"Look, what we want to know is, what is causing this outbreak of... oh."

Death pointedly picked invisible particles off the edge of his scythe.

The Archchancellor cupped a gnarled hand over his ear.

"What'd he say? Who's the fella with the stick?"

"It's Death, sir. You know."

"Tell him we don't want any," said the old wizard, waving his stick.

The Bursar sighed. "We summoned him, Archchancellor."

"Is it? What'd we go and do that for? Bloody silly thing to do."

The Bursar gave Death an embarrassed grin. He was on the point of asking him to excuse the Archchancellor on account of his age, but realised that this would in the circumstances be a complete waste of breath.

"Are we talking about the wizard Rincewind? The one with the -" the Bursar gave a shudder - "horrible Luggage on legs? But he got blown up when there was all that business with the sourcerer, didn't he?"

INTO THE DUNGEON DIMENSIONS. AND NOW HE IS TRYING TO GET BACK HOME.

"Can he do that?"

THERE WOULD NEED TO BE AN UNUSUAL CONJUNCTION OF CIRCUMSTANCES. REALITY WOULD NEED TO BE WEAKENED IN CERTAIN UNEXPECTED WAYS.

"That isn't likely to happen, is it?" said the Bursar anxiously. People who have it on record that they were visiting their aunt for two months are always nervous about people turning up who may have mistakenly thought that they weren't, and owing to some trick of the light might have believed they had seen them doing things that they couldn't have been doing owing to being at their aunt's.

IT WOULD BE A MILLION TO ONE CHANCE, said Death. EXACTLY A MILLION TO ONE CHANCE.

"Oh," said the Bursar, intensely relieved. "Oh dear. What a shame." He brightened up considerably. "Of course, there's all the noise. But, unfortunately, I expect he won't survive for long."

THIS COULD BE THE CASE, said Death blandly. I AM SURE, THOUGH, THAT YOU WOULD NOT WISH ME TO MAKE A PRACTICE OF ISSUING DEFINITIVE STATEMENTS IN THIS FIELD.