Slipping Between Worlds – 36

Philip Holtack was getting tired. For the second time, he had not presented his suggestions for approval without a struggle to make himself heard. This time it concerned the humane dispersal of the crowds of would-be refugees who were crowding every road out of Ankh-Morpork and the neighbouring satellite cities. He found it incomprehensible that some of the people tasked with agreeing to a decision that directly affected the welfare of the City's people could be so thick and so insensitive. And so resistant to good practice in dealing with these matters. He'd talk about this later to his reluctant host, Sir Samuel Vimes, one of the handful of people who seemed to have their heads screwed on and set to optimum efficiency. He counted the Brigadier in this smaller number, along with Colonel Wrangle, Commander Vimes, and Major Jeffries, from the Regiment's opposite numbers on this strange and fascinating mirror-world.

And then there was the man at the top, the Patrician, who he suspected could teach a few tricks to Machiavelli. Vetinari seemed like the most efficient puppet-master, dangling several lots of strings all at once, effortlessly delegating other people into doing things his way, for whatever subtle end-goals he had in mind. He commanded respect. Holtack suspected his own strings were now firmly in Vetinari's grasp: encouraged to use his own skills and training in service of this City and to practically demonstrate his conditional loyalties to it, Vetinari would allow him to get on with it and only step in if he had a better idea. He suspected he was being tested, but not just at the superficial how useful could this young man prove to be? level.

Reminding himself this wasn't just some sort of theoretical exercise in deploying military aid to the civil power – but fully aware that there was in fact a game umpire in the background watching and taking notes and ready to deliver a frank assessment later – Holtack forced his brain to work.

"There are upwards of fifty thousand people out there, at a conservative guess." he heard himself saying. "Thirty thousand or more have fled… Ankh-Morpork… trying to get to a place of perceived safety in one of the smaller cities. On roads that were never built to accept that amount of traffic, they have run head-on into about an equivalent number of people with exactly the same idea in mind, only they have fled from…" he stumbled over the unfamiliar names – "Quirm. Sto Lat. Pseudopolis. Sto Helig. Chirm. And this flood in the opposite direction is trying to get to Ankh-Morpork. Result – gridlock on the roads. They can't go any further out, and the only clear roads are the ones back to their city of origin. The question is how we persuade them to turn right round and use those roads and get home again."

"At least the wizards have called down some rain." Major Jeffries observed. "That'll help."

"Up to a point." Vimes said, thoughtfully. "In the city, it's our ally. It'll drive the majority of the people out on the streets back to homes that are five or ten minutes walk away. Air reports say it's already cleared two-thirds of the people out of Hide Park. But out in the country…"

Vimes left the thought uncompleted. Holtack pondered the situation. Fifty or sixty thousand people… all between fifteen and twenty-five miles away from home… cold, tired, hungry and now wet. A lot of women and children among them…

A memory from military history classes surfaced.

"Commander Vimes, this city has a public transport system? I heard you mention it a while ago. Can you describe them for me?"

"Horse-drawn, usually by knackered out cheap old jades. Capable of pulling forty-five people seated. Although there's a bright spark experimenting with double-deckers that can carry ninety. Bit top-heavy, to my mind."

"How many does the city own?"

Vimes snorted.

"The city owns none! There are maybe sixty, seventy tops, that do the main routes, but they're all privately owned."

"That's a start" Holtack said, reflectively. " If this is a public order emergency, surely the city government would be justified in requisitioning the available fleet and sending them out to pick up the refugees? Priority given to women, children and the elderly?"

Vetinari looked at him.

"You do realise Mr Soulter and Madame Glugg(1), who own the city's omnibuses as a private company, would not be too pleased at any hint of nationalisation or requisition and would , in the vernacular, scream blue murder?"

Holtack smiled.

"I hardly see how they could object, sir, if the requisition request were to be backed by a squad of Watchmen or perhaps armed soldiers…."

"I'll see to it!" Vimes said, hurriedly. "The less armed soldiers on MY streets, the better!"

