'Really?  I  wouldn't have said  the  poor  old  Bursar  was  all  that frightening.'

     'No, Archchancellor. The corpse fell out on him.'

     The  Bursar  was  standing  in  the  corner, wearing  his old  familiar expression of good-humoured concussion.

     'You all right, old fellow?' said Ridcully. 'What's eleven  per cent of 1,276?'

     'One hundred and forty point three six,' said the Bursar promptly.

     'Ah, right as rain,' said Ridcully cheerfully.

     'I don't see why,' said the Chair of  Indefinite Studies. 'Just because he can do things with numbers doesn't mean everything else is fine.'

     'Doesn't need to be,' said Ridcully. 'Numbers is what he has to do. The poor chap might be slightly yoyo, but I've been  reading about it. He's  one of these idiot servants.'

     'Savants,' said the Dean patiently. 'The word is savants, Ridcully.'

     'Whatever. Those chaps who can tell you  what day of the week the first of Grune was a hundred years ago...'

     '...Tuesday...' said the Bursar.

     '...but can't  tie their  bootlaces,' said Ridcully.  'What was  a corpse doing in his wardrobe? And

     no one is to  say "Not a lot," or anythin' tasteless like that. Haven't had  a  corpse  in  a  wardrobe  since  that  business  with  Archchancellor Buckleby.'

     'We all warned Buckleby that the lock was too stiff,' said the Dean.

     'Just out of interest, why was the Bursar fiddling with his wardrobe at this time of night?' said Ridcully.

     The wizards looked sheepish.

     'We were... playing Sardines, Archchancellor,' said the Dean.

     'What's that?'

     'It's like Hide and Seek, but when you find someone you have to squeeze in with them,' said the Dean.

     'I just want to be clear about this,' said Ridcully. 'My senior wizards have spent the evening playing Hide and Seek?'

     'Oh, not the whole evening,' said  the Chair of Indefinite Studies. 'We played  Grandmother's Footsteps and I Spy for quite a while until the Senior Wrangler made a scene just because we wouldn't let him spell chandelier with an S.'

     'Party games? You fellows?'

     The Dean sidled closer.

     'It's Miss Smith,' he  mumbled. 'When  we don't join in she bursts into tears.'

     'Who's Miss Smith?'

     'The Cheerful Fairy,' said the Lecturer in Recent Runes glumly. 'If you don't  say  yes to everything her  lip wobbles like a plate of  jelly.  It's unbearable.'

     'We just joined  in to stop her weeping,' said the Dean. 'It's  amazing how one woman can be so soggy.'

     'If  we're not cheerful she  bursts  into  tears,'  said  the Chair  of Indefinite Studies. 'The Senior Wrangler's doing some juggling  for  her  at the moment.'

     'But he can't juggle!'

     'I think that's cheering her up a bit.'

     'What you're tellin' me, then, is that my  wizards are prancing  around playin' children's games just to cheer up some dejected fairy?'

     'Er... yes.'

     'I thought  you  had to clap  your  hands and say you believed in 'em,' said Ridcully. 'Correct me if I'm wrong.'

     'That's just  for the little shiny  ones,' said the Lecturer in  Recent Runes.  'Not for the  ones  in  saggy  cardigans with half a  dozen  hankies stuffed up their sleeves.'

     Ridcully looked at the corpse again.

     'Anyone know who he is? Looks a bit of a ruffian to me. And where's his boots, may I ask?'

     The Dean took  a small glass cube  from his pocket and ran it  over the corpse.

     'Quite a  large  thaumic reading,  gentlemen,' he said. 'I think he got here by magic.'

     He rummaged in the  man's pockets  and pulled out a  handful  of  small white things.

     'Ugh,' he said.

     'Teeth?' said Ridcully. 'Who goes around with a pocket full of teeth?'

     'A very  bad fighter?' said the  Chair of Indefinite Studies.  'I'll go and get Modo to take the poor fellow away, shall W

     'If we  can get a reading off the  thaumameter, perhaps Hex ... ' Ridcully began.

     'Now,  Ridcully,' said  the Dean, 'I  really think there must be some problems that can be resolved without having to deal with that damn thinking mill.'

