'What? You think they'll say that?'
'Trust me, Tommy.'
'Well . . . all right. All right. But no elephants. I want to make that absolutely clear. No elephants.'
'Looks weird to me,' said the Archchancellor. 'Looks like a bunch of pottery elephants. Thought you said it was a machine?'
'More . . . more of a device,' said the Bursar uncertainly. He gave it a prod. Several of the pottery elephants wobbled. 'Riktor the Tinkerer built it, I think. It was before my time.'
It looked like a large, ornate pot, almost as high as a man of large pot height. Around its rim eight pottery elephants hung from little bronze chains; one of them swung backwards and forwards at the Bursar's touch.
The Archchancellor peered down inside.
'It's all levers and bellows,' he said, distastefully.
The Bursar turned to the University housekeeper.
'Well, now, Mrs Whitlow,' he said, 'what exactly happened?'
Mrs Whitlow, huge, pink and becorseted, patted her ginger wig and nudged the tiny maid who was hovering beside her like a tugboat.
'Tell his lordship, Ksandra,' she ordered.
Ksandra looked as though she was regretting the whole thing.
'Well, sir, please, sir, I was dusting, you see-'
'She hwas dusting,' said Mrs Whitlow, helpfully. When Mrs Whitlow was in the grip of acute class consciousness she could create aitches where nature never intended them to be.
'-and then it started me'king a noise-'
'Hit made hay hnoise,' said Mrs Whitlow. 'So she come and told me, your lordship, h'as hper my instructions.'
'What kind of noise, Ksandra? said the Bursar, as kindly as he could.
'Please, sir, sort of-' she screwed up her eyes, ' “whumm . . . whumm . . . whumm . . . whumm . . . whummwhummwhumm WHUMMWHUMM - plib”, sir.'
'Plib,' said the Bursar, solemnly.
'Yes, sir.'
'Hplib,' echoed Mrs Whitlow.
'That was when it spat at me, sir,' said Ksandra.
'Hexpectorated,' corrected Mrs Whitlow.
'Apparently one of the elephants spat out a little lead pellet, Master,' said the Bursar. 'That was the, er, the “plib”,'
'Did it, bigods,' said the Archchancellor. 'Can't have pots going around gobbin' all over people.'
Mrs Whitlow twitched.
'What'd it go and do that for?' Ridcully added.
'I really couldn't say, Master. I thought perhaps you'd know. I believe Riktor was a lecturer here when you were a student. Mrs Whitlow is very concerned', he added, in tones that made it clear that when Mrs Whitlow was concerned about something it would be an unwise Archchancellor who ignored her, 'about staff being magically interfered with.'
The Archchancellor tapped the pot with his knuckles. 'What, old “Numbers” Riktor? Same fella?'