The Price of Flight

by A.A. Pessimal

In which flight-minded Witch Olga Romanoff gets a very big challenge. Can she fly this? A spin-off from "Strandpiel"

40. Another day, another dollar

The Price of Flight part 40

V0.05 - correcting a few continuity errors. tricky: an easy one is making sure the same person is on Control throughout the morning. Also seeking to rectify a bit of a headscratcher: not sure how to revise it, but there's potentially a bit of a continuity glitch from a previous chapter. So here we go again! Also a few stray typos.

Picking up something noted by reader rga156 - this is c40 in the story but was listed as Part 41 in the source text. I blame this on my ongoing war with Microsoft 365 in which I write the chapter then have to fight a mighty battle to upload it. Thank you for noticing!

The Zoo Air Station, Ankh-Morpork

The Control Tower at the Zoo Station was necessarily a tall building. It rose to perhaps ninety feet above ground level, looking to the casual eye as if it had been built on the flat roof of an unglamorous and functional single-storey building, offset to the side of a long, wide, perfectly flat, strip of bare earth. It was obvious, looking down from above, that this was a made thing. The edges of the bare strip were perfectly straight and regular, and the grass to either side was kept short and well-maintained. The long bare rectangle stretched for several hundred yards in either direction, and some very large tall buildings were visible at the far end.

The double security fence that enclosed everything, separating this area off from the City Zoo that encroached on three sides, advertised that this was not a place the general public were welcome to visit. It was regularly patrolled by intent-looking security personnel with guard-dogs. This did not stop people from watching what went on from the other side, however. Despite the cloudy sky and the promise of rain later, thirty or forty avid watchers were clustered on the observation platform that had been built on the Zoo side. From up here, the people watching them could sense the excitement and the eager anticipation.

"You would have thought they'd have got tired of this by now." Lieutenant Nadezhda Popova remarked. "We've been operational since the Syrrit thing. Several months ago."

Sergeant Yelena Garianova considered this. She'd heard of the Heavies. She'd even seen one from a distance. But this was pretty much her first time here, at the Zoo Station, to get to see them from this close.

"It is true that I've not been in Ankh-Morpork for as long as you." she remarked. "But I imagine it's going to take a long time before this becomes commonplace. Commonplace enough for the interest to die down."

"Possible." Nadezhda said, shrugging. "And I accept we cannot keep this a secret. So we let them watch as we prepare for missions and take-off and land. They are not taken into our confidence concerning what the missions actually are, which remains secret. I live with that."

Yelena glanced around her. They had been asked not to get in the way too much up here, ma'ams, as this is still a working Clacks tower. Nadezhda accepted this. She also suspected only dedicated Clacksmen could get away with saying things like that to the Air Watch. As far as they were concerned, the fact that their assigned Tower was also part of a severely access-restricted military base constituted a minor hindrance. You just get on with the flying, ma'am, and we'll do the clacksing. That's the important bit.

It amused her.

"You know why Olga Anastacia sent me here?" Yelena probed.

"Da. And I'm happy to help. But first, we watch the flight take off."

Yelena was in no hurry, as this was something she really wanted to watch from closer to. Even the Clacksmen stopped operations to watch. One sent off a message to towers in line of sight and waited for acknowledgements.

Attention all stations: Zoo Station Tower going off line for ten minutes. Launch in progress.

Usually it took a life-threatening emergency to shut down a Clacks tower. Here it happened frequently during the day. Towers in line-of-sight understood and redirected their traffic according to a well-practiced drill.

However, even the most dedicated Clacksman understood that when the ground was going to shake like this, when there'd be a continuous loud thundering sound, and when the ground tremor caused even the best-built and necessarily reinforced Clacks tower to shake and wobble a bit, this throwing out the sending gear and the shutters, there really wasn't much point to it.

The Clacksmen elected to line the side of the tower platform looking out over the runway, giving Nadezhda and Yelena a respectful space, and watched the spectacle.

~~ Jumbo Flight to Mother Hen. Commencing take off. Out.

Nadezhda spoke into her communicator, switching to Morporkian.

