Feet of Clay

one to object. Endless belts led up from each machine to pulleys on a long spindle near the roof, which in turn were driven by…Vimes’s eyes followed it down the length of the workshop…a treadmill, now stationary and somewhat broken. A couple of golems were standing forlornly alongside it, looking lost.
    There was a hole in the wall quite close to it and, above it, someone had written in red paint:
    WORKERS! NO MASTER BUT YOURSELVES!
    Vimes grinned.
    “It smashed its way in, broke the treadmill, pulled my golems out, painted that stupid message on the wall, and stamped out again!” said the man behind him.
    “Hmm, yes, I see. A lot of people use oxen in their treadmills,” said Vimes mildly.
    “What’s that got to do with it? Anyway, cattle can’t keep going twenty-four hours a day.”
    Vimes’s gaze worked its way along the rows of workers. Their faces had that worried, Cockbill Street look that you got when you were cursed with pride as well as poverty.
    “No, indeed,” he said. “Most of the clothing workshops are up at Nap Hill, but the wages are cheaper down here, aren’t they?”
    “People are jolly glad to get the work!”
    “Yes,” said Vimes, looking at the faces again. “Glad.” At the far end of the factory, he noted, the golems were trying to rebuild their treadmill.
    “Now you listen to me, what I want you to do is—” the factory-owner began.
    Vimes’s hand gripped his collar and dragged him forward until his face was a few inches from Vimes’s own.
    “No, you listen to me ,” hissed Vimes. “I mix with crooks and thieves and thugs all day and that doesn’t worry me at all but after two minutes with you I need a bath. And if I find that damn’ golem I’ll shake its damn’ hand, you hear me?”
    To the surprise of that part of Vimes that wasn’t raging, the man found enough courage to say “How dare you! You’re supposed to be the law!”
    Vimes’s furious finger almost went up the man’s nose.
    “Where shall I start?” he yelled. He glared at the two golems. “And why are you clowns repairing the treadmill?” he shouted. “Good grief, haven’t got the sense you were bor—Haven’t you got any sense?”
    He stormed out of the building. Sergeant Colon stopped trying to scrape himself clean and ran to catch up with him.
    “I heard some people say they saw a golem come out of the other door, sir,” he said. “It was a red one. You know, red clay. But the one that was after me was white, sir. Are you angry, Sam?”
    “Who’s that man who owns that place?”
    “That’s Mr. Catterail, sir. You know, he’s always writing you letters about there being too many what he calls ‘lesser races’ in the Watch. You know…trolls and dwarfs…” The sergeant had to trot to keep up with Vimes.
    “Get some zombies,” he said.
    “You’ve always been dead against zombies, excuse my pun,” said Sergeant Colon.
    “Any want to join, are there?”
    “Oh, yessir. Couple of good lads, sir, and but for the gray skin hangin’ off ’em you’d swear they hadn’t been buried five minutes.”
    “Swear them in tomorrow.”
    “Right, sir. Good idea. And of course it’s a great saving not having to include them in the pension plan.”
    “They can patrol up on Kings Down. After all, they’re only human.”
    “Right, sir.” When Sam is in these moods, Colon thought, you agree with everything . “You’re really getting the hang of this affirmative action stuff, eh sir?”
    “Right now I’d swear in a gorgon!”
    “There’s always Mr. Bleakley, sir, he’s getting fed up with working in the kosher butcher’s and—”
    “But no vampires. Never any vampires. Now let’s get a move on, Fred.”

    Nobby Nobbs ought to have known. That’s what he told himself as he scuttled through the streets. All that stuff about kings and stuff—they’d wanted him to…
    It was a terrible thought…
    … volunteer .
    Nobby had spent a lifetime in one uniform or another. And one of the most basic lessons he’d learned was that men with red faces and plummy voices never ever gave cushy numbers to the likes of Nobby. They’d ask for volunteers to do something “big and clean” and you’d end up scrubbing some damn great drawbridge; they’d say, “Anyone here like good food?” and you’d be peeling potatoes for a week. You never ever volunteered. Not even if a sergeant stood there and said, “We need someone to drink alcohol, bottles of, and make love, passionate, to