Стража! Стража!

           Butinthebottomdrawerofhisancientdesk,hiddenunderapileofemptybottles,wasaplastercast.Hecouldfeelitstaringathimthroughthreelayersofwood.

           Hecouldn’timaginewhathadgotintohim.Andnowhewasgoingevenfurtheroutontothelimb.

           Hereviewedhis,forwantofabetterword,troops.He’daskedtheseniorpairtoturnupinplainclothes.ThismeantthatSergeantColon,who’dwornuniformallhislife,waslookingred-facedanduncomfortableinthesuitheworeforfunerals.WhereasNobby-

           "IwonderifImadetheword’plain’clearenough?"saidCaptainVimes.

           "It’swhatIwearoutsidework,guv,"saidNobbyreproachfully.

           "Sir,"correctedSergeantColon.

           "Myvoiceisinplainclothestoo,"saidNobby."Initiative,thatis."

           Vimeswalkedslowlyaroundthecorporal.

           "Andyourplainclothesdonotcauseoldwomentofaintandsmallboystorunafteryouinthestreet?"hesaid.

           Nobbyshifteduneasily.Hewasn’tathomewithirony.

           "No,sir,guv,"hesaid."It’sallthego,thisstyle."

           Thiswasbroadlytrue.TherewasacurrentfadinAnkhforbig,featheredhats,ruffs,slasheddoubletswithgoldfrogging,flaredpantaloonsandbootswithornamentalspurs.Thetroublewas,Vimesreflected,thatmostofthefashion-conscioushadmorebodytogobetweenthesecomponentbits,whereasallthatcouldbesaidofCorporalNobbswasthathewasintheresomewhere.

           Itmightbeadvantageous.