"I don't blame you" Holtack said, sincerely. "We're really not very nice people".

Vetinari considered, then nodded, A thin smile crossed his face.

"Do it" he said. "By the time the streets clear enough to allow vehicles to move, I expect the omnibuses to be moving out on all the main roads. I shall deal personally with any complaint from Mr Soulter or Mistress Glugg. And human nature being what it is, I would suggest a military or Watch escort go out with each omnibus to ensure only the women and children get to travel in them. Cost-free."

Holtack nodded; he'd heard from men who'd gone out on United Nations missions that similar transport offered to refugees, partly for humanitarian reasons and mainly to get them moving faster into the camps, ran the risk of locally employed drivers and their mates demanding payment for the ride in one form or another. This had got so blatant in one part of Africa that armed British patrols had to escort the drivers and remind them, sometimes at gunpoint, they were already being paid by the UN and this was a free service to the users. An armed British presence had also deterred local militias from regarding UN lorries as a free addition to their MT pools. So yet again, Vetinari is on the ball.

He let the thought extend outwards a little.

"Sir, this is only one strand of a three-point plan." he reminded Vetinari. There are at least four Army regiments billeted in or nearby to this city. Can I assume they all have field-kitchens, a complement of cooks, and adequate stores?"

He explained the next stage of the plan. Lord Rust bellowed with rage.

"Are you tellin' me that I should detach my cooks, my field-kitchens and the stores which I paid for, just to mollycoddle a bunch of damnfool civilians who should have stayed at home and not let themselves be spooked? I've no sympathy for 'em!"

"No, sir. I'm merely suggesting. I don't have authority to tell."

He looked over to Vetinari again.

"Sir, the promise of some sort of hot meal – provided they turn round and start walking home again – should act as an incentive to get people returning to their homes from the country. I would suggest deploying all available field kitchens roughly halfway between the current location of the refugees, and the City gates. That way, they have to start walking home to find a square meal waiting for them. I'm not suggesting anything elaborate, just perhaps a bowl of soup and a couple of bread rolls each. After they've eaten and rested, the only way then is home."

"But why feed 'em at all, man! Do you think we're some kind of…some kind of…. " Rust exploded, "Welfare state?"

Holtack sighed. Why was the man such a classic idiot? He wouldn't be out of place as a High Tory peer in the House of Lords…

"Several reasons, colonel." Holtack explained, patiently.

"One, to get them moving in the right direction. Two, because it's the right thing to do. Three, because well-fed people are better able to cover a thirty mile hike, fifteen out and fifteen back. Four. Jocasta tells me all your cabbage and potato fields are out there. These are the staple crops that are meant to feed a city of over a million people. If we don't feed them, they are going to plunder those fields. Meaning further on down the line, you are going to see food shortages and price rises. In staple foodstuffs. This is not good for you, as a government."

Vetinari nodded again.

"A masterly summation. I concur. Mobilise your cooks and kitchens, gentlemen. On my orders. Oh, Lord Rust? I would be obliged if you did not see it as an opportunity to rid yourself of foodstuffs currently in your battalion stores which I believe were inspected and condemned as unfit for human consumption. I'm sure orders were given for their destruction and replacement? Your men will pass several food warehouses in New Ankh on the way out of the city. Drumknott here will provide authorisations to requisition. And I would also advise you to have your field kitchens placed under armed guard. Human nature, regretfully, being what it is, as I'm sure Lieutenant Holtack has experienced."

Vetinari watched as the army officers went, largely grumbling and ill-tempered, to issue the relevant orders.

He looked to Holtack.

"And the third point of your strategy is?"

Holtack looked around for the Press contingent.

"Well, sir, all this will be no good if we don't publicise it. I suggest an extra edition of the papers, perhaps a free sheet for distribution to the people out there? For their interest and information?"

"Proceed!" said Vetinari.

"And I'm told you have aircraft? Perhaps these can be used to drop the papers to the people?"

