It said: OOOOeeeOOOeeeOOOeee.)
The trolley plowed to a very definitive stop. No one turned around. Reg said, slowly: “You’re behind us, right?”
“That’s right, Mr. Shoe,” said Schleppel happily.
“Should we worry when he’s in front of us?” said Ridcully. “Or is it worse because we know he’s behind us?”
“Hah! No more closets and cellars for this bogey,” said Schleppel.
“That’s a shame, because we’ve got some really big cellars at the University,” said Windle Poons quickly.
Schleppel was silent for a while. Then he said, in an exploratory tone of voice, “How big?”
“Huge.”
“Yeah? With rats?”
“Rats aren’t the half of it. There’s escaped demons and all sorts down there. Infested, they are.”
“What are you doing?” hissed Ridcully. “That’s our cellars you’re talking about.”
“You’d prefer him under your bed, would you?” murmured Windle. “Or walking around behind you?”
Ridcully nodded briskly.
“Wow, yes, those rats are getting really out of hand down there,” he said loudly. “Some of them—oh, about two feet long, wouldn’t you say, Dean?”
“Three feet,” said the Dean. “At least.”
“Fat as butter, too,” said Windle.
Schleppel gave this some thought. “Well, all right,” he said reluctantly. “Maybe I’ll just wander in and have a look at them.”
The big store exploded and imploded at the same time, something it is almost impossible to achieve without a huge special effects budget or three spells all working against one another. There was the impression of a vast cloud expanding but at the same time moving away 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.