"Here Mother Hen. Hathi Ladakee, confirming you are clear for takeoff. Safe flight. You know mission. Expecting return in ten hours. Stay alert. Mother Hen out."

Nadezhda flicked another button on the communicator.

"Mother Hen to Red Star Control. Reporting that Полет слона has commenced its mission at 0943."

~~Received, Mother Hen. Expecting sitreps at agreed times. Happy and safe flight, Elephant Girl. Namaste. Red Star Control out."

The tower shook as the first of the winged elephants lumbered past, building speed, its Pegasus wings unfolding. The pilot, Navigator and co-pilot in front, managing the takeoff, with the aircrew behind manning stations in the fighting tower. Yelena noted the canvas-bagged bundles, of roughly oval shape, fastened to the sides of the tower. She wondered what the cargo was and where it was being delivered to.

Next to her, Nadezhda took the salute the pilot was aiming in the direction of the Control Tower, as the wings began to bite into the air.

They watched the three Flying Fortresses take off, each of the giant flyers trumpeting their exaltation as the sixty-foot wingspan lifted them off the ground. Yelena noted that it was really true, then, that elephants were the only large quadruped with four recognisable knees, as each animal folded its legs up underneath it once in flight. She speculated that this made them more aerodynamic, or something. And once in the air, they moved remarkably quickly.

She and Nadezhda watched the ascent of Jumbo Flight One as they gained altitude. The leading creature was so pale grey it was almost white; the two following were a more conventional greyish-brown. But all three had massive feathered Pegasus wings.

"They will go into Transition at angels four." Nadezhda observed. "Necessary, as the destination has higher mountains. But they have good Navigators who will manage this and lead them into the correct approach to the target."

Yelena raised an eyebrow.

"Target?" she inquired.

Nadezhda smiled slightly.

"They will be doing a bombing run. Da. But not with bombs."

Yelena raised an eyebrow again. Nadezhda patted her arm.

"Olga Anastacia has said she considers you a part of Command." she said. "You have her trust. And mine."

She looked around her at the Clacksmen who were beginning to resume the really important stuff, the diversion over.

"I do not think anyone around us speaks Rodinian." she said. "But you can never be too sure. Shall we go downstairs to the office?"

Downstairs meant navigating some steep staircases and the occasional ladder. Yelena shrugged. Nichevo. You had to be physically agile to be Air Watch, even if you were, at least officially, a Penguin, a non-flying officer. And it wasn't as if either of them was wearing a skirt.

They managed the scramble downstairs to the functional brick-built office building underneath the Tower. Nadezhda led her through the crew rooms and briefing room to the CO's office, exchanging greetings with personnel who were not at the moment rostered for flight. Yelena noted these included a larger proportion of men, and there were the inevitable goblins and Dwarfs. Several were engaged in stripping and servicing one of the fearsome multiple repeating crossbows that were mounted to the flying towers. It appeared to combine four weapons into one and looked large enough and heavy enough so that it could not be carried by even the largest fighting broomstick. But, Yelena reflected, this wouldn't cause a Mumakil to complain about the weight. She frowned, wondering where the word had come from. But it had emerged, and felt right, shortly after the first flying elephants had been procured for the Air Watch. And those thirty-foot wings could lift a very heavy load into the sky. Then keep it up there. For as long as the mission demanded.

"My command." Nadezhda said, with obvious pride. "Some very good pilots. And aircrew."

"And today's mission?" Yelena asked, still not sure if she was cleared to hear everything. Nadezhda, who was preparing tea at the office samovar, caught the hesitation and smiled.

"Olga Anastacia says you should hear all the briefings." she said. "She trusts you and believes you give good advice. I trust you. We are both Cossacks, after all. And she understands your other employers also ask you to report back to them. She says she can work with that. And at this moment, she believes she is especially obligated to your other employers."

"The mission in Überwald." Yelena said, thoughtfully. "Which required Guild input."

"So, no secrets." Nadezhda said, offering tea. "You are, in the broadest sense, an Assassin who is also part of the Air Watch."

"An Associate Guild Member, certainly." Yelena replied. "I have not yet decided if I wish to take the full Mature Entry course. It sounds like an interesting challenge."