Vetinari smiled. "Assuredly, lieutenant. We have - aircraft - at our disposal. Perhaps you might like a flight on one?"

Something about Vetinari's smile left Holtack wondering if he was very soon going to be sliding up the next level of the learning curve; it was not a comforting thought.

It had started to rain over Hide Park. Williams and Powell, from their lair in thr dense shrubbery, had watched as the sky greyed and rainclouds rolled in from seemingly nowhere on what had previously been a dry warm sunny day. Consequently, the crowds had thinned out and the mas of people had in the main disappeared, only a few diehards holdingf on in the dwindling expectation of seeing the spacepeople descend in glory. Even the sausage-inna-bun salesman had moved on.

"Weather changes fast around here, dunnit?" Powell remarked, conversationally, as they worked hard on bundling the essential kit, the changes of clothes, the food supply, and the all-important rifles, in between two groundsheets and in between their bodies, so as to keep it dry.

"Well, if we wait it out a while, we can borrow that parkie's hut again." said Williams, thoughtfully. "Light his brazier, do a wet. We ain't seen him since he went off with a face like Prestatyn on a wet Sunday. No sign of him coming back with any of the hedd yet."

"From what we seen, the coppers have got a lot on their plate today" said Powell. "They'll not bother too much about a narky parkie claiming his shed's been broke into."

Stoically, they hunched up against the rain, waiting for the moment to get warm and dry.

Sergeant Davies waited with other NCO's of the Llamedosian Regiment for the duty Captain, the most senior rank in the barracks, to come to them with the orders that had just been transmitted in on the semaphore system. Davies had watched it clanking and shuddering as it relayed a message from deeper inside the city. He understood that in the absence of radio, it was probably the most efficient way of relaying an order from HQ, but it seemed slow.

If it's the best this world has got, their slow is probably pretty fast. That don't matter so much next to accurate, he reminded himself.

And then he blinked again as a dot in the sky resolved itself into a human figure. Riding a broomstick. It spiralled down , growing closer, until he could see it was a young woman, in a pointy hat.

This world runs on magic. Remember? That's probably as near as they have to an Air Force.

The woman leapt off the stick, grabbing and running with it, calling for the senior officer. She identified herself as a despatch rider from the Palace with written and sealed orders to confirm the movement of troops the Patrician was requesting.

And then the Captain was calling for all lieutenants and senior NCO's to join him for a briefing. Williams tagged along, obediently.

Fusilier Hughes posed, very reluctantly, for the photograph – iconograph? – that was to go into the newspaper to be dropped to the refugees. It re-enacted the moment he was caught by the Librarian the previous evening, and involved the grinning orang-utan lifting him effortlessly up by the back of his collar, his rifle dropping to the ground. Holtack had talked him into it, pointing out that if we're seen as harmless, that's going to be better for our long-term survival. If people see us as a threat, they'll want to lynch us, and we're going to have to live in this city for an indefinite length off time. Better they grin and have a laugh, don't you think?

Hughes had reluctantly agreed, even more reluctantly allowing himself to be hoisted up by the ape with his feet dangling off the ground. A fussy little photographer with a German accent had taken the picture, set against a backdrop of the Patrician's bookcases – duw, the man with the camera looked like something out of the Munsters or the Addams Family - and it had been whisked away for printing.

And then Mr Holtack had been taken off by the head peeler and the grey-haired man in black, with that pretty little girl who'd adopted him tagging along, and that only left himself and the Boer. But under light guard, and with a very nice pot of tea brought to them. So that was alright, then.

Gerard MacElroy had found , against all hope, a home from home in the Rainbow's End. People were singing old songs about the struggle for freedom from the hated Morporkian, the craic was all about where the jobs were – apparently a Cathedral was being built that needed all trades and was recruiting – and they even served a familiar black porter that put him in mind of Guinness or Gillespie's. What more could a fella ask for?

Somebody who had foreman written all over him was scrutinising McElroy intently. Finally he said

"New lad in town? Thought so. Got any skills?"

