The doctor sat back. “Fairly straightforward,” he said, thinking quickly. “A case of mortis portalis tackulatum with complications.” “What’s that mean?” said Chidder. “In layman’s terms,” the doctor sniffed, “he’s as dead as a doornail.” “What are the complications?” The doctor looked shifty. “He’s still breathing,” he said. “Look, his pulse is nearly humming and he’s got a temperature you could fry eggs on.” He hesitated, aware that this was probably too straightforward and easily understood; medicine was a new art on the Disc, and wasn’t going to get anywhere if people could understand it.
