Reaper Man

around. The gray shapes were pouring into the yard.
    P OSSIBLY NOT , he said.

    More trolleys appeared behind the row of soldiers. They looked like the small silvery workers with the occasional pale golden gleam of a warrior.
    “We should retreat back to the stairs,” said Doreen.
    “I think that’s where they want us to go,” said Windle.
    “Then that’s fine by me. Anyway, I vouldn’t think those wheels could manage steps, could they?”
    “And you can’t exactly fight to the death,” said Ludmilla. Lupine was keeping close to her, yellow eyes fixed on the slowly advancing wheels.
    “Chance would be a fine thing,” said Windle. They reached the moving stairs. He looked up. Trolleys clustered around the top of the upward stair, but the way to the floor below looked clear.
    “Perhaps we could find another way up?” said Ludmilla hopefully.
    They shuffled onto the moving stair. Behind them, the trolleys moved in to block their return.
    The wizards were on the floor below. They were standing so still among the potted plants and fountains that Windle passed them at first, assuming that they were some sort of statue or piece of esoteric furniture.
    The Archchancellor had a false red nose and was holding some balloons. Beside him, the Bursar was juggling colored balls, but like a machine, his eyes staring blankly at nothing.
    The Senior Wrangler was standing a little way off, wearing a pair of sandwich boards. The writing on them hadn’t fully ripened yet, but Windle would have bet his afterlife that it would eventually say something like SALE!!!!
    The other wizards were clustered together like dolls whose clockwork hadn’t been wound up. Each one had a large oblong badge on his robe. The familiar organic-looking writing was growing into a word that looked like:

    although why it was doing so was a complete mystery. The wizards certainly didn’t look very secure.
    Windle snapped his fingers in front of the Dean’s pale eyes. There was no response.
    “He’s not dead,” said Reg.
    “Just resting,” said Windle. “Switched off.”
    Reg gave the Dean a push. The wizard tottered forward, and then staggered to a precarious, swaying halt.
    “Well, we’ll never get them out,” said Arthur. “Not like that. Can’t you wake them up?”
    “Light a feather under their nose,” Doreen volunteered.
    “I don’t think that will work,” said Windle. He based the statement on the fact that Reg Shoe was very nearly under their noses, and anyone whose nasal equipment failed to register Mr. Shoe would certainly not react to a mere burning feather. Or a heavy weight dropped from a great height, if it came to that.
    “Mr. Poons,” said Ludmilla.
    “I used to know a golem looked like him,” said Reg Shoe. “Just like him. Great big chap, made out of clay. That’s what your typical golem basically is. You just have to write a special holy word on ’em to start ’em up.”
    “What, like ‘security’?”
    “Could be.”
    Windle peered at the Dean. “No,” he said at last, “no one’s got that much clay.” He looked around them. “We ought to find out where that blasted music’s coming from.”
    “Where the musicians are hidden, you mean?”
    “I don’t think there are musicians.”
    “You’ve got to have musicians, brother,” said Reg. “That’s why it’s called music.”
    “Firstly, this isn’t like any music. I’ve ever heard, and secondly I always thought you’ve got to have oil lamps or candles to make light and there aren’t any and there’s still light shining everywhere,” said Windle.
    “Mr. Poons?” said Ludmilla again, prodding him.
    “Yes?”
    “Here come some trolleys again.”
    They were blocking all five passages leading off the central space.
    “There’s no stairs down,” said Windle.
    “Maybe it’s— she’s —in one of the glassy bits,” said Ludmilla. “The shops?”
    “I don’t think so. They don’t look finished. Anyway, that feels wrong—”
    Lupine growled. Spikes glistened on the leading trolleys, but they weren’t rushing to attack.
    “They must have seen what we did to the others,” said Arthur.
    “Yes. But how could they? That was upstairs,” said Windle.
    “Well, maybe they talk to each other.”
    “How can they talk? How can they think? There can’t be any brains in a lot of wire,” said Ludmilla.
    “Ants and bees don’t think, if it comes to that,” said Windle. “They’re just controlled—”
    He looked upward.
    They