"Chippying. Some bricklaying. Some roofing." he replied. The ganger nodded.

"Anywhere to stay?"

"Not yet."

"Go round to Biddy Scanlon's on Three Bells Lane. Tell her Shamie Larey sent you, and that's good for a night's credit. Tomorrow, get round to the Temple of Anoia site on God Street and I'll give you a try-out. We pay by the day. You look a handy lad, and I'm short and the job's behind."

"Obliged to you, mr Larey."

"Well, you can show gratitude and fill this glass, so you can. You're a Derry boy, from your accent?"

Apparently there was a Derry in this faraway Hergen place, too.

Oh…. Macnamara walking home, after a pint, or two or three;

An innocent man, the Watch took him,

And did treat him brutally!

'Twas murdered by the fuzz he was, 'twas murdered by the fuzz…

MacElroy let the song wash over him, and joined in with the chorus when he felt he'd got the hang of it.

People who are to all intents and purposes Irish. A place to stay. A job to go to. Lie low. Sniff the breeze. Watch and wait. You still have a rifle and six rounds. And there are anything up to six legitimate targets in this city. Things are on the up, Gerry!

And then a youth rushed in, loudly shouting that the bloody Watch and the Army are repressing the demonstration up outside the Palace… They're using trolls and golems!

MacElroy thought he'd go and see what was happening. He had a few useful skills he could teach these people. On general principles. Solidarity. The situation called for it.

How the Hell is it staying up!

It was Holtack's first experience of a flying carpet. It was unsettling, to say the least. He'd flown in airliners, in unpressurised and cold Hercules transport-planes that rattled and shook and magnified the noise of four immense propellers, and he was a veteran of Army helicopter pilots' sudden unannounced suicide drops onto the base landing pads in South Armagh.(2) But he'd never flown on a quarter of an inch of what felt like shagpile Axminster, knowing it was all there was between him and a long plummet to his doom. Goodness knew, he'd felt nervous about an eighth of an inch of aluminium, or whatever it was, in the hull of an airliner…

"Best Kilminster carpet, offendi!" said the Arab-looking pilot (well, that fitted)

"Kilminster?" asked Holtack, weakly.

"Unfortunately a very loud and repetitive pattern, offendi." said the pilot. "It tends to vibrate at low speeds when we hit turbulence."(3).

He looked shrewdly at holtack.

"First flight, offendi?"

He nodded, trying not to look apprehensive. He was also trying not to look down, and was discreetly leaning on a couple of bales of newspapers they were to drop. Jocasta was with them, seemingly enjoying herself immensely, and a Watchman provided the reason why Joe le Tahksi's assistance had been so easily given: it was this or face trial for dangerous flying and damage to Watch property, to wit, one broomstick. He had also been advised to keep well clear of the Watch witch who had been flying that broomstick at the time of the collision.

Needing no further persuasion, Joe had jumped at the chance to volunteer and help the Watch. As the accompanying Watchman, Constable Haddock, had phrased it Mr Vimes isn't unreasonable, Joe. He knows you like working at heights. He'd have pulled strings to get you a top-floor cell at the Tanty so as you feel at home.

So no. Joe had seen no alternative to helping the Watch with their enquiries.

"Nobody falls off, offendi!" he reassured Holtack, happily. "There's a shaped magical field, sort of thing, that prevents that. I can loop the loop, if you like?"

"Er… thanks, but I'll pass. How does it, you know, work?"

Joe le Tahksi laughed.

"If I knew, offendi, I'd be a wizard! Just sit tight and I'll turn it off when we get to the drop zone. Then you'd better not fall over with the newspapers!"

Holtack concentrated on weighing up the country from the air, as he'd been taught. You can never know too much about the surrounding countryside. He recognised the twists and turns of the river Ankh from the maps he'd been studying. They were vaguely familiar from somewhere. From here, he could make out the city wall from above, and the outer suburbs, at first densely packed and then spreading out and faltering into the countryside. Soon there were less and less houses and more and more flat green fields. They saw a convoy of wagons on their way out, escorted by marching soldiers: the first of the field kitchens. Then they caught up with the milling mass of bodies, who were making the best of it, but looking confused and uncertain.

