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desperately to the lock again. It must be made of little bits of metal, not very heavy —
From the grille came the faintest of sounds. It was the noise of wizards untensing themselves and shaking their heads.
Someone whispered, 'I told you—'
There was a tiny grey-faced and swaying.
'Not bad,' said one of the wizards, looking closely at the lock. 'A little slow, perhaps.'
'Never mind that!' snapped Jiglad Wert. 'Did you three see anyone on the way down grinding noise, and a click.Rincewind's face was a mask. Perspiration dripped off his chin.There was another click, and the grinding of reluctant spindles. Trymon had oiled the lock, but the oil had been soaked up by the rust and dust of years, and the only way for a wizard to move something by magic, unless he can harness some external movement, is to use the leverage of his mind itself.Rincewind was trying very hard to prevent his brain being pushed out of his ears.The lock rattled. Metal rods flexed in pitted groves, gave in, pushed levers.Levers clicked, notches engaged. There was a long drawn-out grinding noise that left Rincewind on his knees.The door swung open on pained hinges. The wizards sidled out cautiously.Twoflower and Bethan helped Rincewind to his feet. He stood