"And my son is now a First Year pupil at the School." Nadezhda said. She sighed with resignation. "Taking the long route, the one that lasts seven years. Nichevo."

"Yuri is a good bright boy." Yelena said. "You should be pleased. And proud."

They sipped their tea. Nadezhda activated her communicator.

"Mother Hen to Red Star Control. I am with Sergeant Garianova to do the thing Syren requested. While this is in progress, only emergency calls? Mother Hen out."

~~Acknowledged, Mother Hen. No interruptions. Let me know when you're done. And mention to Yelena that she hasn't got a call-sign yet? Red Star over.

Yelena smiled.

"They're stuck as to what to call me." she observed. "Penguin is already taken."

"And inaccurate, as you fly with us as aircrew."

"True. And птица-секретарь is a little too long. The point of a call-sign is that it should be fairly short, after all."

Nadezhda reflected on this.

"Yet this mission is being commanded by Hathi Ladakee. Five syllables."

"Elephant Girl is shorter, by one." Yelena replied. "And hardly anybody else speaks Ghatian."

They contemplated the new Witch-pilot together. By happy accident, the witch from Ghat had graduated as a full pilot at the same time the first osibisa had arrived. Aishwarya Sakujee had been a very precise fit for flying duties and had made it, with her special expertise, to the accelerated rank of Corporal. Her own bonded Osibisa was called Airavarta. Apparently the name had significance in Ghatian religion as a sort of four-footed, double-tusked, flying juggernaut of the Gods. (1)

Today she was commanding the Mission.

"It's straightforward." Nadezhda said. "Reconnaissance flights and some discreet ground investigation identified the home base of the Llamedosian Air Force, such as it is. There is a stone circle in a mountain valley some miles outside this place... Pantie-Girdle. I will not even try to pronounce the name.(2) They believe, with some truth, that their activities are shielded from us, as nobody on a broomstick can overfly a stone circle without there being consequences."

"Which you cannot." Yelena agreed. "The circle sets up magical interference that can short out a broomstick and cause it to crash. Or in extreme cases, the pilot might find herself in a different place completely, or even in a different world."

Both women, unconsciously, touched iron.

"However, Pegasi of any sort are not affected by this, as when in flight, no magic is activated." Nadezhda agreed. "As the Druids will shortly discover. Elephant Girl's task is to visibly and unmistakably overfly their air base. To take iconographs. Her flight is also to air-drop fifteen parachutes, plus instruction manuals, a friendly gesture as between fellow flyers. These are to be aimed, as precisely as possible, into the centre of their airfield. As Red Star pointed out, a gesture of friendship and solidarity as between fellow flyers. And also to focus their minds as to what else the Heavies might drop, if we were not feeling sociable and friendly."

Yelena smiled.

"So the Air Watch is deliberately intruding on a sovereign state's air space and getting nosy about their new Air Force." she observed. "This is cause for a diplomatic protest from their Embassy in Ankh-Morpork?"

Nadezhda grinned.

"Lord Vetinari has signalled that he will be pleased to deal with that side of things." she said. "If the Arch-Druid protests, he will listen and make the appropriate response."

"I'm sure he will." Yelena said, drily.

Nadezhda smiled.

"And my aircrews get flying experience. Especially of a long-haul mission lasting ten hours. Navigators will craw-step them for short periods, but expressly not for the whole distance. The osibisi are exercised. And one thing I did not mention. Maybe eight hours into the flight, when the aircrew are getting tired and relaxing, believing they are almost home, they will be intercepted by conventional fighter brooms and magic carpets who will launch mock attacks. I want to see how alert they are to this, and for them to understand that there is no point during a patrol or a mission where this could not happen. Good training."

"Indeed." Yelena said, politely. "On the other thing, I might suggest сова as a call-sign for myself. Or perhaps филин."

Nadezhda considered this.

"The association of the owl with learning, intelligence and education." she remarked. "A good choice for our Education Officer. And both Sova and Felinya are short enough even for Morporkians to grasp."

They sipped the tea. Nadezhda took a deep breath.

