Free Soul Music by Terry Pratchett Page B

if you’re not involved (stab unidentified fried object) oh no, that’s not his way (spray, jab fork at the air) once you get involved like that, I said, how’re you getting out, tell me that (make temporary egg and ketchup sandwich) but, oh no—”
    Susan walked around the patch of carpet. The man took no notice.
    The Death of Rats shinned up the table leg and landed on a slice of fried bread.
    “Oh. It’s you.”
    SQUEAK.
    The old man looked around.
    “Where? Where?”
    Susan stepped onto the carpet. The man stood up so quickly that his chair fell over.
    “Who the hells are you? ”
    “Could you stop pointing that sharp bacon at me?”
    “I asked you a question, young woman!”
    “I’m Susan.” This didn’t sound enough. “Duchess of Sto Helit,” she added.
    The man’s wrinkled face wrinkled still further as he strove to comprehend this. Then he turned away and threw his hands up in the air.
    “Oh, yes!” he bawled, to the room in general. “That just puts the entire tin lid on it, that does!”
    He waved a finger at the Death of Rats, who leaned backward.
    “You cheating little rodent! Oh, yes! I smell a rat here!”
    SQUEAK?
    The shaking finger stopped suddenly. The man spun around.
    “How did you manage to walk through the wall?”
    “I’m sorry?” said Susan, backing away. “I didn’t know there was one.”
    “What d’you call this then, Klatchian mist?” The man slapped the air.
    The hippo of memory wallowed…
    “…Albert…” said Susan. “Right?”
    Albert thumped his forehead with the palm of his hand.
    “Worse and worse! What’ve you been telling her?”
    “He didn’t tell me anything except SQUEAK and I don’t know what that means,” said Susan. “But…look, there’s no wall here, there’s just…”
    Albert wrenched open a drawer.
    “Observe,” he said sharply. “Hammer, right? Nail, right? Watch.”
    He hammered the nail into the air about five feet up at the edge of the tiled area. It hung there.
    “Wall,” said Albert.
    Susan reached out gingerly and touched the nail. It had a sticky feel, a little like static electricity.
    “Well, it doesn’t feel like a wall to me,” she managed.
    SQUEAK.
    Albert dropped the hammer on the table.
    He wasn’t a small man, Susan realized. He was quite tall, but he walked with the kind of lopsided stoop normally associated with laboratory assistants of an Igor turn of mind.
    “I give in,” he said, wagging his finger at Susan again. “I told him no good’d come of it. He started meddlin’, and next thing a mere chit of a girl—where’d you go?”
    Susan walked over to the table while Albert waved his arms in the air, trying to find her.
    There was a cheeseboard on the table, and a snuffbox. And a string of sausages. No fresh vegetables at all. Miss Butts advocated avoiding fried foods and eating plenty of vegetables for what she referred to as Daily Health. She put a lot of troubles down to an absence of Daily Health. Albert looked like the embodiment of them all as he scuttled around the kitchen, grabbing at the air.
    She sat in the chair as he danced past.
    Albert stopped moving, and put his hand over one eye. Then he turned, very carefully. The one visible eye was screwed up in a frantic effort of concentration.
    He squinted at the chair, his eye watering with effort.
    “That’s pretty good,” he said, quietly, “All right. You’re here. The rat and the horse brought you. Damn fool things. They think it’s the right thing to do.”
    “ What right thing to do?” said Susan. “And I’m not a…what you said.”
    Albert stared at her.
    “The Master could do that,” he said at last. “It’s part of the job. I ’spect you found you could do it a long time ago, eh? Not be noticed when you didn’t want to be?”
    SQUEAK, said the Death of Rats.
    “What?” said Albert.
    SQUEAK.
    “He says to tell you,” said Albert wearily, “that a chit of a girl means a small girl. He thinks you may have misheard