Vimes awoke. He was lying on his back on something soft yet curiously prickly. There was light. He could feel it on his face and see it through his eyelids.

He risked opening one eye. This did not help much in his assessment of the current situation. He could see blue sky, the sun almost blindingly bright. The air was hot. He sniffed. He could smell straw or hay. Something grassy anyway.

He sat up and gasped in pain. His shoulder felt like it was on fire, full of a dull throbbing pain that seemed to bite into his bones, spreading across his chest whenever he inhaled. He was sitting on the back of a cart which was heading slowly along a dirt track. It was obviously an early summer's day, he could see birds swooping across the fields of cabbages he was gradually heading away from .

He was still in his uniform, which was a bit of welcome news; he was fed up of waking improperly dressed in all manner of situations. Parts of his body, realising he was back in to take calls, began ringing up to complain. He groaned, but at least the pain still mean he had both his legs even if they weren't in a fit state to do much.

He started pulling off his breastplate and mail to get a better look at his shoulder. After much wincing and biting his lip until it bled he managed to get it off so he could see the wound. It was a mess, black with bruising and dried blood. There was a series of semi-circular gashes around a central... hole... in his shoulder. He could still move his fingers, but even that hurt enough to bring tears to his eyes. He swore under his breath. His number one priority was to get to a doctor, or so it would seem.

There was a popping noise and he sighed, and waited.

"Hello Mister Vimes," said the Sweeper behind him.

"Hello Lu-Tze. I thought I'd be home now. I did what I had to do didn't I?"

"Ooo, that looks nasty," said the skinny priest, looking at Vimes's shoulder, ignoring his questioning for now. He prodded at the wound, making Vimes yelp.

"Can you help me or not?" he said, through gritted teeth.

"Yes," replied the Sweeper. "You'll have to come with me."

Vimes met the man's eyes. Frankly, at this moment he didn't trust his legs to take him anywhere. He was dizzy, felt sick and every muscle in his body ached. He was bruised and battered from a beating administered (at least according to Vimes's internal chronometer) less than twelve hours ago. He'd lost too much blood and had a nasty wound in his shoulder. He couldn't remember when he'd last eaten. But he wouldn't be Sam Vimes if he didn't at least try. He took a deep breath and stood. Muscles screamed in his legs but he managed a few tottering steps before stumbling. The Sweeper caught him on the arm and held him steady.

"I've lost a lot of blood," Vimes offered.

"I should say," replied the Sweeper, taking in the pale clamminess of the man's arm he held and grey face.

"Where am I now?" asked Vimes as they walked slowly down the dirt track.

"Oh, Ankh-Morpork, Mister Vimes."

Vimes staggered again and coughed violently before throwing up. Lu-Tze waited a few moments. "Better now?" he asked.

"A little," lied Vimes.

Lu-Tze sighed. He was not an unkind man and he could see how much this was costing Sam Vimes. He helped him back up to his feet. "Do you want to know when you are?" he asked.

"Aren't I home?" said Vimes, trying to keep the hope out of his voice.

"I'm afraid not," said the Sweeper, "There was...a complication."

"What kind of complication?"

"Weeell, it's a little difficult to explain.. I'm not sure if now is the right mome-"

"What kind of complication?" repeated Vimes and the Sweeper sighed.

"You are directing yourself through time, Mister Vimes. Because... well, Qu thinks that your cigar case picked up some residual magic from landing on the HEM building," he looked at Vimes blank expression and pressed on, "We all thought you'd go straight back too, but it seems there are some things you need to settle first. Certain events that you want to change. So you've bought yourself here rather than home."

"But I want to go home," said Vimes, truth ringing on every word.

"I know that, Mister Vimes, but there must be something else you want to do first, or have to do..."

"What does that mean?!" Vimes said, running fingers through his hair in exasperation. The Sweeper paused, unsure of what to say next. He recognised the look of a man hanging onto his sanity by his teeth and Sam Vimes had that look now.

"It means that we're not sure if you're here just because you want to be, or if it's part of some higher order design. Do you understand? We need your help to find that out."

