Reaper Man

mine!”
    The Dean pushed him away and blew off the wheels of a leading trolley.
    “That’s my staff!”
    The wizards stood back to back in a narrowing ring of metal.
    “They’re not right for this city,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes.
    “I know what you mean,” said Ridcully. “Alien.”
    “I suppose no one’s got a flying spell on them today?” the Senior Wrangler inquired.
    The Dean took aim again and melted a basket.
    “That’s my staff you’re using, you know.”
    “Shut up, Bursar,” said the Archchancellor. “And, Dean, you’re getting nowhere picking them off one by one like that. Okay, lads? We want to do them all as much damage as possible. Remember—wild, uncontrolled bursts…”
    The trolleys advanced.

    O W . O W .
    Miss Flitworth staggered through the wet, rattling gloom. Hailstones crunched underfoot. Thunder cannonaded around the sky.
    “They sting, don’t they,” she said.
    T HEY ECHO .
    Bill Door fielded a stook as it was blown past, and stacked it with the others. Miss Flitworth scuttled past him, bent double under a load of corn. * The two of them worked steadily, criss-crossing the field in the teeth of the storm to snatch up the harvest before the wind and hail stole it away. Lightning flickered around the sky. It wasn’t a normal storm. It was war.
    “It’s going to pour with rain in a minute,” screamed Miss Flitworth, above the noise. “We’ll never get it down to the barn! Go and fetch a tarpaulin or something! That’ll do for tonight!”
    Bill Door nodded, and ran through the squelching darkness toward the farm buildings. Lightning was striking so many times around the fields that the air itself was sizzling, and corona danced along the top of the hedge.
    And there was Death.
    He saw it looming ahead of him, a crouched skeletal shape poised to spring, its robe flapping and rattling behind it in the wind.
    Tightness gripped him, trying to force him to run while at the same time rooting him to the spot. It invaded his mind and froze there, blocking all thought save for the innermost, tiny voice which said, quite calmly: S O THIS IS TERROR .
    Then Death vanished as the lightning glow faded, reappeared as a fresh arc was struck on the next hill.
    Then the quiet, internal voice added: B UT WHY DOESN’T IT MOVE ?
    Bill Door let himself inch forward slightly. There was no response from the hunched thing.
    Then it dawned on him that the thing on the other side of the hedge was only a robed assemblage of ribs and femurs and vertebrae if viewed from one point of view but, if looked at slightly differently, was equally just a complexity of sparging arms and reciprocating levers that had been covered by a tarpaulin which was now blowing off.
    The Combination Harvester was in front of him.
    Bill Door grinned horribly. Un-Bill Door thoughts rose up in his mind. He stepped forward.

    The wall of trolleys surrounded the wizards.
    The last flare from a staff melted a hole, which was instantly filled up by more trolleys.
    Ridcully turned to his fellow wizards. They were red in the face, their robes were torn, and several over-enthusiastic shots had resulted in singed beards and burnt hats.
    “Hasn’t anyone got any more spells on them?” he said.
    They thought feverishly.
    “I think I can remember one,” said the Bursar hesitantly.
    “Go on, man. Anything’s worth trying at a time like this.”
    The Bursar stretched out a hand. He shut his eyes. He muttered a few syllables under his breath.
    There was a brief flicker of octarine light and—
    “Oh,” said the Archchancellor. “And that’s all of it?”
    “‘Eringyas’ Surprising Bouquet’,” said the Bursar, bright eyed and twitching. “I don’t know why, but it’s one I’ve always been able to do. Just a knack, I suppose.”
    Ridcully eyed the huge bunch of flowers now gripped in the Bursar’s fist.
    “But not, I venture to point out, entirely useful at this time,” he added.
    The Bursar looked at the approaching walls and his smile faded.
    “I suppose not,” he said.
    “Anyone else got any ideas?” said Ridcully.
    There was no reply.
    “Nice roses, though,” said the Dean.

    “That was quick,” said Miss Flitworth, when Bill Door arrived at the pile of stooks dragging a tarpaulin behind him.
    Y ES , WASN’T IT , he mumbled non-committally, as she helped him drag it over the stack and weigh it down with stones. The wind caught at it and tried to drag it out of his hands; it might as well