BUT YOU MEET PEOPLE EVERY DAY, protested Death.
'Yes, I know, only, well, not for very long,' said Mort. 'I mean, it'd be nice to meet someone with a life expectancy of more than a few minutes. Sir,' he added.
Death drummed his fingers on the desk, making a sound not unlike a mouse tap-dancing, and gave Mort another few seconds of stare. He noticed that the boy seemed rather less elbows than he remembered, stood a little more upright and, bluntly, could use a word like 'expectancy'. It was all that library.
ALL RIGHT, he said grudgingly. BUT IT SEEMS TO ME YOU HAVE EVERYTHING YOU NEED RIGHT HERE. THE DUTY IS NOT ONEROUS, IS IT?
'No, sir.'
AND YOU HAVE GOOD FOOD AND A WARM BED AND RECREATION AND PEOPLE YOUR OWN AGE.
'Pardon, sir?' said Mort.
MY DAUGHTER, said Death. YOU HAVE MET HER, I BELIEVE.
'Oh. Yes, sir.'
SHE HAS A VERY WARM PERSONALITY WHEN YOU GET TO KNOW HER.
'I am sure she has, sir.'
NEVERTHELESS, YOU WISH – Death launched the words with a spin of distaste – AN AFTERNOON OFF? 'Yes, sir. If you please, sir.'
VERY WELL. So BE IT. You MAY HAVE UNTIL SUNSET.
Death opened his great ledger, picked up a pen, and began to write. Occasionally he'd reach out and flick the beads of an abacus.
After a minute he looked up.
YOU'RE STILL HERE, he said. AND IN YOUR OWN TIME, TOO, he added sourly.
'Um,' said Mort, 'will people be able to see me, sir?'
I IMAGINE SO, I'M SURE, said Death. Is THERE ANYTHING ELSE I MIGHT BE ABLE TO ASSIST YOU WITH BEFORE YOU LEAVE FOR THIS DEBAUCH?
'Well, sir, there is one thing, sir, I don't know how to get to the mortal world, sir,' said Mort desperately.
Death sighed loudly, and pulled open a desk drawer.
JUST WALK THERE.
Mort nodded miserably, and took the long walk to the study door. As he pulled it open Death coughed.
BOY! he called, and tossed something across the room.
Mort caught it automatically as the door creaked open.
The doorway vanished. The deep carpet underfoot became muddy cobbles. Broad daylight poured over him like quick-silver.
'Mort,' said Mort, to the universe at large.
'What?' said a stallholder beside him. Mort stared around. He was in a crowded market place, packed with people and animals. Every kind of thing was being sold from needles to (via a few itinerant prophets) visions of salvation. It was impossible to hold any conversation quieter than a shout.
Mort tapped the stallholder in the small of the back.
'Can you see me?' he demanded.
The stallholder squinted critically at him.