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Death snatched the book with a bony hand and flipped through the pages, quite oblivious to the presence of the two men.
RIGHT, he said, PESTILENCE, OPEN ANOTHER PACK OF CARDS. I'M GOING TO GET TO THE BOTTOM OF THIS IF IT KILLS ME, FIGURATIVELY SPEAKING OF COURSE.
Rincewind grabbed Twoflower and pulled him out of the room: As they jogged down the corridor with the Luggage galloping behind them he said:
'What was all that about?'
'Well, they've got lots of time and I thought they might enjoy it,' panted Twoflower.
'What, playing with cards?'
'It's a special kind of playing,' said Twoflower. 'It's called—' he hesitated. Language wasn't his strong point. 'In your language it's called a thing you put across a river, for example,' he concluded, 'I think.'
'Aqueduct?' hazarded Rincewind. 'Fishing line? Weir? Dam?'
'Yes, possibly.'
They reached the hallway, where the big clock still shaved the seconds off the lives of the world.
'And how long do you think that'll keep them occupied?'
Twoflower paused. 'I'm not sure,' he said thoughtfully. Probably until the last trump – what an amazing clock. . .'
'Don't try to buy it,' Rincewind advised. 'I don't think they'd appreciate it around here.'
'Where is here, exactly?' said Twoflower, beckoning the Luggage and opening its lid.
Rincewind looked around. The hall was dark and deserted, its tall narrow windows whorled with ice. He looked down. There was the faint blue line stretching away from his ankle. Now he could see that Twoflower had one too.
'We're sort of informally dead,' he said. It was the best he could manage.
'Oh.' Twoflower continued to rummage.
'Doesn't that worry you?'
'Well, things tend to work out in the end, don't you think? Anyway, I'm a firm believer in reincarnation. What would you like to come back as?'
'I don't want to go,' said Rincewind firmly. 'Come on, let's get out of – oh, no. Not that.'
Twoflower had produced a box from the depths of the Luggage. It was large and black and had a handle on one side and a little round window in front and a strap so that Twoflower could put it around his neck, which he did.
There was a time when Rincewind had quite liked the iconoscope. He believed, against all experience, that the world was fundamentally understandable, and that if he could only equip himself with the right mental toolbox he could take the back off and see how it worked. He was, of course, dead wrong. The iconoscope didn't take pictures by letting light fall onto specially treated paper, as he had surmised, but by the far simpler method of imprisoning a small demon with a good eye for colour and a speedy hand with a paintbrush. He had been very upset to find that out.
'You haven't got time to take pictures!' he hissed.
'It won't take long,' said Twoflower firmly, and rapped on the side of the box. A tiny door flew open and the imp poked his head out.
'Bloody hell,' it said. 'Where are we?'
'It doesn't matter,' said Twoflower. The clock first, I think.'
The demon squinted.
'Poor light,' he said. Three bloody years at f8, if you ask me.' He slammed the door shut. A second later there was the tiny scraping noise of his stool being dragged up to his easel.
Rincewind gritted his teeth.
'You don't need to take pictures, you can just remember it!' he shouted.