"And now, perhaps I should recount my experience, Yelena Lidianovna? It will be a relief to confide in you, as the dreams were vivid and somewhat disruptive. Spassibo."

Yelena reached for notepad and pen. Working for the Air Witches, she considered, could take a person in some distinctly odd directions.

Überwald, at Lake Konstanz de Coverlet.

The day was beginning here. As early-morning light filtered into the room from the gaps in the outer shutters and discovered it still had the thick curtains to contend with, the housemaid assigned to Lady Smith-Rhodes-Stibbons, and to her daughter The Honourable Miss Ruth Smith-Rhodes-Stibbons, politely knocked on the door, then let herself in with morning tea and sundry refreshments. Johanna was pleased to see toast, butter and spreads had been provided, so as to fortify everyone for the long walk downstairs to the main breakfast room. She was even more pleased to discover the teapot contained roobuis tea.

Soon, the Countess Hannelore von Strafenburg let herself in through the connecting door to her own room. She joined Johanna and Ruth, and they discussed the day ahead and what needed to be done.

And last of all, Technical Sergeant Gertrude Schilling, who apologised for lateness, but said she'd received a message via the Comms. Apparently, errr, the outgoing Pegasus flight for Bonk was asked to come out of Transition here for just long enough to overfly at five angels, Johanna. They commed down, I sent an acknowledgement back, they relayed it back to Control in Ankh-Morpork, and they've moved on. Nice and discreet. Err. Anyway, we're to expect a house-call at eleven-thirty tonight."

"Which pilots?" Hanna asked, spreading blackberry jam onto buttered toast, with great concentration.

Gertrude told her. Hanna frowned.

"Oh. Those two." she said, disapprovingly. "At least they know discretion is called for. Stealth."

The Air Station, Ankh-Morpork.

Flying Officer Rebecka Smith-Rhodes' day had begun when she had worked with the Air Watch's appointed stable manager, Corporal Sophie Rawlinson(3), on saddling up and equipping the two Pegasi for flight. She had greeted her Second Pilot for the day, who was quivering with excitement and a need to project efficiency and ability. Bekki sighed. The previous Wednesday, the day after bringing the message from Home about where the Bongolfier balloons had turned up, there'd been a last-minute change of plan, and Yulia Vizhinsky had accompanied her on the Hubland States run. Olga and Irena had needed to redeploy people on the fly, apparently; this happened a lot in the Air Watch where available people had to be shuffled around to cover lots of different duties. So today was going to be Lexi Mumorovka's first active Pegasus mission.

Bekki sighed, resignedly. She still had to get a few things over to her, such as the need to relax, throttle back, and to enjoy the day. She sighed again, and wondered how Mum and Ruthie were getting on in Überwald. Olga had put the idea to her later on during the evening spent helping to set up the new house, Mum had accepted pretty much instantly, and they'd departed on the Thursday afternoon. Nearly a week on, she wondered how Mum was getting on as an Air Watch Special, on an undercover operation alongside Hanna and Gertrude.

It also hadn't helped that when she'd reported for the group briefing from Captain Romanoff, just before the working day started, Control had relayed an urgent message from Ostrich Command. Olga had broken off the briefing and taken the call.

~~HeadBanger to Red Star Control. This is HeadBanger, currently on foot patrol at the junction of Wharfinger and Barritus. Urgently request assistance of a Vondalaans-speaking officer.

There had been a short pause. Olga had sighed.

"This is Syren, HeadBanger. You do know we've only got one of those and she's in my morning briefing right now? Out."

~~Apologies, Syren. We have a Situation involving a Rimwards Howondalandian. Could get serious and his Morporkian isn't too bright. If we could borrow Officer Smith-Rhodes for ten minutes or so to get things defused? Thanks. Headbanger out."

Olga had sighed and shaken her head.

"Off you go, Firebird." she had said. "Report to Captain Carrot, keep it quick, get back here, and I'll fill you in separately. Wharfinger and Barritus, so it's not far."

She turned to her communicator again.

"Syren to HeadBanger. Despatching Firebird. She'll be under your command for as long as it takes. Syren out."

