The Truth

terriers?”
    “Yes, and while I don’t expect you to—”
    “Like…pedigree terriers, or just people who might happen to look a bit terrierlike?”
    “They didn’t look like they were inspecting any paperwork. Anyway, what do you mean, people who look like terriers?”
    Deep Bone went silent again.
    William said, “Fifty dollars, Mr. Bone.”
    At length the sacks of straw said, “All right. Tonight. On the Misbegot Bridge. Just you. Er…I won’t be there but there will be…a messenger.”
    “Who shall I make the check out to?” said William.
    There was no answer. He waited a while, and then eased himself into a position where he could peer around the sacks. There was a rustling from them. Probably rats, he thought, because certainly none of them could hold a man.
    Deep Bone was a very tricky customer.
    Some time after William had gone, looking surreptitiously into the shadows, one of the grooms turned up with a trolley and began to load up the sacks.
    One of them said: “Put me down, mister.”
    The man dropped the sack, and then opened it cautiously.
    A small terrierlike dog struggled up, shaking itself free of clinging wisps.
    Mr. Hobson did not encourage independence of thought and an enquiring mind, and at fifty pence a day plus all the oats you could steal he didn’t get them. The groom looked owlishly at the dog.
    “Did you just say that?” he said.
    “’Course not,” said the dog. “Dogs can’t talk. Are you stupid or somethin’? Someone’s playin’ a trick on you. Gottle o’geer, gottle o’geer, vig viano.”
    “You mean like, throwing their voice? I saw a man do that down at the music hall.”
    “That’s the ticket. Hold on to that thought.”
    The groom looked around.
    “Is that you playin’ a trick, Tom?” he said.
    “That’s right, it’s me, Tom,” said the dog. “I got the trick out of a book. Throwin’ my voice into this harmless little dog what cannot talk at all.”
    “What? You never told me you were learnin’ to read!”
    “There were pictures,” said the dog hurriedly. “Tongues an’ teeth an’ that. Dead easy to understand. Oh, now the little doggie’s wanderin’ off…”
    The dog edged its way to the door.
    “Sheesh,” it appeared to say. “A couple of thumbs and they’re lords of bloody creation…”
    Then it ran for it.

    “How will this work?” said Sacharissa, trying to look intelligent. It was much better to concentrate on something like this than think about strange men getting ready to invade again.
    “Slowly,” mumbled Goodmountain, fiddling with the press. “You realize that this means it’ll take us much longer to print each paper?”
    “You vanted color, I gif you color,” said Otto sulkily. “You never said qvick. ”
    Sacharissa looked at the experimental iconograph. Most pictures were painted in color these days. Only really cheap imps painted in black and white, even though Otto insisted that monochrome “vas an art form in itself.” But printing color…
    Four imps were sitting on the edge of it, passing a very small cigarette from hand to hand and watching with interest the work on the press. Three of them wore goggles of colored glass—red, blue, and yellow.
    “But not green…” she said. “So…if something’s green—have I got this right?—Guthrie there sees the…blue in the green and paints that on the plate in blue”—one of the imps gave her a wave—“and Anton sees the yellow and paints that, and when you run it through the press—”
    “…very, very slowly,” muttered Goodmountain. “It’d be quicker to go around to everyone’s house and tell ’em the news.”
    Sacharissa looked at the test sheets that had been done of the recent fire. It was definitely a fire, with red, yellow, and orange flames, and there was some, yes, blue sky, and the golems were a pretty good reddish brown, but the flesh tones…well, “flesh-colored” was a bit of a tricky one in Ankh-Morpork, where if you picked your subject it could be any color except maybe light blue, but the faces of many of the bystanders did suggest that a particularly virulent plague had passed through the city. Possibly the Multicolored Death, she decided.
    “Zis is only the beginning,” said Otto. “Ve vill get better.”
    “Better maybe, but we’re as fast as we can go,” said Goodmountain. “We can do maybe two hundred an hour. Maybe two hundred and fifty, but someone’s going to be looking for their fingers before this