Dropping in ten seconds" said Joe. Switching off magical field – now. Try not to fall off, I'm in enough bother with the Watch as it is. Approaching drop zone… Three. Two . One. Drop!"

Haddock, Holtack and Jocasta had been busy cutting the binder twine securing the bundles of newspapers, a mix of copies of the Times and the Inquirer. Looking down as they threw or kicked their bundles off the carpet, they were reassured to see them break up into hundreds of single billowing sheets that spread, like snowdrops, over the heads of the people below. Joe switched the retaining field back on, and they performed a long slow loop, banking around the field, to see the newspapers were being eagerly pounced on and read.

"Right. Back home, I think!" said Joe, and he steered to the Turnwise and back to the City. Holtack slumped with relief. Jocasta smiled at him.

Regimental Sergeant-Major Dickens saluted the worried young captain.

"Permission to speak, sir? If I may, I'd like to introduce a new arrival to you. This is Sergeant Williams, just posted here. He's an expert in crowd control and dispersing disorderly civilians, sent here to instruct us in controlling civil disturbances, so he could be just the man we need at this moment in time. Sir!"

Williams stepped forward and saluted. He was experienced enough to notice that what Dickens was doing was a skilled form of Rupert-management, the sergeant's art of steering an inexperienced young officer in the correct direction and ensuring he did the right thing. The young Captain certainly seemed relieved, as if the magic words "expert" and "instructor" had taken a burden off his shoulders.

"Glad to have you on the strength, Sergeant" the captain said. "Now you've heard the orders sent to us from the Palace. "I've instructed the BQMS and the Cook-Sergeant to muster the field kitchens and take them out into the country, as directed. I hear there's going to be a lot of hungry people out there who need directing!"

"And send two platoons of infantry with them, if you please, sir." said Williams. "If a thousand hungry people rush forwards at once, not even the biggest gyppo-sergeant is going to be sable to hold them off for very long with a ladle."

"Good point, sergeant. Send Ten and Eleven platoons, mr Dickens? Good. Now, the order of march into the city, sergeant. I can see the sense of sending the band…"

"But not in front, sir. Too vulnerable. In fact, I see you have got normal human infantry leading the march. Can we change that, so as your trolls are in front? I'm guessing they'll scare people. If there are any barricades, I'm willing to bet those boys will walk through them without even noticing. And I want the men going in to have left their weapons at home.

The captain raised an eyebrow.

"It's like this, sir." Williams said, patiently. "Sergeants should still carry their pikes. That's part of the uniform. But have men going in there with loaded ri…crossbows, then somebody's going to be tempted to use it. And we aren't here to pile up bodies. We're here to persuade the people out there to disperse and go home peacefully. Do you have anything like long batons? Pickaxe handles? We can issue those to the men. Some sort of shield would be nice, too. And one company of men, held in reserve, normally armed, in case anyone on the other side starts shooting bu…arrows at us. And can I recommend, sir, those tall hats are left behind? Too easily knocked off, damaged or stolen in a fight."

The captain listened, and then started giving orders. And then the regiment started to march, led by a double line of Army trolls stretching all the way across Broad Way. The band followed, then two companies of men who had been hastily issued steel helmets, shields and pickaxe handles from stores. Some of the helmets were still quite rusty and many had been borrowed from the other regiments in the barracks.

And from the bridges, the Watchmen heard the approaching band and started to apply pressure on the mob. Down Filigree Street, the hastily assembled Guild militia and the watchmen there started to apply pressure. And the crowd started to give way, crumbling at the edges into a steady trickle of people finding empty streets that would lead them Home.

So far, the plan was working.

Gerard McElroy ran into the street with a group of young bloods, disaffected late teenagers, Morporkian–born to Hergenian parents. A stream of people ran past them on the way back to Clay Street.

