Chapter the First, in Which Commander Vimes and Tolliver Groat are admitted to Hospital.

Disclaimer: The Discworld, its characters,places and institutions are the intellectual property of the late Sir Terry Pratchett and his heirs. This story is for entertainment only, and I claim no commercial interest in it.

The action takes place approximately fifteen years after the time of Sir Terry's established Discworld canon. It was inspired by the knowledge that Commander Vimes drives himself hard and isn't getting any younger. And canon says one of the Gods arrived at Dunmanifestin under a metaphorical cloud.

He'd been feeling very rough all day. The cold nocturnal winter smog of newly industrialized Ankh – Morpork was not helping matters, and even the relief offered by Postman's Friend pastilles wasn't cutting the phlegm like it should. Sam Vimes was starting to feel his age, but had been unable to resist the temptation to take an opportunity to walk the beat with the newly – qualified Constable Samuel Vimes.

He'd been less than pleased when Young Sam joined up, but his son's progress through training had gradually convinced Commander Vimes that coppering was somehow ingrained in the Vimes bloodline. Like an inherited disease. It helped that the younger man took after his mother in that he was genuinely interested in people, parlaying this into a baffling charisma almost to rival that of Captain Ironfoundersson. Old Sam was seriously considering having Carrot mentor the young constable for a while, to encourage sensible use of that charisma.

It might even reduce the crime rate to zero if the public were exposed to that double act.

'I think we're close to the Hospital, Commander, my feet are telling me.'

'I didn't even teach him that,' was the thought interrupted by a commotion up ahead.

The two Watchmen hurried towards the sound through the chilly greasy murk, knowing the incident was going to be interesting in a uniquely Ankh – Morporkian way. The loudest voice in the hubbub was that of Deputy Postmaster Tolliver Groat. He was protesting at not being allowed into the Lady Sybil Free Hospital.

'We can allow your people in sir, but you know that you are barred as a fire and explosion hazard unless you are here for treatment.' (1)

The hospital's door staff and a group of posties were facing each other, the Post Office staff were carrying stretchers. The three men on them were in a battered condition. Old Sam stopped to get his breath back. Young Sam made his presence clear to the people clustered around the entrance.

How old was the elderly Mr Groat now ? (2) He registered who was present very quickly anyway. In the foreground at least.

'Mr Vimes, good to see you. We have a situation bearing on the Postmen's Benevolent Society.' (3)

'I see you have three injured men here. What makes this a Guild matter Mr Groat ?'

'They robbed and injured a postie in the Course of His Duties. We went postal on 'em by way of a lesson not to do it again.'

This was rare nowadays, but sometimes a new generation of malefactors needed the lesson beaten into them. With Post Office Issue steel - toed boots. The posties usually had the bad boys patched up afterwards 'So's yer can tell yer friends what 'appens, and by the way, we knows where yer lives...'

Both Sams new that second offenders were usually less fortunate, and could easily find themselves briefly the guests of Mr Trooper, via the Patrician's Court. The best anyone could say of such a fate was that when he hanged a man, it was held that Mr Trooper considered it a matter of professional pride to make it quick.

Old Sam shivered, and it wasn't just the chest infection on a cold smoggy night. An entity he'd met many times had become visible through the murk. He felt a pang of parental concern for the young constable. The apparition must have realized this.

'DO NOT WORRY ABOUT YOUR SON. NOT THIS TIME. I AM HERE TO SEE YOU.'

'This is it then ? Brought down by a chill ? I never expected that. And why are you standing so far away ?'

The tall, cowled, scythe – bearing skeleton contrived somehow to look shifty.

'EVEN THE DOCTORS DON'T LIKE GETTING CLOSE TO THAT OLD MAN. THAT IS BESIDE THE POINT HOWEVER. SOMEBODY WANTS TO SEE YOU PRIVATELY. HE HAS BORROWED MY STUDY FOR THE PURPOSE.'

'Can we at least see how this turns out ?'

'OF COURSE WE CAN. I CONFESS TO SOME CURIOSITY MYSELF.'

Young Sam appeared to think for a moment, and came to a conclusion.

'As this is a Guild matter, a demarcation dispute would arise if I arrested anyone over disturbing this quiet evening. The door staff have a point. However, men need treatment here. I'm not a lawyer, but you have the Captain Gud Trinity of Authority present in the form of Guild precedent, Royal Mail Authority, and, I notice, some of your party being Golems. Perhaps they can help settle the issue.'

One of the door staff interjected to the tune that Golems couldn't force the issue as not harming human beings was somehow built into them.

Mr Groat's face assumed a suspiciously innocent expression.

'Who says anythin' about force. Golems is clever. Mr Sorter, step over here please.'

The huge ceramic man came and stood face to face with his boss, who began reciting the First Law of Golemhood.

'A Golem may not harm a human being or allow a human being to come to harm...now give me a black eye...'

Mr Sorter punched his manager in the face.

'...unless ordered to do so by Duly Constituted Authority. Now I needs treatment and you can let me in.'

The leader of the door detail was quick on the uptake.

'Four men for Accident and Emergency, one of them Deputy Postmaster Groat, plus stretcher bearers.'

'And please keep your hair under control Mr Groat, Dr Lawn has warned us that it bites.'

'GOOD, ISN'T HE,' was the last voice Old Sam heard for the moment as everyone else heard his armour crash to the ground due to him passing out inside it.

(1)Check out Sir Terry's Going Postal for why this should be so.

(2)Mr Groat's explosive remedies were rumoured to have made Death scared to approach him.

(3)Effectively the Postmen's Guild.