"After them!" screamed the Dean. The other wizards, too bewildered to argue, lumbered after him.

"No -'"Ridcully began, and realised that it was hopeless. And he was losing the initiative. He carefully formulated the most genteel battle cry in the history of bowdlerism.

"Darn them to Heck!" he yelled, and ran after the Dean.

Bill Door worked through the long heavy afternoon at the head of a trail of binders and stackers.

Until there was a shout, and the men ran towards the hedge.

Peedbury's big field was right on the other side. His farmhands were wheeling the Combination Harvester through the gate.

Bill joined the others leaning over the hedge. The distant figure of Simnel could be seen, giving instructions. A frightened horse was backed into the shafts. The blacksmith climbed into the little metal seat in the middle of the machinery and took up the reins.

The horse walked forward. The sparge arms unfolded.

The canvas sheets started to revolve, and probably the riffling screw was turning, but that didn't matter because something somewhere went ‘clonk' and everything stopped.

From the crowd at the hedge there were shouts of ‘Get out and milk it!", "We had one but the end fell off!", "Tuppence more and up goes the donkey!" and other time-honoured witticisms.

Simnel got down, held a whispered conversation with Peedbury and his men, and then disappeared into the machinery for a moment.

"It'll never fly!"

"Veal will be cheap tomorrow!"

This time the Combination Harvester got several feet before one of the rotating sheets split and folded up.

By now some of the older men at the hedge were doubled up with laughter.

"Any old iron, sixpence a load!"

"Fetch the other one, this one's broke!"

Simnel got down again. Distant catcalls drifted towards him as he untied the sheet and replaced it with a new one; he ignored them.

Without moving his gaze from the scene in the opposite field, Bill Door pulled a sharpening stone out of his pocket and began to hone his scythe, slowly and deliberately.

Apart from the distant clink of the blacksmith's tools, the schip-schip of stone on metal was the only sound in the heavy air.

Simnel climbed back into the Harvester and nodded to the man leading the horse.

"Here we go again!"

"Any more for the Skylark?"

"Put a sock in it..."

The cries trailed off.

Half a dozen pairs of eyes followed the Combination Harvester up the field, stared while it was turned around on the headland, watched it come back again.

It clicked past, reciprocating and oscillating.

At the bottom of the field it turned around neatly.

It whirred by again.

After a while one of the watchers said, gloomily, "It'll never catch on, you mark my words."

"Right enough. Who's going to want a gadget like that?" said another.

"Sure and it's only like a big clock. Can't do anything more than go up and down a field -"

"- very fast -"

"- cutting the corn like that and stripping the grain off -"

"It's done three rows already."

"Bugger me!"

"You can't hardly see the bits move! What do you think of that, Bill? Bill?"

They looked around.

He was halfway up his second row, but accelerating.

Miss Flitworth opened the door a fraction.

"Yes?" she said, suspiciously.

"It's Bill Door, Miss FIitworth. We've brought him home."

She opened the door wider.

"What happened to him?"

The two men shuffled in awkwardly, trying to support a figure a foot taller than they were. It raised its head and squinted muzzily at Miss Flitworth.

Duke Bottomley.

"He's a devil for working," said William.

"Don't know what come over him," said Spigot. ‘You're getting your money's worth out of him all right, Miss Flitworth."

"It'll be the first time, then, in these parts," she said sourly.

"Up and down the field like a madman, trying to better that contraption of Ned Simnel's. Took four of us to do the binding. He nearly beat it, too."

"Put him down on the sofa."

"We tole him he was doing too much in all that sun -"

Duke craned his neck to see around the kitchen, just in case jewels and treasure were hanging out of the dresser drawers.

Miss FIitworth eclipsed his view.

"I'm sure you did. Thank you. Now I expect you'll be wanting to be off home."

"If there's anything we can do -"

"I know where you live. And you ain't paid no rent there for five years, too. Goodbye. Mr. Spigot."

She ushered them to the door and shut it in their faces, then she turned around.

"What the hell have you been doing, Mr. So-Called Bill?"

I AM TIRED AND IT WON'T STOP.

Bill Door clutched at his skull.

ALSO SPIGOT GAVE ME A HUMOROUS APPLE JUICE FERMENTED DRINK BECAUSE OF THE HEAT AND NOW I FEEL ILL.

"I ain't surprised. He makes it up in the woods. Apples isn't the half of it."

I HAVE NEVER FELT ILL BEFORE. OR TIRED.

"It's all part of being alive."

AND HOW DO HUMANS STAND IT?

"Well, fermented apple juice can help."

Bill Door sat staring gloomily at the floor.

BUT WE FINISHED THE FIELD, he said, with a hint of triumph. ALL STACKED IN STOOKS, OR POSSIBLY THE OTHER-WAY AROUND.

He clutched at his skull again.

AARCH.

Miss Flitworth disappeared into the scullery. There was the creaking of a pump. She returned with a damp flannel and a glass of water.

THERE'S A NEWT IN IT!

"Shows it's fresh," said Miss Flitworth, fishing the amphibian out and releasing it on the flagstones, where it scuttled away into a crack.

Bill Door tried to stand up.

NOW I ALMOST KNOW WHY SOME PEOPLE WISH TO DIE. he said. I HAD HEARD OF PAIN AND MISERY BUT I HAD NOT HITHERTO FULLY UNDERSTOOD WHAT THEY MEANT.

Miss Flitworth peered through the dusty window. The clouds that had been piling up all afternoon towered over the hills, grey with a menacing hint of yellow. The heat pressed down like a vice.

"There's a big storm coming."

WILL IT SPOIL MY HARVEST?

"No. It'll dry out after."

HOW IS THE CHILD?

Bill Door unfolded his palm. Miss Flitworth raised her eyebrows. The golden glass was there, the top bulb almost empty. But it simmered in and out of vision.

"How come you've got it? It's upstairs! She was holding it like," - she floundered – "like someone holds something very tightly."

SHE STILL IS. BUT IT IS ALSO HERE. OR ANYWHERE. IT IS ONLY A METAPHOR. AFTER ALL.

"What she's holding looks real enough."

JUST BECAUSE SOMETHING IS A METAPHOR DOESN'T MEAN IT CAN'T BE REAL.

Miss Flitworth was aware of a faint echo in the voice, as though the words were being spoken by two people almost, but not quite, in sync.

"How long have you got?"

A MATTER OF HOURS.

"And the scythe?"

I GAVE THE BLACKSMITH STRICT INSTRUCTIONS.

She frowned. "I'm not saying young Simnel's a bad lad, but are you sure he'll do it? It's asking a lot of a man like him to destroy something like that."

I HAD NO CHOICE. THE LITTLE FURNACE HERE ISN'T GOOD ENOUGH.

"It's a wicked sharp scythe."

I FEAR IT MAY NOT BE SHARP ENOUGH.

"And no-one ever tried this on you?"

THERE IS A SAYING: YOU CAN'T TAKE IT WITH YOU?

"Yes."

HOW MANY PEOPLE HAVE SERIOUSLY BELIEVED IT?

"I remember reading once," said Miss Flitworth. "about these heathen kings in the desert somewhere who build huge pyramids and put all sorts of stuff in them. Even boats. Even gels in transparent trousers and a couple of saucepan lids. You can't tell me that's right."

I'VE NEVER BEEN VERY SURE ABOUT WHAT IS RIGHT, said Bill Door. I AM NOT SURE THERE IS SUCH A THING AS RIGHT. OR WRONG. JUST PLACES TO STAND.

"No, right's right and wrong's wrong," said Miss FIitworth. "I was brought up to tell the difference."