Vimes shook his head sadly. "Alright," he whispered, "What do I need to do now in order to get back?"

"We don't know Mister Vimes. Today is the third of August. Can you think of anything important that happened in your life on that date."

Vimes shook his head in genuine puzzlement. "Not that I can think of..."

"Well, we'll know more at the Temple," said the Sweeper, "I guess-" He stopped at the look on Vimes's face. "What?"

"The third of August, did you say?" said Vimes. His face had gone from grey to a murky white. The Sweeper nodded.

"Oh gods," murmured Vimes, "Oh gods."

"What?" repeated the Sweeper, but it was delivered to Vimes's rapidly disappearing back as he ran along the track into the city.

Vimes ran on not caring whether the man in saffron would catch up or not. Not particularly fast, it has to be said, as his legs were operating on energy borrowed straight from the quiet desperation that had taken hold of his heart and he could only use one arm. But he kept going all the way to the city gates and beyond, ignoring his body's desperate pleas to stop and carrying on even when his left knee started to give way on every alternative stride.

He ran up Short Street, his heart jumping in his throat. There were all sorts of people on the streets at this time of day, even in the hot summer sun. Ahead he could see the procession of people coming down out of the Street of Small Gods, walking from the Temples. It was some sort of Holy Day today, Vimes knew. There were women, children, old men. All heading to or from the Temples, all walking slowly steadily, packed in and unable get away, unable to move against the tides of other people. No one paid Sam Vimes any attention as he wheezed his way along, barely moving faster than a walk now, hardly able to see thorough the tears in his eyes.

There were screams ahead, and people tried to move out of the way, a channel was forming all the way up the street allowing Vimes to see all the way up to the Broken Drum. Well, almost all the way, Unfortunately a huge cart was charging down the street, blocking the view. The people couldn't get away fast enough, there were too many in too small a space.

Later Vimes would learn that the cart was heading away from the diamond merchants, that the men were later arrested and charged. Later there would be talk of medals and honours, even though nothing would be forthcoming. But really the act of one man would save few lives at the cost of his own.

Thomas Vimes was an honest copper, if not renowned for being particularly bright. He was a good man, and he knew that somewhere in the crowd were families very much like his own, families he couldn't stand by and watch be torn apart. That was why he stepped into the street, fingers closed around his badge and shouted to the driver of the cart. "Stop! In the name of the Law!"

Vimes made one last desperate effort to reach his father, but the tides of people prevented him from getting any closer. He had a clear view as the man on the cart levelled his crossbow and let fly with the quarrel. It hit Thomas Vimes in the chest. He looked down at it, seeming more surprised than hurt, but Vimes saw the blood welling up from his chest seep out from his mouth as he shouted again with his dying breath, "STOP!"

Afterwards Sam Vimes would wonder why he had to watch, why he didn't just close his eyes and turn away. But he did watch as the cart smashed headlong into his father, crushing him beneath the wheels. There wasn't all that much of a body left when it was eventually rolled away. At least the shattered remains of Thomas's body had stopped the cart in its tracks, as one of his femurs had locked the wheel. There was no reason at all why Sam Vimes had to stay and watch as the people who hadn't fled tried to move the cart off the body, no reason why he had to watch them scrape up the remains with a bloody shovel, for gods sake. But he did watch. He sat in a doorway and watched it all, chin on his hands not saying anything; hardly even remembering to breathe.

He was watching them draw the most misshapen chalk outline in the history of mankind when the Sweeper caught up with him again. Lu-Tze sat on the step next to the watchman. Vimes's face was blank as a slate, no flicker of emotion displaying the inner turmoil.

"Mister Vimes?" ventured the Sweeper.

"He was so damn stupid! One life to save how many? Ten? Five?"

"I know Mister Vimes. But he believed those lives were worth it. Come away now. That arm needs seeing to."

Vimes looked up with violence in his eyes, but it faded gradually and he nodded. He stood up and felt the sickening black dizziness rise up and claim his sight. He stumbled, fell and blacked out. Lu-Tze sighed heavily. "I could get fed up of this you know," he warned the unconscious man.