Bekki left the Crew Room briefing, grinning at Robyn "Parrot" Myers who remarked that "this is what you get for being too bloody good at languages, Firebird."

She was in the air quickly and sped off to the Turnwise, reporting to Carrot on the way. Apparently there'd been a disturbance involving two building labourers on a site. One was a Vondalaander and the other was Hergenian.

"It's to do with the fifteen a side, isn't it?" Bekki asked. "I know the game on Saturday was a bit bad-tempered. The Springboeks beat die Hergense but there were a few fights on the pitch."

~ Hadn't thought of that. Carrot replied. That might make sense of it.

Bekki sighed.

"Got visual, HeadBanger." she said. "Look up. I'm coming in to land. Open a space for me, would you? There's too much rubbish on a building site and I do want to land safely. Firebird out."

It was the usual depressing sort of scene that the Watch had to arbitrate, frequently. All building work had ceased and a Watch patrol commanded by Captain Carrot had placed itself in between two gaggles of labourers, one of which was performing the classic task of holding back a member who seemed annoyed at something and who wanted to pursue the disagreement with a man who was, on the other side, being shielded and supported by another gaggle of workers. The general tone of the other men seemed to be one of amusement rather than anger, and Bekki got that they were in no hurry to start work. They just wanted to see how the street theatre played out.

A small fussy middle-aged man, wearing smarter trousers and a suit waistcoat along with a bowler hat, was standing with Carrot, asking how long it would take before this got sorted out as we're well behind on the job already, Mr Carrot.

Bekki landed, very carefully, in the flat gap between a pile of sand and a stack of bricks, and dismounted, shouldering her broom. She walked up to Carrot and reported in, trying not to let her body language spill anything like annoyed Witch who is wondering what this has to do with her. It was a Watch shout, and Carrot had specifically asked for her.

"We were proceeding along Wharfinger when we heard the fight starting." Carrot said. Bekki got his spill words. As it was happening right under our noses we couldn't pretend we hadn't seen it. But we could have done without it.

The fussy little man, who had the designation Site Foreman spilling out of him as clearly as if it were a large illuminated sign, looked agitated.

"And you asked for me?" she inquired. Carrot nodded. He indicated the angry man, who sounded Hergenian.

"Mr O'Connell there maintains he was mortally insulted by Mr de Pieter over there."

Carrot indicated the other man, who looked baffled and bemused rather than fight-happy. Bekki assessed him. Blonde, build of a prop-forward, perhaps. Big, bullish, good looking in a coarse way, no older than early twenties. Something about him suggested he wasn't the brightest candle in the chandelier. And very definitely...

"He's the reason we asked for you, miss." Carrot said. "Just off the boat from Howondaland and to be honest, his Morporkian isn't too good."

Bekki sighed. You could still get them, in the remoter reaches of places like the Free State and the Transvaal, monoglot Vondalaans-speakers. Only this one had come to Ankh-Morpork.

"Okay." she said. "I'll do the interview. Do you have any idea what exactly he said to push Mr O'Connell to the edge? No, wait. I'll ask."

Bekki assessed the older man. Not quite the full-blown bottle covey, but somebody who was touchy, fiery, who would perceive an insult where none was intended. And he seemed to quiet a little as she approached, recognising perhaps that violence to a Watchwoman in front of Watchmen was not a good idea.

Bekki made a deductive leap.

"Close game on Saturday, wasn't it?" she said, conversationally. "You know, so much in fifteen-a-side depends on how the ball bounces and who it bounces to, and if that clearance towards the end of the second half had gone to Danny Leary and not to Bokkies Botha, the Hergenians might have swung it. If you don't get the luck, there's not much even the best players can do."

Mr O'Connell looked surprised, and then relaxed, coming down from a fighting stance. Bekki smiled inwardly. Uncle Danie had described the game at the weekend and she was a good listener with a good memory even for trivia.

"You're a player, Mr O'Connell?" she asked, taking an interest. He relaxed more and looked proud.

"Ankh-Morpork Hergenians, miss." he said, with pride. "Only the third team, mind."

