IX. I Think You Will Make A Little Prophet, Dhblah, he said.
“Right. Right. That's all I'm looking for. Just trying to make both ends hummus.”
X. Tortoises Are To Be Left Alone.
Dhblah put his head on one side.
“Doesn't sing, does it?” he said. "But . . . tortoise necklaces . . . hmm . . . brooches, of course. Tortoiseshel-
XI. NO!
“Sorry, sorry. See what you mean. All right. Tortoise statues. Ye-ess. I thought about them. Nice shape. Incidentally, you couldn't make a statue wobble every now and again, could you? Very good for business wobbling statues. The statue of Ossory wobbles eve; Fast of Ossory, reg'lar. By means of a small piston device operated in the basement, it is said. But very good for the prophets, all the same.”
XII. You Make me Laugh, Little Prophet. Sell Your Tortoises, By All Means.
“Tell you the truth,” said Dhblah, “I've already drawn a few designs just now . . .”
Om vanished. There was a brief thunderclap. Dhblah looked reflectively at his sketches.
“. . . but I suppose I'll have to take the little figure off them,” he said, more or less to himself.
The shade of Vorbis looked around.
“Ah. The desert,” he said. The black sand was absolutely still under the starlit sky. It looked cold.
He hadn't planned on dying yet. In fact . . . he couldn't quite remember how he'd died . . .
“The desert,” he repeated, and this time there was a hint of uncertainty. He'd never been uncertain about anything in his . . . life. The feeling was unfamiliar and terrifying. Did ordinary people feel like this?
He got a grip on himself.
Death was impressed. Very few people managed this, managed to hold on to the shape of their old thinking after death.
Death took no pleasure in his job. It was an emotion he found hard to grasp. But there was such a thing as satisfaction.
“So,” said Vorbis. “The desert. And at the end of the desert??”
JUDGEMENT.
“Yes, yes, of course.”
Vorbis tried to concentrate. He couldn't. He could feel certainty draining away. And he'd always been certain.
He hesitated, like a man opening a door to a familiar room and finding nothing there but a bottomless pit. The memories were still there. He could feel them. They had the right shape. It was just that he couldn't remember what they were. There had been a voice . . . . Surely, there had been a voice? But all he could remember was the sound of his own thoughts, bouncing off the inside of his own head.
Now he had to cross the desert. What could there be to fear? The desert was what you believed.
Vorbis looked inside himself.
And went on looking.
He sagged to his knees.
I CAN SEE THAT YOU ARE BUSY, said Death.
“Don't leave me! It's so empty!”
Death looked around at the endless desert. He snapped his fingers and a large white horse trotted up.