Reaper Man

and some glitter dust and some colored smoke—”
    “The Rite doesn’t need any of that stuff,” said Ridcully sharply.
    “ It might not need them, but I do,” muttered the Dean. “Doing it without the right paraphernalia is like taking all your clothes off to have a bath.”
    “That’s what I do,” said Ridcully.
    “Humph. Well, each to his own, of course, but some of us like to think that we’re maintaining standards .”
    “Perhaps he’s on holiday?” said the Bursar.
    “Oh, yes,” sneered the Dean. “On a beach somewhere? A few iced drinks and a Kiss Me Quick hat?”
    “Hold on. Hold on. Someone’s coming,” hissed the Senior Wrangler.
    The faint outlines of a hooded figure appeared above the octogram. It wavered constantly, as if it was being seen through superheated air.
    “That’s him,” said the Dean.
    “No it isn’t,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. “It’s just a gray ro—there’s nothing in—”
    He stopped.
    It turned, slowly. It was filled out, suggesting a wearer, but at the same time had a feeling of hollowness, as if it was merely a shape for something with no shape of its own. The hood was empty.
    The emptiness watched the wizards for a few seconds and then focused on the Archchancellor.
    It said, Who are you?
    Ridcully swallowed. “Er. Mustrum Ridcully. Archchancellor.”
    The hood nodded. The Dean stuck a finger in his ear and waggled it around. The robe wasn’t talking. Nothing was being heard. It was just that, afterward, you had a sudden memory of what had just failed to be said and no knowledge of how it had got there.
    The hood said, You are a superior being on this world?
    Ridcully looked at the other wizards. The Dean glared.
    “Well…you know…yes…first among equals and all that sort of thing…yes…” Ridcully managed.
    He was told, We bring good news.
    “Good news? Good news?” Ridcully squirmed under the gazerless gaze. “Oh, good . That is good news.”
    He was told, Death has retired.
    “Pardon?”
    He was told, Death has retired.
    “Oh? That is…news…” said Ridcully uncertainly. “Uh. How? Exactly…how?”
    He was told, We apologize for the recent lapse in standards.
    “Lapse?” said the Archchancellor, now totally mystified. “Well, uh, I’m not sure there’s been a…I mean, of course the fella was always knockin’ around, but most of the time we hardly…”
    He was told, It has all been most irregular.
    “It has? Has it? Oh, well, can’t have irregularity,” said the Archchancellor.
    He was told, It must have been terrible.
    “Well, I…that is…I suppose we…I’m not sure…must it?”
    He was told, But now the burden is removed. Rejoice. That is all. There will be a short transitional period before a suitable candidate presents itself, and then normal service will be resumed. In the meantime, we apologize for any unavoidable inconvenience caused by superfluous life effects.
    The figure wavered and began to fade.
    The Archchancellor waved his hands desperately.
    “Wait!” he said. “You can’t just go like that! I command you to stay! What service? What does it all mean? Who are you?”
    The hood turned back toward him and said, We are nothing.
    “That’s no help! What is your name?”
    We are oblivion.
    The figure vanished.
    The wizards fell silent. The frost in the octogram began to sublime back into air.
    “Oh-oh,” said the Bursar.
    “Short transitional period? Is that what this is?” said the Dean.
    The floor shook.
    “Oh-oh,” said the Bursar again.
    “That doesn’t explain why everything is living a life of its own,” said the Senior Wrangler.
    “Hold on…hold on,” said Ridcully, “If people are coming to the end of their life and leaving their bodies and everything, but Death isn’t taking them away—”
    “Then that means they’re queueing up here,” said the Dean.
    “With nowhere to go.”
    “Not just people,” said the Senior Wrangler. “It must be everything. Every thing that dies.”
    “Filling up the world with life force,” said Ridcully. The wizards were speaking in a monotone, everyone’s mind running ahead of the conversation to the distant horror of the conclusion.
    “Hanging around with nothing to do,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes.
    “Ghosts.”
    “Poltergeist activity.”
    “Good grief.” 60

    “Hang on, though,” said the Bursar, who had managed to catch up with events. “Why should that worry us? We don’t have anything to fear from the