"You're running? In front of the peelers and the army?" McElroy said, indignantly.

"They're using trolls!" said one man. "And worse nor trolls, golems. You mean to say you wouldn't run?"

McElroy looked to the street gang who had acquired him as an advisor. They were Morporkians in accent, upbringing, attitude, and general street-smarts. But they all had names like Kelly, Murphy, Maguire, MacAllister, and were disaffected that the anti-Hergenian prejudice applied to their parents was aimed at them too. They had taken solace in tribal myths and tales of old injury, and their resentment surfaced in occasional attacks on unwary Watchmen and off-duty soldiers who strayed into the wrong parts of town. They called themselves the Wild Geas, because, well, you've got to, haven't you?

They looked expectantly at the newly-arrived hard man, who had picked up an empty milk bottle and was weighing it in his hand, thoughtfully. Finally he spoke.

"What have you got that's liquid and burns?" he asked. "And I'll want a lot more empty bottles and some old rags."

And as the crowd dispersed, Sergeant Craig-y-Don of the Army and Sergeant Detritus of the Watch met and traded punches. Each troll rocked back on his feet, then, greetings having been exchanged, they grinned at each other.

"Ruby say it long time since she saw you and Chelcedony." Detritus said, conversationally. "Why you both not come to dinner one night?"

"My 'Chel, she be delighted!" said Craig-y-don. "All going peacefully so far, isn't it?"

"Funny thing, trouble. It never around when we peace-loving trolls arrive." agreed Detritus. He and the Army troll were old colleagues, having worked out between themselves where the duties of military police ended and civilian Watch began. And Sergeant Craig-y-Don had visited the Yard often enough, to collect any Army trolls arrested for disorderly conduct after one molten sulphur too many. They had an Arrangement. Vimes approved of this, as it saved paperwork.

The two trolls looked round a rapidly clearing square, and shook hands. Army and Watch squads were reforming for the next stage of the prod, out through the Cham, the Maul, and Sator Square, minor resistance was being dealt with by a line of soldiers advancing behind shields and waving batons threateningly. Commander Vimes and Sergeant Angua were busy in discussions with an Army captain and a couple of senior NCO's. From somewhere, a brass band was playing Men of Pant-y-Girdl. In the air, a magic carpet was returning to the roof of the Patrician's Palace, the strict no-fly rule having been temporarily relaxed.

And then a group of flaming stars appeared in the sky, growing larger and nearer as they rose over the heads of one of the last groups of demonstrators. Watchmen, not understanding what they were seeing, stopped and turned their heads to observe.

And the luckless Constable Millward became the first policeman to be hit by a petrol bomb in the history of Disc policing.

As the last people left Hide Park in the steady drizzling rain, Powell and Williams gathered their kit and made their way to the parkie's hut. Gratefully, they lit the stove and started a brew and a scoff, hanging wet clothes up to dry.

"Thanks'" said Powell, accepting a mug of hot sweet tea. The two men looked at each other, all elation gone, feeling tired. The unspoken question hanging in the air was How long can we keep this up? We're a long way from home in an unfamiliar place. Who do we give ourselves up to? And can we trust them?

He felt his eyes drooping and a need to sleep.

And then the door burst open.

"Gotcha!" screamed Senior Park-Keeper Flowerdew. "Told you, didn'I, your time wasn't going to be wasted… Got 'em red handed!"

Powell, jerking awake, noted there were actually flecks of foam at the corners of the little man's mouth. Williams had retreated into the shadows behind the door as the parkie stomped in, his eyes only on Powell, followed by one the local policemen.

"Calm it down, mun." Powell said. "I see you has the local constabulary with you!"

The Watchman looked nervously at Powell, taking in the uniform and the villainous grin. Powell looked back over at his… grey? skin, which even in the failing daylight had a sickly greenish tinge to it. There was also a new smell in the air, of formaldehyde mixed with a taint that didn't smell none too fresh. And those eyes, dark and sunken, tinged with red…

"I'll take over now, mr Flowerdew, if you don't mind? Yes, you were right. And I have a feeling this is bigger than you think."

