Or, rather, it didn’t.
“Oh, gods,” muttered Windle, and leaned against the wall. How did it work, now? He prodded a few likely-looking nerves. Was it systolic…diastolic…systolic…diastolic…? And then there were the lungs, too…
Like a conjuror keeping eighteen plates spinning at the same time—like a man trying to program a video recorder from an instruction manual translated from Japanese into Dutch by a Korean rice-husker—like, in fact, a man finding out what total self-control really means, Windle Poons lurched onward.
The wizards of Unseen University set great store by big, solid meals. A man couldn’t be expected to get down to some serious wizarding, they held, without soup, fish, game, several huge plates of meat, a pie or two, something big and wobbly with cream on it, little savory things on toast, fruit, nuts and a brick-thick mint with coffee. It gave him a lining to his stomach. It was also important that the meals were served at regular times. It was what gave the day shape, they said.
Except for the Bursar, of course. He didn’t eat much, but lived on his nerves. He was certain he was anorectic, because every time he looked in a mirror he saw a fat man. It was the Archchancellor, standing behind him and shouting at him.
And it was the Bursar’s unfortunate fate to be sitting opposite the doors when Windle Poons smashed them in because it was easier than fiddling with the handles.
He bit through his wooden spoon.
The wizards revolved on their benches to stare.
Windle Poons swayed for a moment, assembling control of vocal chords, lips and tongue, and then said: “I think I may be able to metabolize alcohol.”
The Archchancellor was the first one to recover.
“Windle!” he said. “We thought you were dead!”
He had to admit that it wasn’t a very good line. You didn’t put people on a slab with candles and lilies all around them because you think they’ve got a bit of a headache and want a nice lie down for half an hour.
Windle took a few steps forward. The nearest wizards fell over themselves in an effort to get away.
“I am dead, you bloody young fool,” he muttered. “Think I go around looking like this all the time? Good grief.” He glared at the assembled wizardry. “Anyone here know what a spleen is supposed to do?”
He reached the table, and managed to sit down.
“Probably something to do with the digestion,” he said. “Funny thing, you can go through your whole life with the bloody thing ticking away or whatever it does, gurgling or whatever, and you never know what the hell it’s actually for. It’s like when you’re lying in bed of a night and you hear your stomach or something go pripple-ipple-goinnng. It’s jus
t a gurgle to you, but who knows what marvelously complex chemical exchange processes are really going—”
“You’re an undead?” said the Bursar, managing to get the words out at last.
“I didn’t ask to be,” said the late Windle Poons irritably, looking at the food and wondering how the blazes one went about turning it into Windle Poons. “I only came back because there was nowhere else to go. Think I want to be here?”
“But surely,” said the Archchancellor, “didn’t…you know the fella, the one with the skull and the scythe—”
“Never saw him,” said Windle, shortly, inspecting the nearest dishes. “Really takes it out of you, this un-dyin’.”
The wizards made frantic signals to one another over his head. He looked up and glared at them.
“And don’t think I can’t see all them frantic signals,” he said. And he was amazed to realize that this was true. Eyes that had viewed the past sixty years through a pale, fuzzy veil had been bullied into operating like the finest optical machinery.
In fact two main bodies of thought were occupying the minds of the wizards of Unseen University.
What was being thought by most of the wizards was: this is terrible, is it really old Windle in there, he was such a sweet old buffer, how can we get rid of it? How can we get rid of it?
What was being thought by Windle Poons, in the humming, flashing cockpit of his brain, was: well, it’s true. There is life after death. And it’s the same one. Just my luck.
“Well,” he said, “what’re you going to do about it?”
It was five minutes later. Half a dozen of the most senior wizards scurried along the drafty corridor in the wake of the Archchancellor, whose robes billowed out behind him.
The conversation went like this:
“It’s got to be Windle! It even talks like him!”