“Mr. Poons,” said Ludmilla.
“I used to know a golem looked like him,” said Reg Shoe. “Just like him. Great big chap, made out of clay. That’s what your typical golem basically is. You just have to write a special holy word on ’em to start ’em up.”
“What, like ‘security’?”
“Could be.”
Windle peered at the Dean. “No,” he said at last, “no one’s got that much clay.” He looked around them. “We ought to find out where that blasted music’s coming from.”
“Where the musicians are hidden, you mean?”
“I don’t think there are musicians.”
“You’ve got to have musicians, brother,” said Reg. “That’s why it’s called music.”
“Firstly, this isn’t like any music. I’ve ever heard, and secondly I always thought you’ve got to have oil lamps or candles to make light and there aren’t any and there’s still light shining everywhere,” said Windle.
“Mr. Poons?” said Ludmilla again, prodding him.
“Yes?”
“Here come some trolleys again.”
They were blocking all five passages leading off the central space.
“There’s no stairs down,” said Windle.
“Maybe it’s—she’s—in one of the glassy bits,” said Ludmilla. “The shops?”
“I don’t think so. They don’t look finished. Anyway, that feels wrong—”
Lupine growled. Spikes glistened on the leading trolleys, but they weren’t rushing to attack.
“They must have seen what we did to the others,” said Arthur.
“Yes. But how could they? That was upstairs,” said Windle.
“Well, maybe they talk to each other.”
“How can they talk? How can they think? There can’t be any brains in a lot of wire,” said Ludmilla.
“Ants and bees don’t think, if it comes to that,” said Windle. “They’re just controlled—”
He looked upward.
They looked upward.
“It’s coming from somewhere in the ceiling,” he said. “We’ve got to find it right now!”
“There’s just panels of light,” said Ludmilla.
“Something else! Look for something it could be coming from!”
“It’s coming from everywhere!”
“What
ever you’re thinking of doing,” said Doreen, picking up a potted plant and holding it like a club, “I hope you do it fast.”