Moving Pictures (Discworld 10)

Candlelight flickered in the University corridor.

The Bursar did not think of himself as a brave man. The most he felt happy about tackling was a column of numbers, and being good at numbers had taken him further up the hierarchy of Unseen University than magic had ever done. But he couldn't let this pass .

. . . whumm . . . whumm . . . whummwhummwhummWHUMM WHUMM.

He crouched behind a pillar and counted eleven pellets.

Little jets of sand puffed out of the bags. They were coming at two-minute intervals now.

He ran to the heap of sandbags and tugged at them.

Reality wasn't the same everywhere. Well, of course, every wizard knew that. Reality wasn't very thick anywhere on the Discworld. In some places it was very thin indeed. That was why magic worked. What Riktor thought he could measure was changes in reality, places where the real was rapidly becoming unreal. And every wizard knew what could happen if things became unreal enough to form a hole.

But, he thought, as he clawed at the bags, you'd need massive amounts of magic. We'd be bound to spot that amount of magic. It'd stand out like . . . well, like a lot of magic.

I must have taken at least fifty seconds so far.

He peered at the vase in its bunker.

Oh.

He'd been hoping he might be wrong.

All the pellets had been expelled in one direction. Half a dozen sandbags had been shot full of holes. And Numbers had thought that a couple of pellets in a month indicated a dangerous build-up of unreality . . .

The Bursar mentally drew a line from the vase, through the damaged sandbags, to the far end of the corridor .

. . . whumm . . . whumm . . .

He jerked back, and then realized that there was no need to worry. All the pellets were being shot out of the ornamental elephant's head opposite him. He relaxed.

. . . whumm . . . whumm . . .

The vase rocked violently as mysterious machinery swung around inside it. The Bursar put his head closer to it. Yes, there was definitely a hissing sound, like air being squeezed

Eleven pellets slammed at high speed into the sandbags.

The vase recoiled back, in accordance with the famous principle of reaction. Instead of hitting a sandbag, it hit the Bursar.

Ming-ng-ng.

He blinked. He took a step backwards. He fell over.

Because Holy Wood's disturbances in reality were extending weak but opportunist tendrils even as far as Ankh-Morpork, a couple of little bluebirds flew around his head for a moment and went 'tweet-tweet-tweet' before vanishing.

Gaspode lay on the sand and wheezed. Laddie danced around him, barking urgently.

'We're well out of that,' he managed, and stood up and shook himself.

Laddie barked and looked incredibly photogenic.

'All right, all right,' sighed Gaspode. 'How about if we go and find some breakfast and maybe catch up on our sleep and then we'll-'

Laddie barked again.

Gaspode sighed.

'Oh, all right,' he said. 'Have it your way. But you won't get any thanks, you know.'