Reaper Man

so rapidly that the overall effect was of a shrinking point. Walls buckled and were sucked in. Soil ripped up from the ravaged fields and spiraled into the vortex. There was a violent burst of non-music, which died almost instantly.
    And then nothing, except a muddy field.
    And, floating down from the early morning sky like snow, thousands of white flakes. They slid silently through the air and landed lightly on the crowd.
    “It’s not seeding, is it?” said Reg Shoe.
    Windle grabbed one of the flakes. It was a crude rectangle, uneven and blotchy. It was just about possible, with a certain amount of imagination, to make out the words:

    “No,” said Windle. “Probably not.”
    He lay back and smiled. It was never too late to have a good life.
    And when no one was looking, the last surviving trolley on the Discworld rattled off sadly into the oblivion of the night, lost and alone. *

    “Pog-a-grodle-fig!”
    Miss Flitworth sat in her kitchen.
    Outside, she could hear the despondent clanking as Ned Simnel and his apprentice picked up the tangled remains of the Combination Harvester. A handful of other people were theoretically helping, but were really taking the opportunity to have a good look around. She’d made a tray of tea, and left them to it.
    Now she sat with her chin in her hands, staring at nothing.
    There was a knock at the open door. Spigot poked his red face into the room.
    “Please, Miss Flitworth—”
    “Hmm?”
    “Please, Miss Flitworth, there’s a skeleton of a horse walking around in the barn! It’s eating hay!”
    “How?”
    “And it’s all falling through!”
    “Really? We’ll keep it, then. At least it’ll be cheap to feed.”
    Spigot hung around for a while, twisting his hat in his hands.
    “You all right, Miss Flitworth?”

    “You all right, Mr. Poons?”
    Windle stared at nothing.
    “Windle?” said Reg Shoe.
    “Hmm?”
    “The Archchancellor just asked if you wanted a drink.”
    “He’d like a glass of distilled water,” said Mrs. Cake.
    “What, just water?” said Ridcully.
    “That’s what he wants,” said Mrs. Cake.
    “I’d like a glass of distilled water, please,” said Windle.
    Mrs. Cake looked smug. At least, as much of her as was visible looked smug, which was that part between the Hat and her handbag, which was a sort of counterpart of the hat and so big that when she sat clasping it on her lap she had to reach up to hold the handles. When she’d heard that her daughter had been invited to the University she’d come too. Mrs. Cake always assumed that an invitation to Ludmilla was an invitation to Ludmilla’s mother as well. Mothers like her exist everywhere, and apparently nothing can be done about them.
    The Fresh Starters were being entertained by the wizards, and trying to look as though they were enjoying it. It was one of those problematical occasions with long silences, sporadic coughs, and people saying isolated things like, “Well, isn’t this nice.”
    “You looked a bit lost there, Windle, for a moment,” said Ridcully.
    “I’m just a bit tired, Archchancellor.”
    “I thought you zombies never slept.”
    “I’m still tired,” said Windle.
    “You’re sure you wouldn’t like us to have another go with the burial and everything? We could do it properly this time.”
    “Thank you all the same, but no. I’m just not cut out for the undead life, I think.” Windle looked at Reg Shoe. “Sorry about that. I don’t know how you manage it.” He grinned apologetically.
    “You’ve got every right to be alive or dead, just as you choose,” said Reg severely.
    “One-Man-Bucket says people are dying properly again,” said Mrs. Cake. “So you could probably get an appointment.”
    Windle looked around.
    “She’s taken your dog for a walk,” said Mrs. Cake.
    “Where’s Ludmilla?” he said.
    Windle smiled awkwardly. Mrs. Cake’s premonitions could be very wearing.
    “It’d be nice to know that Lupine was being looked after if I…went,” he said. “I wonder, could you take him in?”
    “Well…” said Mrs. Cake uncertainly.
    “But he’s—” Reg Shoe began, and then saw Windle’s expression.
    “I must admit it’d be a relief to have a dog around the place,” said Mrs. Cake. “I’m always worrying about Ludmilla. There’s a lot of strange people around.”
    “But your dau—” Reg began again.
    “Shut up, Reg,” said Doreen.
    “That’s all settled, then,” said Windle. “And have you got any