“That’s what I mean. Dozens of people die in Ankh-Morpork every day. If they’d all started coming back like poor old Windle, don’t you think we’d know about it? The place’d be in uproar. More uproar than usual, I mean.”
“There’s always a few undead around,” said the Dean, doubtfully. “Vampires and zombies and banshees and so on.”
“Yes, but they’re more naturally undead,” said the Archchancellor. “They know how to carry it off. They’re born to it.”
“You can’t be born to the undead,” the Senior Wrangler* pointed out.
“I mean it’s traditional,” the Archchancellor snapped. “There were some very respectable vampires where I grew up. They’d been in their family for centuries.”
“Yes, but they drink blood,” said the Senior Wrangler. “That doesn’t sound very respectable to me.”
“I read where they don’t actually need the actual blood,” said the Dean, anxious to assist. “They just need something that’s in blood. Hemogoblins, I think it’s called.”
The other wizards looked at him.
The Dean shrugged. “Search me,” he said. “Hemogoblins. That’s what it said. It’s all to do with people having iron in their blood.”
“I’m damn sure I’ve got no iron goblins in my blood,” said the Senior Wrangler.
“At least they’re better than zombies,” said the Dean. “A much better class of people. Vampires don’t go shuffling around the whole time.”
“People can be turned into zombies, you know,” said the Lecturer of Recent Runes, in conversational tones. “You don’t even need magic. Just the liver of a certain rare fish and the extract of a particular kind of root. One spoonful, and when you wake up, you’re a zombie.”
“What type of fish?” said the Senior Wrangler.
“How should I know?”
“How should anyone know, then?” said the Senior Wrangler nastily. “Did someone wake up one morning and say, hey, here’s an idea, I’ll just turn someone into a zombie, all I’ll need is some rare fish liver and a piece of root, it’s just a matter of finding the right one? You can see the queue outside the hut, can’t you? No. 94, Red Stripefish liver and Maniac root…didn’t work. No. 95 Spikefish liver and Dum-dum root…didn’t work. No. 96—”
“What are you talking about?” the Archchancellor demanded.
“I was simply pointing out the intrinsic unlikelihood of—”
“Shut up,” said the Archchancellor, matter-of-factly. “Seems to me…seems to me…look, death must be going on, right? Death has to happen. That’s what bein’ alive is all about. You’re alive, and then you’re dead. It can’t just stop happening.”
“But he didn’t turn up for Windle,” the Dean pointed out.
“It goes on all the time,” said Ridcully, ignoring him. “All sorts of things die all the time. Even vegetables.”
“But I don’t think Death ever came for a potato,” said the Dean doubtfully.
“Death comes for everything,” said the Archchancellor, firmly.
The wizards nodded sagely.
After a while the Senior Wrangler said, “Do you know, I read the other day that every atom in your body is changed every seven years? New ones keep getting attached and old ones keep on dropping off. It goes on all the time. Marvellous, really.”
The Senior Wrangler could do to a conversation what it takes quite thick treacle to do to the pedals of a precision watch.
“Yes? What happens to the old ones?” said Ridcully, interested despite himself.
“Dunno. They just float around in the air, I suppose, until they get attached to someone else.”
The Archchancellor looked affronted.
“What, even wizards?”
“Oh, yes. Everyone. It’s part of the miracle of existence.”