The voice was sepulchral, sounding as if it was coming from a chest cavity that was emptier than it looked, as if some other means than mere breathing was necessary to drive air past vocal chords that sounded stretched and in need of replacement.

The grey-skinned policeman got between Flowerdew and Powell, and he said

"You do know we've already pulled in some of your people? The Patrician's interviewed them and decided you're no threat to the city. They've been treated fairly and well and found places to stay."

Powell nodded, imperceptibly.

"Look, you're best of coming in with me. Mr Vimes treated the other three of you well."

Powell nodded again. Fusilier Williams stepped behind Flowerdew and closed the shed door. As Reg Shoe turned, he looked down the muzzle of a riot control gun.

Flowerdew said, impatiently

"Go on then, arrest him! That's what you're here for, isn't it?"

"There are two of them now." Reg said. "And this one's got a gonne. I've seen what they can do".

"Well? It can't kill you, man!"

"No?" replied Reg Shoe. "But it can inconvenience me. Size of the hole those things make!"

Flowedew screamed and leapt for Williams. Who lifted the gun barrel, and rapped it down hard on the hapless park-keeper's head. He dropped like a brick, and was still.

"Got to conserve rounds, mun" said Williams, apologetically. "Only got eight left!"

Powell took a deep breath.

"OK, constable. Pull up a chair. Let's talk. But for now, nobody's going anywhere. Cup of tea?"

Reg shook his head.

"Don't drink, sir. I really don't drink." But he took up a spare chair, and sat passively while Powell took his sword and truncheon. He could have used the raw strength of the Zombie to turn the tables: but Reg would have felt a lot happier doing that if one of those scary gonnes wasn't being pointed at him by the other alien, who had appraised himself that Flowerdew was still breathing. It wouldn't kill him, he knew, but a massive hole in his chest couldn't easily be patched, despite all the hints Igor had been dropping about replacement of worn-out parts.

"Look, I've got to say I'll be missed if I don't report back to the Watch-house in the next hour or two. They'll send people out to look for me. Why not come back with me? You'll be well treated." Reg said, placidly.

"No offence, copper, but right now you is a hostage. A bargaining counter, till I knows better." replied Powell. He sniffed the air. "And what is that smell? Duw, it honks worse than a prop-forward's jockstrap!"

"Ah, personal comments now" muttered Reg. "Look, I've got a pack of cards here. We can pass the time till the Watch send out a search party for me?"

Powell nodded. He was beginning to think there was something strange about this copper…

(1) Oooh, topical, satire! As Ben Elton would have said. In Britain, the Stagecoach bus company was created by gobbling up formerly public-owned local assets – buses and local railways – and operating them for private profit. Mr Souter and Ms Glaog, the founders, are now multi-millionaires and believe in shareholder profit first, public service second. Their company has a near-monopoly in many British cities, including South Manchester, and goes to pretty shady extremes to maintain its grip of the most profitable routes. Think of Reacher Gilt operating public transport…

In the First World War, when the Germans got to within twelve miles of Paris, the French authorities requisitioned all buses and taxis to get their soldiers to the Front quickly. The British copied the idea by requisitioning London buses – and conscripting their drivers – to serve as troop-transports.

(2) They claimed that the shortest possible descent into Crossmaglen minimised the amount of time their helicopters were potential targets for ground fire. As the sudden near-vertical dive to the helipad usually shook the contents of the cargo hold (what pilots call self-loading cargo, or a section of fully equipped combat infantrymen)into a sort of combat-dressed stew, Holtack suspected they did it deliberately out of schadenfreude.

(3). OK. Hands raised. A very bad pun on "Axminister", which is a type of carpet. Lemmy Kilminster, formerly of space-rockers Hawkwind and founder bass-player with unsubtly loud rockers Motorhead.