'I'm sure Riktor didn't intend to make any kind of offensive device,' he'ventured, hopelessly.
'Who gives a damn what he intended? Where is the thing now?'
'I had a couple of servants put sandbags around it.'
'Good idea. It's-'
. . . whumm . . . whumm . . .
It was a muffled sound from the corridor. The two wizards exchanged a meaningful glance .
. . . whumm . . . whummWHUMM.
The Bursar held his breath.
Plib.
Plib..
Plib.
The Archchancellor peered at the hourglass on the mantelpiece. 'It's doin' it every five minutes now,' he said.
'And it's up to three shots,' said the Bursar. 'I'll have to order some more sandbags.'
He flicked through a heap of paper. A word caught his eye.
Reality.
He glanced at the handwriting that flowed across the page. It had a very small, cramped, deliberate look. Someone had told him that this was because Numbers Riktor had been an anal retentive. The Bursar didn't know what that meant, and hoped never to find out.
Another word was: Measurement. His gaze drifted upwards, and took in the underlined title: Some Notes on the Objective Measurement of Reality.
Over the page was a diagram. The Bursar stared at it.
'Found anything?' said the Archchancellor, without looking up.
The Bursar shoved the paper up the sleeve of his robe.
'Nothing important,' he said. Down below, the surf boomed on the beach. ( . . . and below the surface, the lobsters walked backwards along the deep, drowned streets . . . )
Victor threw another piece of driftwood on to the fire. It burned blue with salt.
'I don't understand her,' he said. 'Yesterday she was quite normal, today it's all gone to her head.'
'Bitches!' said Gaspode, sympathetically.
'Oh, I wouldn't go that far,' said Victor. 'She's just aloof.'
'Loofs!' said Gaspode.
'That's what intelligence does for your sex life,' said Don't-call-me-Mr-Thumpy. 'Rabbits never have that sort of trouble. Go, Sow, Thank You Doe.'
'You could try offering her a moushe,' said the cat. 'Preshent company exchepted, of course,' it added guiltily, trying to avoid Definitely-Not-Squeak's glare.
'Being intelligent hasn't done my social life any favours, either,' said Mr Thumpy bitterly. 'A week ago, no prob lems. Now suddenly I want to make conversation, and all they do is sit there wrinklin' their noses at you. You feel a right idiot.'
There was a strangulated quacking.