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A
few
minutes
later
,
feeling
rather
self
-
conscious
and
chilly
around
the
ears
,
Mort
was
heading
back
towards
the
stables
where
Death
had
lodged
his
horse
.
He
tried
an
experimental
swagger
;
he
felt
his
new
suit
and
haircut
rather
demanded
it
.
It
didn
’
t
quite
work
.
Mort
awoke
.
He
lay
looking
at
the
ceiling
while
his
memory
did
a
fast
-
rewind
and
the
events
of
the
previous
day
crystallised
in
his
mind
like
little
ice
cubes
.
He
couldn
’
t
have
met
Death
.
He
couldn
’
t
have
eaten
a
meal
with
a
skeleton
with
glowing
blue
eyes
.
It
had
to
be
a
weird
dream
.
He
couldn
’
t
have
ridden
pillion
on
a
great
white
horse
that
had
cantered
up
into
the
sky
and
then
went
.
.
.
.
.
.
where
?
The
answer
flowed
into
his
mind
with
all
the
inevitability
of
a
tax
demand
.
Here
.
His
searching
hands
reached
up
to
his
cropped
hair
,
and
down
to
sheets
of
some
smooth
slippery
material
.
It
was
much
finer
than
the
wool
he
was
used
to
at
home
,
which
was
coarse
and
always
smelled
of
sheep
;
it
felt
like
warm
,
dry
ice
.
He
swung
out
of
the
bed
hastily
and
stared
around
the
room
.
First
of
all
it
was
large
,
larger
than
the
entire
house
back
home
,
and
dry
,
dry
as
old
tombs
under
ancient
deserts
.
The
air
tasted
as
though
it
had
been
cooked
for
hours
and
then
allowed
to
cool
.
The
carpet
under
his
feet
was
deep
enough
to
hide
a
tribe
of
pygmies
and
crackled
electrically
as
he
padded
through
it
.
And
everything
had
been
designed
in
shades
of
purple
and
black
.
