Mort

decided that he owed the man something. He shouldn’t be allowed to lose custom, which was clearly something humans valued dearly.
    He pushed aside the bead curtain and stalked into the outer shop, where a small fat woman, looking rather like an angry cottage loaf, was hammering on the counter with a haddock.
    “It’s about that cook’s job up at the University,” she said. “You told me it was a good position and it’s a disgrace up there, the tricks them students play, and I demand—I want you to—I’m not….”
    Her voice trailed off.
    “’Ere,” she said, but you could tell her heart wasn’t in it, “you’re not Keeble, are you?”
    Death stared at her. He’d never before experienced an unsatisfied customer. He was at a less. Finally he gave up.
    B EGONE, YOU BLACK AND MIDNIGHT HAG , he said.
    The cook’s small eyes narrowed.
    “’Oo are you calling a midnight bag?” she said accusingly, and hit the counter with the fish again. “Look at this,” she said. “Last night it was my bedwarmer, in the morning it’s a fish. I ask you.”
    M AY ALL THE DEMONS OF HELL REND YOUR LIVING SPIRIT IF YOU DON’T GET OUT OF THE SHOP THIS MINUTE , Death tried.
    “I don’t know about that, but what about my bedwarmer? It’s no place for a respectable woman up there, they tried to—”
    I F YOU WOULD CARE TO GO AWAY , said Death desperately, I WILL GIVE YOU SOME MONEY .
    “How much?” said the cook, with a speed that would have outdistanced a striking rattlesnake and given lightning a nasty shock.
    Death pulled out his coin bag and tipped a heap of verdigrised and darkened coins on the counter. She regarded them with deep suspicion.
    N OW LEAVE UPON THE INSTANT , said Death, and added, BEFORE THE SEARING WINDS OF INFINITY SCORCH THY WORTHLESS CARCASS .
    “My husband will be told about this,” said the cook darkly, as she left the shop. It seemed to Death that no threat of his could possibly be as dire.
    He stalked back through the curtains. Keeble, still slumped in his chair, gave a kind of strangled gurgle.
    “It was true!” he said. “I thought you were a nightmare!”
    I COULD TAKE OFFENSE AT THAT , Said Death.
    “You really are Death?” said Keeble.
    YES.
    “Why didn’t you say?”
    P EOPLE USUALLY PREFER ME NOT TO .
    Keeble scrabbled among his papers, giggling hysterically.
    “You want to do something else?” he said. “Tooth fairy? Water sprite? Sandman?”
    D O NOT BE FOOLISH . I SIMPLY—FEEL I WANT A CHANGE .
    Keeble’s frantic rustling at last turned up the paper he’d been searching for. He gave a maniacal laugh and thrust it into Death’s hands.
    Death read it.
    T HIS IS A JOB ? P EOPLE ARE PAID TO DO THIS ?
    “Yes, yes, go and see him, you’re just the right type. Only don’t tell him I sent you.”

Binky moved at a hard gallop across the night, the Disc unrolling far below his hooves. Now Mort found that the sword could reach out further than he had thought, it could reach the stars themselves, and he swung it across the deeps of space and into the heart of a yellow dwarf which went nova most satisfactorily. He stood in the saddle and whirled the blade around his head, laughing as the blue flame fanned across the sky leaving a trail of darkness and embers.
    And didn’t stop. Mort struggled as the sword cut through the horizon, grinding down the mountains, drying up the seas, turning green forests into punk and ashes. He heard voices behind him, and the brief screams of friends and relatives as he turned desperately. Dust storms whirled from the dead earth as he fought to release his own grip, but the sword burned icy cold in his hand, dragging him on in a dance that would not end until there was nothing left alive.
    And that time came, and Mort stood alone except for Death, who said, “A fine job, boy.”
    And Mort said, MORT.
    “Mort! Mort! Wake up!”
    Mort surfaced slowly, like a corpse in a pond. He fought against it, clinging to his pillow and the horrors of sleep, but someone was tugging urgently at his ear.
    “Mmmph?” he said.
    “ Mort! ”
    “ Wsst? ”
    “Mort, it’s father!”
    He opened his eyes and stared up blankly into Ysabell’s face. Then the events of the previous night hit him like a sock full of damp sand.
    Mort swung his legs out of bed, still wreathed in the remains of his dream.
    “Yeah, okay,” he said. “I’ll go and see him directly.”
    “He’s not here! Albert’s going crazy!” Ysabell stood by the bed, tugging a