Reaper Man

mind,” it said.
    The tall figure looming against the sunlight appeared to consider this.
    Y ES , it said, eventually.
    “I wouldn’t even know where to start you workin,” either. We haven’t had any proper help here for three years. I just hire the lazy good-fornothin’s from the village when I want ’em.
    Y ES ?
    “You don’t mind, then?”
    I HAVE A HORSE .
    The old woman peered around the stranger. In the yard was the most impressive horse she’d ever seen. Her eyes narrowed.
    “And that’s your horse, is it?”
    Y ES .
    “With all that silver on the harness and everything?”
    Y ES .
    “And you want to work for sixpence a week?”
    Y ES .
    The old woman pursed her lips. She looked from the stranger to the horse to the dilapidation around the farm. She appeared to reach a decision, possibly on the lines that someone who owned no horses probably didn’t have much to fear from a horse thief.
    “You’re to sleep in the barn, understand?” she said.
    S LEEP ? Y ES . O F COURSE . Y ES , I WILL HAVE TO SLEEP .
    “Couldn’t have you in the house anyway. It wouldn’t be right.”
    T HE BARN WILL BE QUITE ADEQUATE , I ASSURE YOU .
    “But you can come into the house for your meals.”
    T HANK YOU .
    “My name’s Miss Flitworth.”
    Y ES .
    She waited.
    “I expect you have a name, too,” she prompted.
    Y ES . T HAT’S RIGHT .
    She waited again.
    “Well?”
    I’ M SORRY ?
    “What is your name?”
    The stranger stared at her for a moment, and then looked around wildly.
    “Come on,” said Miss Flitworth. “I ain’t employing no one without no name. Mr…?”
    The figure stared upward.
    M R . S KY ?
    “No one’s called Mr. Sky.”
    M R …. D OOR ?
    She nodded.
    “Could be. Could be Mr. Door. There was a chap called Doors I knew once. Yeah. Mr. Door. And your first name? Don’t tell me you haven’t got one of those too. You’ve got to be a Bill or a Tom or a Bruce or one of those names.”
    Y ES .
    “What?”
    O NE OF THOSE .
    “Which one?”
    E R . T HE FIRST ONE ?
    “You’re a Bill?”
    Y ES ?
    Miss Flitworth rolled her eyes.
    “All right, Bill Sky…” she said.
    D OOR .
    “Yeah. Sorry. All right, Bill Door…”
    C ALL ME B ILL .
    “And you can call me Miss Flitworth. I expect you want some dinner?”
    I WOULD ? A H . Y ES . T HE MEAL OF THE EVENING . Y ES .
    “You look half starved, to tell the truth. More than half, really.” She squinted at the figure. Somehow it was very hard to be certain what Bill Door looked like, or even remember the exact sound of his voice. Clearly he was there, and clearly he had spoken—otherwise why did you remember anything at all?
    “There’s a lot of people in these parts as don’t use the name they were born with,” she said. “I always say there’s nothing to be gained by going around asking pers’nal questions. I suppose you can work, Mr. Bill Door? I’m still getting the hay in off the high meadows and there’ll be a lot of work come harvest. Can you use a scythe?”
    Bill Door seemed to meditate on the question for some time. Then he said, I THINK THE ANSWER TO THAT IS A DEFINITE “ YES ,” M ISS F LITWORTH .

Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler also never saw the sense in asking personal questions, at least insofar as they applied to him and were on the lines of “Are these things yours to sell?” But no one appeared to be coming forward to berate him for selling off their property, and that was good enough for him. He’d sold more than a thousand of the little globes this morning, and he’d had to employ a troll to keep up a flow from the mysterious source of supply in the cellar.
    People loved them.
    The principle of operation was laughably simple and easily graspable by the average Ankh-Morpork citizen after a few false starts.
    If you gave the globe a shake, a cloud of little white snowflakes swirled up in the liquid inside and settled, delicately, on a tiny model of a famous Ankh-Morpork landmark. In some globes it was the University, or the Tower of Art, or the Brass Bridge, or the Patrician’s Palace. The detail was amazing.
    And then there were no more left. Well, thought Throat, that’s a shame. Since they hadn’t technically belonged to him—although morally , of course, morally they were his—he couldn’t actually complain. Well, he could complain, of course, but only under his breath and not to anybody specific. Maybe it was all for the best, come to think of it. Stack ’em high, sell ’em cheap. Get ’em off