It was an accurate throw. Arthur fluttered to the disc in the ceiling and gripped it in his claws.
“Can you move it?”
“No!”
“Then hang on tight and change back.”
“No!”
“We’ll catch you.”
“No!”
“Arthur!” screamed Doreen, prodding an advancing trolley with her makeshift club.
“Oh, all right.”
There was a momentary vision of Arthur Winkings clinging desperately to the ceiling, and then he dropped on Windle and Reg, the disc clasped to his chest.
The music stopped abruptly. Pink tubing poured out of the ravaged hole above them and coiled upon Arthur, making him look like a very cheap plate of spaghetti and meatballs. The fountains seemed to operate in reverse for a moment, and then dried up.
The trolleys halted. The ones at the back ran into the ones at the front, and there was a chorus of pathetic clanking noises.
Tubing still poured out of the hole. Windle picked up a bit. It was an unpleasant pink, and sticky.
“What do you think it is?” said Ludmilla.
“I think,” said Windle, “that we’d better get out of here now.”
The floor trembled. Steam gushed from the fountain.
“If not sooner,” Windle added.
There was a groan from the Archchancellor. The Dean slumped forward. The other wizards remained upright, but only just.
“They’re coming out of it,” said Ludmilla. “But I don’t think they’ll manage the stairs.”
“I don’t think anyone should even think about trying to manage the stairs,” said Windle. “Look at them.”
The moving stairs weren’t. The black steps glistened in the shadowless light.
“I see what you mean,” said Ludmilla. “I’d rather try and walk on quicksand.”
“It’d probably be safer,” said Windle.
“Maybe there’s a ramp? There must be some way for the trolleys to get around.”
“Good idea.”
Ludmilla eyed the trolleys. They were milling around aimlessly. “I think I might have an even better one…” she said, and grabbed a passing handle.
The trolley fought for a moment and then, lacking any contrary instructions, settled down docilely.
“The ones that can walk’ll walk, and the ones that can’t walk’ll get pushed. Come on, grandad.” This was to the Bursar, who was persuaded to flop across the trolley. He said “yo,” faintly, and shut his eyes again.
The Dean was manhandled on top of him.*
“And now where?” said Doreen.