Стража! Стража!

           Nowtheyareringingthegongs,thoughtVimes,butsoontheywill-theywill-theywillnotberingingthegongs.Notmuchofanaphorism,hethought,buthecouldworkonit.Hehadthetime,now.

           Vimesnoticedthemess.

           Errolhadstartedeatingagain.He’deatenmostofthetable,thegrate,thecoalscuttle,severallampsandthesqueakyrubberhippo.Nowhelayinhisboxagain,skintwitching,whimperinginhissleep.

           "Arightmessyou’vemade,"saidVimesenigmatically.Still,atleasthewouldn’thavetotidyitup.

           Heopenedhisdeskdrawer.

           Someonehadeatenintothat,too.Allthatwasleftwasafewshardsofglass.

           SergeantColonhauledhimselfontotheparapetaroundtheTempleofSmallGods.Hewastoooldforthissortofthing.He’djoinedforthebellringing,notsittingaroundonhighplaceswaitingfordragonstofindhim.

           Hegothisbreathback,andpeeredthroughthefog.

           "Anyonehumanstilluphere?"hewhispered.

           Carrot’svoicesoundeddeadandfeaturelessinthedullair.

           "HereIam,Sergeant,"hesaid.

           "Iwasjustcheckingifyouwerestillhere,"saidColon.

           "I’mstillhere,Sergeant,"saidCarrot,obediently.

           Colonjoinedhim.

           "Justcheckingyouwerenotet,"hesaid,tryingtogrin.

           "Ihaven’tbeenet,"saidCarrot.

           "Oh,"saidColon."Good,then."Hetappedhisfingersonthedampstonework,feelingheoughttomakehispositionabsolutelyclear.

           "Justchecking,"herepeated."Partofmyduty,see.Goingaround,sortofthing.