Reaper Man - Terry Pratchett [89]
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 gray watchers. There were ranks of them now.
“Binky’s still in the yard. Come on!”
NO.
The Combination Harvester accelerated toward them. The schip-schip of its blades 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 again.
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 traveling, 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 toward 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 gray 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.”
An apparition appeared above him holding a lamp over its head. It was a size five face in a size thirteen skin; it said “Oook?” in a concerned way.
“Oh, it’s you,” said Ridcully. He tried to sit up quickly, just in case the Librarian tried the kiss of life.
Confused memories wobbled across his brain. He could remember a wall of clanking metal, and then pinkness, and then…music. Endless music, designed to turn the living brain to cream cheese.
He turned around. There was a building behind him, surrounded by crowds of people. It was squat and clung to the ground in a strangely animal way, as if it might be possible to lift up a wing of the building and hear the pop-pop-pop of suckers letting go. Light streamed out of it, and steam curled out of