The Truth

his head he consistently denied, the Duck Man would have been viewed as well-spoken and educated and as sane as the next man. Unfortunately, the next man was Foul Ole Ron.
    The other eight people were Altogether Andrews.
    Altogether Andrews was one man with considerably more than one mind. In a rest state, when he had no particular problem to confront, there was no sign of this except a sort of background twitch and flicker as his features passed randomly under the control of, variously, Jossi, Lady Hermione, Little Sidney, Mr. Viddle, Curly, the Judge, and Tinker; there was also Burke, but the crew had only ever seen Burke once and never wanted to again, so the other seven personalities kept him buried. Nobody in the body answered to the name of Andrews. In the opinion of the Duck Man, who was probably the best in the crew at thinking in a straight line, Andrews had probably been some innocent and hospitable person of a psychic disposition who had simply been overwhelmed by the colonizing souls.
    Only among the gentle crew under the bridge could a consensus person like Andrews find an accommodating niche. They’d welcomed him, or them, to the fraternity around the smoky fire. Someone who wasn’t the same person for more than five minutes at a time could fit right in.
    One other thing that united the crew—although probably nothing could unite Altogether Andrews—was a readiness to believe that a dog could talk. The group around the smoldering fire believed they had heard a lot of things talk, such as walls. A dog was easy by comparison. Besides, they respected the fact that Gaspode had the sharpest mind of the lot and never drank anything that corroded the container.
    “Let’s try this again, shall we?” he said. “If you sell thirty of the things, you’ll get a dollar. A whole dollar. Got that?”
    “Bugrit.”
    “Quack.”
    “Haaargghhh…gak!”
    “How much is that in old boots?”
    Gaspode sighed. “No, Arnold. You can use the money to buy as many old—”
    There was a rumble from Altogether Andrews, and the rest of the crew went very still. When Altogether Andrews was quiet for a while, you never knew who he was going to be.
    There was always the possibility that it would be Burke.
    “Can I ask a question?” said Altogether Andrews, in a rather hoarse treble.
    The crew relaxed. That sounded like Lady Hermione. She wasn’t a problem.
    “Yes…Your Ladyship?” said Gaspode.
    “This wouldn’t be… work , would it?”
    The mention of the word sent the rest of the crew into a fugue of stress and bewildered panic.
    “Haaaruk…gak!”
    “Bugrit!”
    “Quack!”
    “No, no, no,” said Gaspode hurriedly. “It’s hardly work, is it? Just handing out stuff and takin’ money? Doesn’t sound like work to me.”
    “I ain’t working!” shouted Coffin Henry. “I am socially inadequate in the whole area of doing anything!”
    “We do not work,” said Arnold Sideways. “We is gentlemen of les-u-are.”
    “Ahem,” said Lady Hermione.
    “Gentlemen and ladies of les-u-are,” said Arnold gallantly.
    “This is a very nasty winter. Extra money would certainly come in handy,” said the Duck Man.
    “What for?” said Arnold.
    “We could live like kings on a dollar a day, Arnold.”
    “What, you mean someone’d chop our heads off?”
    “No, I—”
    “Someone’d climb up inside the privy with a red-hot poker and—”
    “No! I meant—”
    “Someone’d drown us in a butt of wine?”
    “No, that’s dying like kings, Arnold.”
    “I shouldn’t reckon there is a butt of wine big enough that you couldn’t drink your way out of it,” muttered Gaspode. “So, what about it, masters? Oh, and mistress, o’course. Shall I—shall Ron tell that lad we’re up for it?”
    “Indeed.”
    “Okay.”
    “Gawwwark…pt!”
    “Bugrit!”
    They looked at Altogether Andrews. His lips moved, his face flickered. Then he held up five democratic fingers.
    “The ayes have it,” said Gaspode.

    Mr. Pin lit a cigar. Smoking was his one vice. At least, it was his only vice that he thought of as a vice. The others were just job skills.
    Mr. Tulip’s vices were also limitless, but he owned up to cheap aftershave because a man has to drink something . The drugs didn’t count, if only because the only time he’d ever got real ones was when they’d robbed a horse doctor and he’d taken a couple of big pills that had made every vein on his body stand out like a purple hosepipe.
    The pair were not