IT WAS THE COMBINATION HARVESTER.
“Was? What is it now?”
Death glanced at the clustering watchers.
A POOR LOSER.
The Harvester tore across the soaking fields, cloth arms whirring, levers moving inside an electric blue nimbus. The shafts for the horse waved uselessly in the air.
“How can it go without a horse? It had a horse yesterday!”
IT DOESN’T NEED ONE.
He looked around at the gray watchers. There were ranks of them now.
“Binky’s still in the yard. Come on!”
NO.
The Combination Harvester accelerated toward them. The schip-schip of its blades became a whine.
“Is it angry because you stole its tarpaulin?”
THAT’S NOT ALL I STOLE.
Death grinned at the watchers. He picked up his scythe, turned it over in his hands and then, when he was sure their gaze was fixed upon it, let it fall to the ground.
Then he folded his arms again.
Miss Flitworth dragged at him.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
DRAMA.
The Harvester reached the gate into the yard and came through in a cloud of sawdust.
“Are you sure we’ll be all right?”
Death nodded.
“Well. That’s all right then.”
The Harvester’s wheels were a blur.
PROBABLY.
And then…
…something in the machinery went clonk.
Then the Harvester was still traveling, but in pieces. Sparks fountained up from its axles. A few spindles and arms managed to hold together, jerking madly as they spun away from the whirling, slowing confusion. The circle of blades tore free, smashed up through the machine, and skimmed away across the fields.
There was a jangle, a clatter, and then the last isolated boing, which is the audible equivalent of the famous pair of smoking boots.
And then there was silence.
Death reached down calmly and picked up a complicated-looking spindle as it pinwheeled toward his feet. It had been bent into a right-angle.