“Yeah, I know what it’s like. Tell someone you’re dead and they look at you as if they’ve seen a ghost,” Mr. Shoe went on.
Windle realized that talking to Mr. Shoe was very much like talking to the Archchancellor. It didn’t actually matter what you said, because he wasn’t listening. Only in Mustrum Ridcully’s case it was because he just wasn’t bothering, while Reg Shoe was in fact supplying your side of the conversation somewhere inside his own head.
“Yeah, right,” said Windle, giving in.
“We were just finishing off, in fact,” said Mr. Shoe. “Let me introduce you. Everyone, this is—” He hesitated.
“Poons. Windle Poons.”
“Brother Windle,” said Mr. Shoe. “Give him a big Fresh Start welcome!”
There was an embarrassed chorus of “hallos.” A large and rather hairy young man at the end of the row caught Windle’s eye and rolled his own yellow eyes in a theatrical gesture of fellow feeling.
“This is Brother Arthur Winkings—”
“Count Notfaroutoe,” said a female voice sharply.
“And Sister Doreen—I mean Countess Notfaroutoe, of course—”
“Charmed, I’m sure,” said the female voice, as the small dumpy woman sitting next to the small dumpy shape of the Count extended a be-ringed hand. The Count himself gave Windle a worried grin. He seemed to be wearing opera dress designed for a man several sizes larger.
“And Brother Schleppel—”
The chair was empty. But a deep-voice from the darkness underneath it said, “Evenin’.”
“And Brother Lupine.” The muscular, hairy young man with the long canines and pointy ears gave Windle’s hand a hearty shake.
“And Sister Drull. And Brother Gorper. And Brother Ixolite.”
Windle shook a number of variations on the theme of hand.
Brother Ixolite handed him a small piece of yellow paper. On it was written one word: OoooEeeeOoooEeeeOoooEEEee.
“I’m sorry there aren’t more here tonight,” said Mr. Shoe. “I do my best, but I’m afraid some people just don’t seem prepared to make the effort.”
“Er…dead people?” said Windle, still staring at the note.
“Apathy, I call it,” said Mr. Shoe, bitterly. “How can the movement make progress if people are just going to lie around the whole time?”
Lupine started making frantic “don’t get him started” signals behind Mr. Shoe’s head, but Windle wasn’t able to stop himself in time.
“What movement?” he said.
“Dead Rights,” said Mr. Shoe promptly. “I’ll give you one of my leaflets.”
“But, surely, er, dead people don’t have rights?” said Windle. In the corner of his vision he saw Lupine put his hand over his eyes.
“You’re dead right there,” said Lupine, his face absolutely straight. Mr. Shoe glared at him.
“Apathy,” he repeated. “It’s always the same. You do your best for people, and they just ignore you. Do you know people can say what they like about you and take away your property, just because you’re dead? And they—”
“I thought that most people, when they died, just…you know…died,” said Windle.
“It’s just laziness,” said Mr. Shoe. “They just don’t want to make the effort.”
Windle had never seen anyone look so dejected. Reg Shoe seemed to shrink several inches.
“How long have you been undead, Vindle?” said Doreen, with brittle brightness.