Reaper Man

looked upward.
    “It’s coming from somewhere in the ceiling,” he said. “We’ve got to find it right now!”
    “There’s just panels of light,” said Ludmilla.
    “Something else! Look for something it could be coming from!”
    “It’s coming from everywhere !”
    “Whatever you’re thinking of doing,” said Doreen, picking up a potted plant and holding it like a club, “I hope you do it fast.”
    “What’s that around black thing up there?” said Arthur.
    “Where?”
    “There.” Arthur pointed.
    “Okay, Reg and me will help you up, come on—”
    “Me? But I can’t stand heights!”
    “I thought you could turn into a bat?”
    “Yeah, but a very nervous one!”
    “Stop complaining. Right—one foot here, now your hand here, now put your foot on Reg’s shoulder—”
    “And don’t go through,” said Reg.
    “I don’t like this!” Arthur moaned, as they hoisted him up.
    Doreen stopped glaring at the creeping trolleys.
    “Artor! Nobblyesse obligay!”
    “What? Is that some sort of vampire code?” Reg whispered.
    “It means something like: a count’s gotta do what a count’s gotta do,” said Windle.
    “Count!” snarled Arthur, swaying dangerously. “I never should have listened to that lawyer! I should have known nothing good ever comes in a long brown envelope! And I can’t reach the bloody thing anyway!”
    “Can’t you jump?” said Windle.
    “Can’t you drop dead?”
    “No.”
    “And I’m not jumping!”
    “Fly, then. Turn into a bat and fly.”
    “I can’t get the airspeed!”
    “You could throw him up,” said Ludmilla. “You know, like a paper dart.”
    “Blow that! I’m a count!”
    “You just said you didn’t want to be,” said Windle mildly.
    “On the ground I don’t want to be, but when it comes to being chucked around like a Frisbee—”
    “Arthur! Do what Mr. Poons says!”
    “I don’t see why—”
    “Arthur!”
    Arthur as a bat was surprisingly heavy. Windle held him by the ears like a misshapen bowling ball and tried to take aim.
    “Remember—I’m an endangered species!” the Count squeaked, as Windle brought his arm back.
    It was an accurate throw. Arthur fluttered to the disc in the ceiling and gripped it in his claws.
    “Can you move it?”
    “No!”
    “Then hang on tight and change back.”
    “No!”
    “We’ll catch you.”
    “No!”
    “Arthur!” screamed Doreen, prodding an advancing trolley with her makeshift club.
    “Oh, all right.”
    There was a momentary vision of Arthur Winkings clinging desperately to the ceiling, and then he dropped on Windle and Reg, the disc clasped to his chest.
    The music stopped abruptly. Pink tubing poured out of the ravaged hole above them and coiled upon Arthur, making him look like a very cheap plate of spaghetti and meatballs. The fountains seemed to operate in reverse for a moment, and then dried up.
    The trolleys halted. The ones at the back ran into the ones at the front, and there was a chorus of pathetic clanking noises.
    Tubing still poured out of the hole. Windle picked up a bit. It was an unpleasant pink, and sticky.
    “What do you think it is?” said Ludmilla.
    “I think,” said Windle, “that we’d better get out of here now.”
    The floor trembled. Steam gushed from the fountain.
    “If not sooner,” Windle added.
    There was a groan from the Archchancellor. The Dean slumped forward. The other wizards remained upright, but only just.
    “They’re coming out of it,” said Ludmilla. “But I don’t think they’ll manage the stairs.”
    “I don’t think anyone should even think about trying to manage the stairs,” said Windle. “Look at them.”
    The moving stairs weren’t. The black steps glistened in the shadowless light.
    “I see what you mean,” said Ludmilla. “I’d rather try and walk on quicksand.”
    “It’d probably be safer,” said Windle.
    “Maybe there’s a ramp? There must be some way for the trolleys to get around.”
    “Good idea.”
    Ludmilla eyed the trolleys. They were milling around aimlessly. “I think I might have an even better one…” she said, and grabbed a passing handle.
    The trolley fought for a moment and then, lacking any contrary instructions, settled down docilely.
    “The ones that can walk’ll walk, and the ones that can’t walk’ll get pushed. Come on, grandad.” This was to the Bursar, who was persuaded to flop across the trolley. He said “yo,” faintly, and shut his eyes again.
    The Dean was manhandled on