"I could call Schleppel," said Windle.

"I ain't ‘aving no bogey under my table trying to look up me drawers," said Mrs. Cake. ‘Ludmilla!" she shouted. After a moment or two the bead curtain leading into the kitchen was swept aside and the young woman who had originally opened the door to Windle came in.

"Yes mother?"

"Sit down, girl. We need another one for the seancing."

"Yes, mother."

The girl smiled at Windle.

"This is Ludmilla," said Mrs. Cake shortly.

"Charmed, I'm sure," said Windle. Ludmilla gave him the bright, crystalline smile perfected by people who had long ago learned not to let their feelings show.

"We have already met," said Windle. It must be at least a day since full moon, he thought. All the signs are nearly gone. Nearly. Well, well, well...

"She's my shame," said Mrs. Cake.

"Mother, you do go on," said Ludmilla, without rancour.

"Join hands, " said Mrs. Cake.

They sat in the semi-darkness. Then Windle felt Mrs. Cake's hand being pulled away.

"Oi forgot about the glass," she said.

"I thought, Mrs. Cake, that you didn't hold with ouija boards and that sort of –" Windle began.

There was a glugging noise from the sideboard. Mrs. Cake put a full glass on the tablecloth and sat down again.

"Oi don't," she said.

Silence descended again. Windle cleared his throat nervously.

Eventually Mrs. Cake said, "All right, One-Man-Bucket, oi knows you're there."

The glass moved. The amber liquid inside sloshed gently.

A bodiless voice quavered, greetings, pale face, from the happy hunting ground -

"You stop that," said Mrs. Cake. ‘Everyone knows you got run over by a cart in Treacle Street because you was drunk, One-Man-Bucket."

s'not my fault. not my fault. is it my fault my great-grandad moved here? by rights I should have been mauled to death by a mountain lion or a giant mammoth or something. I bin denied my deathright.

"Mr. Poons here wants to ask you a question, One-Man-Bucket," said Mrs. Cake.

she is happy here and waiting for you to join her, said One-Man-Bucket.

"Who is?" said Windle.

This seemed to fox One-Man-Bucket. It was a line, that generally satisfied without further explanation.

who would you like? he asked cautiously. can I have that ?cerink? now?

"Not yet, One-Man-Bucket," said Mrs. Cake.

well, I need it. it's bloody crowded in here.

"What?" said Windle quickly. ‘With ghosts, you mean?"

there's hundreds of ‘em, said the voice of One-Man-Bucket.

Windle was disappointed.

"Only hundreds?" he said. "That doesn't sound a lot."

"Not many people become ghosts," said Mrs. Cake. ‘To be a ghost, you got to have, like, serious unfinished business, or a terrible revenge to take, or a cosmic purpose in which you are just a pawn."

or a cruel thirst, said One-Man-Bucket.

"Will you hark at him," said Mrs. Cake.

I wanted to stay in the spirit world. or even wire and beer. hngh. hngh. hngh.

"So what happens to the life force if things stop living?" said Windle. ‘Is that what's causing all this trouble?"

"You tell the man," said Mrs. Cake, when One-Man-Bucket seemed reluctant to answer.

what trouble you talking about?

"Things unscrewing. Clothes running around by themselves. Everyone feeling more alive. That sort of thing."

that? that's nothing. see, the life force leaks back where it can. you don't need to worry about that.

Windle put his hand over the glass.

"But there's something I should be worrying about, isn't there," he said flatly. "It's to do with the little glass souvenirs."

don't like to say.

"Do tell him."

It was Ludmilla's voice - deep but, somehow, attractive. Lupine was watching her intently.

Windle smiled. That was one of the advantages about being dead. You spotted things the living ignored.

One-Man-Bucket sounded shrill and petulant.

what's he going to do if I tell him, then? I could get into heap big trouble for that sort of thing.

"Well, can you tell me if I guess right?" said Windle.

ye-ess. maybe.

"You don't have to say anythin'," said Mrs. Cake. "Just knock twice for yes and once for no, like in the old days."

oh, all right.

"Go on, Mr. Poons," said Ludmilla. She had the kind of voice Windle wanted to stroke.

He cleared his throat.

"I think," he began, "that is, I think they're some sort of eggs. I thought... why breakfast? and then I thought... eggs..."

Knock.

"Oh. Well, perhaps it was a rather silly idea..."

sorry, was it once for yes or twice for yes ?

" ‘voice!" snapped the medium.

KNOCK. KNOCK.

"Ah," breathed Windle. ‘And they hatch into something with wheels on?"

twice for yes, was it?

"Roight!"

KNOCK. KNOCK.

"I thought so. I thought so! I found one under my floor that tried to hatch where there wasn't enough room!" crowed Windle. Then he frowned.

"But hatch into what?"

Mustrum Ridcully trotted into his study and took his wizard's staff from its rack over the fireplace. He licked his finger and gingerly touched the top of the staff.

There was a small octarine spark and a smell of greasy tin.

He headed back for the door.

Then he turned around slowly, because his brain had just had time to analyse the study's cluttered contents and spot the oddity.

"What the hell's that doin' there?" he said.

He prodded it with the tip of the staff. It gave a jingling noise and rolled a little way.

It looked vaguely, but not very much, like the sort of thing the maids trundled around loaded with mops and fresh linen and whatever it was maids pushed around. Ridcully made a mental note to take it up with the housekeeper. Then he forgot about it.

"Damn wire wheely things are gettin' everywhere," he muttered.

Upon the word "damn", something like a large blue-bottle with cat-sized dentures flopped out of the air, fluttered madly as it took stock of its surroundings, and then flew after the unheeding Archchancellor.

The words of wizards have power. And swearwords have power. And with life force practically crystallising out of the air, it had to find outlets wherever it could.

cities. said One-Man-Bucket. I think they're city eggs.

The senior wizards gathered again in the Great Hall.

Even the Senior Wrangler was feeling a certain excitement. It was considered bad form to use magic against fellow wizards, and using it against civilians was unsporting. It did you good to have a really righteous zap occasionally.

The Archchancellor looked them over.

"Dean, why have you got stripes all over your face?" he enquired.

"Camouflage, Archchancellor."

"Camouflage, eh?"

"Yo, Archchancellor."

"Oh, well. So long as you feel happy in yourself, that's what matters."

They crept out towards the patch of ground that had been Modo's little territory. At least, most of them crept. The Dean advanced in a series of spinning leaps, occasionally flattening himself against the wall, and saying ‘Hut! Hut! Hut!" under his breath.

He was absolutely crestfallen when the other heaps turned out to be still where Modo had built them. The gardener, who had tagged along behind and had twice nearly been flattened by the Dean, fussed around them for a while.

"They're just lying low," said the Dean. ‘I say we blow up the godsdamn -"

"They're not even warm yet," said Modo. "That one must have been the oldest."

"You mean we haven't got anything to fight?" said the Archchancellor.

The ground shook underfoot. And then there was a faint jangling noise, from the direction of the cloisters.

Ridcully frowned.

"Someone ‘s pushing those damn wire baskety things around again," he said. ‘There was one in my study tonight."