Jingo

“Come in, captain,” said Vimes. There was a snigger from the box.

Carrot's face was pinker than normal.

“Something's happened to Angua,” said Vimes.

The high colour drained from Carrot's face. “How did you know that?”

Vimes firmly closed the lid on the sniggering demon. “Let's call it intuition, shall we? I'm right, am I?”

“Yes, sir! She went aboard a Klatchian boat and now it's sailing! She hasn't come off!”

“What the hell did she go on board for?”

“We were after Ahmed! And he looked as if he was taking someone with him, sir. Someone ill, sir!”

“He's left? But the diplomats are still—”

Vimes stopped. There was, if you didn't know Carrot, something wrong with the situation. There were people who, when their girlfriend was spirited away on a foreign ship, would have dived into the Ankh, or at least run briskly along the crust, leapt aboard and dealt out merry hell on a democratic basis. Of course, at a time like this that would be a dumb thing to do. The sensible approach would be to let people know, but even so—

But Carrot really did believe that personal wasn't the same as important. Of course, Vimes believed the same thing. You had to hope that when push came to shove you'd act the right way. But there was something slightly creepy about someone who didnt just believe it, but lived their life by it. It was as unnerving as meeting a really poor priest.

Obviously, it was a consideration that if someone had captured Angua you knew that the rescue you were going to probably wouldn't be hers.

But…

The gods alone knew what would happen if he left now. The city had gone war mad. Big things were happening. At a time like this, every cell in his body was telling him that the Commander of the Watch had Responsibilities…

He drummed his fingers on the desk. In times like this, it was vital to make the right decision. That was what he was paid for. Responsibility…

He ought to stay here, and do the best he could.

But… history was full of the bones of good men who'd followed bad orders in the hope that they could soften the blow. Oh, yes, there were worse things they could do, but most of them began right where they started following bad orders.

His eyes went from Carrot to the Dis-organizer and then to the tottering mounds of paperwork on his desk.

Blow that! He was a thief-taker! He'd always be a thieftaker! Why lie?

“Damned if I'll let Ahmed get back to Klatch!” he said, standing up. “Fast boat, was it?”

“Yes, but it looked pretty heavy in the water.”

“Then maybe we can catch it up before it goes very far—”

As he hurried forward he had, just for a second, the strange sensation that he was two people. And this was because, for the merest fraction of a second, he was two people. They were both called Samuel Vimes.

To history, choices are merely directions. The Trousers of Time opened up and Vimes began to hurtle down one leg of them.

And, somewhere else, the Vimes who made a different choice began to drop into a different future.

They both darted back to grab their Dis-organizers. By the most outrageous of freak chances, quite uniquely, in this split second of decision, they each got the wrong one.

And sometimes the avalanche depends on one snowflake. Sometimes a pebble is allowed to find out what might have happened – if only it had bounced the other way.

The wizards of Ankh-Morpork had been very firm on the subject of printing. It's not happening here, they said. Supposing, they said, someone printed a book on magic and then broke up the type again and used it for a book on, say, cookery? The metal would remember. Spells aren't just words. They have extra dimensions of existence. We'd be up to here in talking souffles. Besides, someone might print thousands of the damn things, many of which could well be read by unsuitable people.

The Engravers' Guild was also against printing. There was something pure, they said, about an engraved page of text. It was there, whole, unsullied. Their members could do very fine work at very reasonable rates. Allowing unskilled people to bash lumps of type together showed a disrespect for words and no good would come of it.

The only attempt ever to set up a printing press in Ankh-Morpork had ended in a mysterious fire and the death by suicide of the luckless printer. Everyone knew it was suicide because he'd left a note. The fact that this had been engraved on the head of a pin was considered an irrelevant detail.

And the Patrician was against printing because if people knew too much it would only bother them.

So people relied on work of mouth, which worked very well because the mouths were so close together. A lot of them were just below the noses of the members of the Beggars' Guild,11 citizens generally regarded as reasonably reliable and well informed. Some of them were highly thought of for their sports coverage.

Lord Rust looked thoughtfully at Crumbling Michael, a Grade II Mutterer.

“And what happened next?”