.

Ridcully hammered on the door of the High Energy Magic Building as the city clocks were striking two. He was supporting Ponder Stibbons, who was asleep on his feet.

Ridcully was not a quick thinker. But he always got there eventually.

The door opened and Skazz’s hair appeared.

“Are you facin' me?” said Ridcully.

“Yes, Archchancellor.”

“Let us in, then, the dew’s soaking through me boots.”

Ridcully looked around as he helped Ponder in.

“Wish I knew what it was that keeps you lads working all hours,” he said. “I never found magic that interesting when I was a lad. Go and fetch some coffee for Mr Stibbons here, will you? And then get your friends.”

Skazz bustled off and Ridcully was left alone, except for the slumbering Ponder.

“What is it they do?” he said. He never really tried to find out.

Skazz had been working at a long bench by one wall.

At least he recognized the little wooden disc. There were small oblong stones ranged on it in a couple of concentric circles, and a candle lantern positioned on a swivelling arm so that it could be moved anywhere around the circumference.

It was a travelling computer for druids, a sort of portable stone circle, something they called a “kneetop”. The Bursar had sent off for one once. It had said For the Priest In a Hurry on the box. He’d never been able to make it work properly and now it was used as a doorstop. Ridcully couldn’t see what they had to do with magic.

After all, it wasn’t much more than a calendar and you could get a perfectly good calendar for 8p.

Rather more puzzling was the huge array of glass tubes behind it. That was where Skazz had been working; there was a litter of bent glassware and jars and bits of cardboard where the student had been sitting.

The tubing seemed to be alive.

Ridcully leaned forward.

It was full of ants.

They scuttled along the tubing and through complex little spirals in their thousands. In the silence of the room, their bodies made a faint, continuous rustling.

There was a slot level with the Archchancellor’s eyes. The word “In' was written on a piece of paper that had been pasted onto the glass.

And on the bench was an oblong of card which looked just the right shape to go in the slot. It had round holes punched in it.

There were two round holes, then a whole pattern of round holes, and then a further two holes. On it, in pencil, someone had scribbled “2 x 2”.

Ridcully was the kind of man who’d push any lever, just to see what it did.

He put the card in the obvious slot...

There was an immediate change in the rustling. Ants trailed in their busy way through the tubing. Some of them appeared to be carrying seeds...

There was a small dull sound and a card dropped out of the other end of the glass maze.

It had four holes in it.

Ridcully was still staring at it when Ponder came up behind him, rubbing his eyes.

“'S our ant counter,” he said.

“Two plus two equals four,” said Ridcully. “Well, well, I never knew that.”

“It can do other sums as well.”

“You tellin' me ants can count?”

“Oh, no. Not individual ants... it’s a bit hard to explain... the holes in the cards, you see, block up some tubes and let them through others and...” Ponder sighed, “we think it might be able to do other things.”

“Like what?” Ridcully demanded.

“Er, that’s what we’re trying to find out...”

“You’re trying to find out? Who built it?”

“Skazz.”

“And now you’re trying to find out what it does?”

“Well, we think it might be able to do quite complicated maths. If we can get enough bugs in it.”

Ants were still bustling around the enormous crystalline structure.

“Had a rat thingy, a gerbil or something, when I was a lad,” said Ridcully, giving up in the face of the incomprehensible. “Spent all the time on a treadmill. Round and round, all night long. This is a bit like that, yes?”

“In very broad terms,” said Ponder carefully.

“Had an ant farm, too,” said Ridcully, thinking faraway thoughts. “The little devils never could plough straight.” He pulled himself together. “Anyway, get the rest of your chums here right now.”

“What for?”

“A bit of a tutorial,” said Ridcully.

“Aren’t we going to examine the music?”

“In good time,” said Ridcully. “But first, we’re going to talk to someone.”

“I’m not sure,” said Ridcully. “We’ll know when he turns up. Or her.”

Glod looked at their suite. The hotel owners had just left, after going through the “dis is der window, it really opens, dis is der pump, you get water out of it wit der handle here, dis is me waiting for some money' routine.

“Well, that just about does it. That just about puts the iron helmet on it, that does,” he said. “We play Music With Rocks In all evening, and we’ve got a room that looks like this? ”

“It’s homely,” said Cliff. “Look, trolls don’t have much to do with de frills of life—”

Glod looked towards his feet.

“It’s on the floor and it’s soft,” he said. “Silly me for thinking it was a carpet. Someone fetch me a broom. No, someone fetch me a shovel. Then someone fetch me a broom.”

“It’ll do,” said Buddy.

He put down his guitar and stretched out on the wooden slab that was apparently one of the beds.

“Cliff,” said Glod, “can I have a word?”

He jerked a stubby thumb at the door.

They conferred on the landing.

“It’s getting bad,” said Glod.

“Yep.”

“He hardly says a word now when he’s not on stage.”

“Yep.” “Ever met a zombie?”

“I know a golem. Mr Dorfl down in Long Hogmeat.”

“Him? He’s a genuine zombie?”

“Yep. Got a holy word on his head, I seen it.”

“Yuk. Really? I buy sausages from him.”