     Death looked up at Hex.

A MACHINE FOR THINKING?

     'Er...  yes, sir,'  said Ponder  Stibbons.  'You see,  when you said... well, you see,  Hex  believes everything...  but, look,  the sun really will come up, won't it? That's its job.'

LEAVE US.

     Ponder backed away, and then scurried out of the room.

     The ants  flowed along their tubes.  Cogwheels spun. The big wheel with the sheep skulls on it creaked around slowly. A mouse squeaked, somewhere in the works.

     WELL? said Death.

     After a while, the pen began to write.

     +++ Big Red Lever Time +++ Query +++

NO. THEY SAY  YOU ARE A  THINKER.  EXTEND LOGICALLY THE  RESULT OF  THE HUMAN  RACE  CEASING TO BELIEVE  IN  THE  HOGFATHER. WILL  THE SUN  COME UP? ANSWER.

     It took several minutes. The wheels spun. The ants  ran.  The mouse squeaked. An  eggtimer came down on a  spring. It bounced aimlessly for a while, and then jerked back up again.

     Hex wrote: +++ The Sun Will Not Come Up +++

CORRECT. HOW MAY THIS BE PREVENTED? ANSWER.

     +++ Regular and Consistent Belief +++

GOOD. I HAVE A TASK FOR YOU, THINKING ENGINE.

     +++ Yes. I Am Preparing An Area Of WriteOnly Memory +++

WHAT IS THAT?

     +++ You Would Say: To Know In Your Bones +++

GOOD. HERE IS YOUR INSTRUCTION. BELIEVE IN

THE HOGFATHER.

     +++ Yes +++

DO YOU BELIEVE? ANSWER.

     +++ Yes +++

DO... YOU... BELIEVE? ANSWER.

     +++ YES +++

     There was a change  in  the ill-assembled heap of pipes  and tubes that was Hex. The  big wheel creaked into a new position.  From the other side of the wall came the hum of busy bees.

GOOD.

     Death turned to  leave the  room, but  stopped when Hex  began to write furiously. He went back and looked at the emerging paper.

     +++ Dear Hogfather, For Hogswatch I Want

     OH, NO. YOU CAN'T WRITE LETT... Death paused, and then said, YOU CAN, CAN'T YOU.

     +++ Yes. I Am Entitled +++

     Death waited until the pen had stopped, and picked up the paper.

BUT  YOU ARE  A  MACHINE. THINGS HAVE  NO  DESIRES.  A  DOORKNOB  WANTS NOTHING, EVEN THOUGH IT IS A COMPLEX MACHINE.

     +++ All Things Strive +++

     YOU  HAVE A POINT, said  Death. He  thought of tiny  red petals in  the black depths, and read to the end of the list.

     I DON'T KNOW WHAT  MOST OF THESE  THINGS  ARE.  I DON'T  THINK THE SACK WILL, EITHER.

     +++ I Regret This +++

     BUT WE WILL DO THE BEST WE CAN, said Death.

     FRANKLY, I  SHALL BE CLAD WHEN TONIGHT'S OVER. IT'S MUCH HARDER TO GIVE THAN TO RECEIVE. He rummaged in his sack. LET ME SEE... HOW OLD ARE YOU?

     Susan crept up the stairs, one hand on the hilt of the sword.

     Ponder Stibbons had been worried to find himself, as a wizard, awaiting the  arrival of  the Hogfather.  It's  amazing  how  people define roles for themselves  and  put  handcuffs  on  their  experience  and  are  constantly surprised  by the  things a roulette universe spins at them. Here am I, they say, a  mere wholesale fishmonger,  at the  controls  of  a  giant  airliner because as it turns out all the crew had the Coronation Chicken. Who'd have thought it?  Here  am  I, a  housewife  who merely went  out  this morning  to bank  the proceeds of the Playgroup Association's Car Boot Sale, on the run with one  million  in stolen cash  and a rather handsome man from the  Battery  Chickens'  Liberation Organization.  Amazing!  Here  am  I,  a perfectly ordinary hockey player, suddenly realizing I'm the Son of God with five hundred  devoted followers  in  a nice little  commune in  Empowerment, Southern California. Who'd have thought it?