"Look here, Fred," Nobby said, "you can't blame it all on me." He absentmindedly decorated the doorstep of Pseudopolis Yard with the contents of one of his spots.
"Well, who else can I blame it on, Nobby? Mister Vimes ought to have been told." Fred Colon attempted to look like a man forced to perform an unpleasant duty, but succeeded only in looking like a man trying to weasel his way out of trouble.
"How was I supposed to get past the palace guard, Fred? You know it's not possible."
"You don't expect me pick a fight with the palace guard, do you, Nobby? Look, somebody's got to do it, right? It's like special duty, see. I don't mean nothin' pers'nal by it."
"Sergeant! I'll see you in my office immediately!" By the time Colon's feet had found their way to 'attention', Vimes had already marched up the stairs.
"Yes, sir!" Colon saluted and grimly followed his superior officer.
Nobby sighed and wandered into the watch-house, where he entertained himself by reassigning the ownership of the petty cash.
The clicking of heels announced the entrance of Mrs Rosie Palm. Nobby stared.
"I need to speak to Commander Vimes in my capacity as a guild leader."
Nobby gulped. "I'm afraid he's temporarily unavailable, ma'am." He watched the glint in her eye. "But I'll see what I can do for you."
Neil waited until Elisabeth had left the house to work on Vimes' imp. He didn't need the girl knowing too much about what he was doing. She was an interfering nuisance as it was.
After she'd left he spent a moment analysing the house. It was void of human activity. The dominant sound was the familiar scrabbling of the rats. He could smell the scrambled eggs Elisabeth had made for breakfast and the everyday scents of his workroom: the pages of notes Elisabeth had made up for him, since his hand was barely legible; the slightly acrid odour of imp; a slightly stronger smell of ink than usual, after yesterday's incident.
Satisfied, Neil took the Disorganiser from its place on his desk. With carefully probing fingers he found the imp and woke it up.
"Imp! This is your master speaking to you." He added a few words that only the imp would understand.
"Yes, sir. I shall do as you command, sir."
"Imp, what is stored in your memory?"
"Sir, I have data concerning the nature of imps and my role as an imp. I have data regarding various languages. I have data-"
"Stop. Do you have any memories regarding your specific role as a Disorganiser?"
"Yes, sir." The imp's voice was slightly too high, Neil thought. The sudden stop on the recall function must have strained it. Clearly it was of an inferior breed.
Choosing his words carefully, he continued, "What user-specified data do you have, Imp?"
"None, sir."
"Do you have any user-specified data in your memory, Imp?" He had to try again; there must have been an error in his syntax.
"No, sir." Neil was momentarily flummoxed. Vimes certainly couldn't have convinced the imp to answer like that. Only an expert could persuade an imp to lie under the influence of what he'd told this one. There was nobody in Ankh-Morpork who could outfox Neil Jennings. He would wager that nobody on the disc was better than he.
The memory must have been overwritten somehow. If not overwritten, at least erased. It might, Neil thought, be some form of amnesia. It wasn't an uncommon malfunction(1). A moment later Neil realised how simple he'd been. The imp had been knocked out the previous day. Clearly the incident had wiped its memory. It was an excellent example of percussive maintenance. He would have to remember to get Elisabeth to make a note of it for him.
Havelock Vetinari stood in Death's kitchen, watching Albert make dinner. The black pot was filled with a thick stew of some sort. Albert hadn't specified the precise contents and it seemed better not to ask.
Vetinari watched a bubble form between two pieces of unspecified content. It grew steadily, reached its maximum possible size and popped. Another bubble began to form, but was destroyed when Albert's wooden spoon ran through it.
"Those bubbles are somewhat analogous to the interface between history-as-it-is and history-as-it-should-be," Vetinari mused for Albert's benefit.
"You still exist if the bubbles pop wrong, though," Albert said bluntly and added a lump of salt to the stew. "if history takes the wrong course that time-dome will mean the end of you."
"That is the beauty of analogy," Vetinari agreed. "The bubbles in your stew pot are quite innocuous, but still demonstrate the principles of the interface around my city."
Albert eyed Vetinari sharply. "I control my stew." He lifted the pot onto the old wooden table. The bubbling slowed as each bubble fell in on itself. "Can you take the heat off your city?"
"I have citizens who will absorb the heat. The life of the city is bound to my own life, now. They will not forsake the city."
Albert nodded. "Perhaps you will survive it, then, Havelock."
"It will be something of a disappointment if I don't," Vetinari replied.
1 Experts in the field have speculated that this is due to the frequency of defenestration of Disorganisers.
A/N: Thanks to Virtuella for beta-reading and WendWriter advice and all-roubd encouragement.
For those who may not know, 'percussive maintenance' is not an unheard of term in this world's IT industry.