The Fifth Elephant

all the courage that the legendary Bishop Horn had shown when entering the city of the Oolites, and everyone knew what they did to strangers.
    Visit climbed down from the loft and made his nervous way to the main building, taking care to walk smartly.
    The main office was more or less empty. There seemed to be fewer watchmen around these days. Usually people preferred to loaf indoors in this chilly weather, but suddenly everyone was keen to be out of Captain Colon’s view.
    Visit went up to the office and knocked on the door.
    He knocked again.
    When there was no reply he pushed open the door, walked carefully over to the sparkling clean desk and went to tuck the flimsy message under the ink bottle in case it blew away—
    “Aha!”
    The ink soared up as Visit’s hand jerked. He had a vision of the blue-black shower passing his ear, and heard the splat as it hit something behind him.
    He turned like an automaton, to see a Captain Colon who would have been white-faced if it weren’t for the ink.
    “I see ,” said Colon. “Assault on a superior officer, eh?”
    “It was an accident, Captain!”
    “Oh, was it? And why, pray, were you sneaking into my office?”
    “I didn’t think you were in here, Captain!” Visit gabbled.
    “Aha!”
    “Sorry?”
    “Sneaking a look at my private papers, eh?”
    “No, Captain!” Visit rallied a little bit. “Why were you standing behind the door, Captain?”
    “Oh? I’m not allowed to stand behind my own door, is that it?”
    It was then that Constable Visit made his next mistake. He tried to smile.
    “Well, it is a bit odd, sir—”
    “Are you suggesting there is anything odd about me, Constable?” said Captain Colon. “Is there anything about me that you find funny ?”
    Visit stared at the mottled face, speckled with ink.
    “Not a thing, sir.”
    “You’ve been working acceptably, Constable,” said Colon, standing slightly too close to Visit, “and therefore I don’t intend to be harsh with you. No one could call me an unfair man. You is demoted to lance-constable, understand? Your pay will be adjusted and backdated to the beginning of the month.”
    Visit saluted. It was probably the only way to get out of there alive. One of Colon’s eyes was twitching.
    “However, you could redeem yourself,” said Colon, “if you was to tell me who has been stealing, I said stealing , the sugar lumps.”
    “Sir?”
    “I knows there was forty-three last night. I counted ’em very thoroughly. There’s forty-one this morning, Constable. And they’re locked in the cupboard. Can you explain that?”
    If Visit had been suicidal and honest, he had said: Well, Captain, while of course I think you have many worthy qualities, I have known you to count your fingers twice and come up with different answers.
    “Er…mice?” he said, weakly.
    “Hah! Off you go, Lance-Constable, and just you think about what I said!”
    When the dejected Visit had gone, Captain Colon sat down at his big, clean desk.
    The little flickering part of his brain that was still sparking coherent thought through the fog of mind-numbing terror that filled Colon’s head was telling him that he was so far out of his depth that the fish had lights on their noses.
    Yes , he did have a clean desk. But that was because he was throwing all the paperwork away.
    It wasn’t that he was illiterate, but Fred Colon did need a bit of a think and a run-up to tackle anything much longer than a list and he tended to get lost in any word that had more than three syllables. He was, in fact, functionally literate. That is, he thought of reading and writing like he thought about boots—you needed them, but they weren’t supposed to be fun, and you got suspicious about people who got a kick out of them.
    Of course, Mr. Vimes had kept his desk piled high with paperwork, but it occurred to Colon that maybe Vimes and Carrot between them had developed a way of keeping just ahead of the piles, by knowing what was important and what wasn’t. To Colon, it was all gut-wrenchingly mysterious. There were complaints, and memos, and invitations, and letters requesting “a few minutes of your time” and forms to fill in, and reports to read, and sentences containing words like “iniquitous” and “immediate action” and they tottered in his mind like a great big wave, poised to fall on him.
    The sane core of Colon was wondering if the purpose of officers wasn’t to stand between the sergeants and all this sh—this