"The Munsters." Bekki said.(4) Hergenian Third had a reputation for being a hard side, men playing at a lower level in the game who had a lot of brawn and physicality but not nearly enough actual ability. Apparently Munster was also a region of Hergen famed for generating big brawny men with a cheerful attitude to violence.

He swelled with pride.

"You follow the game, miss?"

"Forced to." Bekki said. Back in Howondaland, she was team medic to the local side. It had taught her a lot. "Practically every man in my family plays."

Inwardly, she counted up to ten. She had got to four when realisation set in with Mr O'Connell.

"Officer Smith-Rhodes, Mr Carrot said?"

Bekki nodded and smiled. They usually got it long before she got to ten. It must be the red hair or something...

"You must be related to Danie Smith-Rhodes, of the Springboeks?"

"Spot on, Mr O'Connell. He's my uncle."

"Well, now, there's a thing!"

She smiled, having defused the fighter and established good relations.

"Now please tell me what happened here and what Mr de Pieter did or said to annoy you? Then I'll talk to him and see what we can work out."

"Well, miss. New fellow on site, I was trying to be friendly, so I was, and told him my name, but he kept on calling me a …"

Bekki got a horrible suspicion.

"Your first name is Declan. I think I see what may have happened here. Now let me speak to the other man, please? I understand his spoken Morporkian is not too sharp. This may just be a little misunderstanding. Wait here?"

She walked over to the other group. Watchmen and building workers, now more relaxed with a fight averted, watched her as she switched languages and introduced herself to the bewildered-looking Howondalandian. Closer to, he was younger than his size suggested, maybe seventeen or eighteen, not much older than Bekki.

"Jammer, ek ken nog nie jou naam nie? Ek is polisiebeampte Smith-Rhodes. Noem my asseblief Rebecka."

Bekki noted his relief at there being somebody around who he could actually talk to and accepted, with resignation, that she still wasn't Rebecka Smith-Rhodes who just happened to have an uncle who played fifteen-a-side. She was the niece of Danie Smith-Rhodes, the legendary player.

She also gathered that Erne de Pieter and his best friend had arrived only in the last couple of days, found lodgings with compatriots, and then casual building site work, in short order. His friend, apparently, spoke Porkkie far better than Erne did and was on the way to the site now, miss.

Bekki shook her head.

"So you both thought. No money, no prospects at home. You didn't fancy the Army, so you're draft-dodging. You joined a ship's crew at Turban and worked your passage. Shows initiative. Well done, and I'm not here to arrest you for skipping on conscription. In this uniform, that's not our concern. But listen. You need to learn the language to get by here." she advised him. "Get lessons. That's important. But what happened here to nearly cause a fight?"

"Beats me, miss." Erne said, his big good-natured face creasing into a frown. "The fellow over there told me his name, I said it back to him, he got angry. I said it back, he got angrier. Then the karels showed up and got between us."

Bekki frowned.

"Mr Declan O'Connell. Hergenian. The name Declan. Shortens to..."

"Dikk, miss." Erne said, obligingly. Bekki winced.

To "Dec", ja." she said.

"Dikk, miss. Ja."

Bekki paused.

"So you hear the Hergenian name "Dec"..."

"Dikk, miss."

She shook her head. Then reached for a notepad and pencil.

"Erne. This is important. In Morporkian, the word "dick", spoken that way. It means something like "piel". I know you didn't mean it, but you were twisting his name and he heard you calling him a pielkop."

Bekki saw Erne's face freeze in horrified realisation. She smiled and quickly wrote something down.

"Read this back to me." she directed, showing him the word DAKK in large capital letters.

Erne smiled, uncertainly.

"Ag, easy, miss!" he said. "That reads DEKK."

Bekki patted him on the shoulder.

"You got it." she said. "Mr O'Connell is now DAKK. Now we're going to walk over, I'll translate, you'll apologise for any offence caused, I will stress you meant no offence, and from this moment on, you will call him Dakk. Got it? Good."

After that it was straightforward, with apologies, grins and handshakes. Erne's friend Theo, who had been sent to buy tea and milk for the site, arrived. Bekki explained the problem, seeing him as brighter and more able, and insisted Erne should start learning better Morporkian. You're both players? You know the Bokke, their home ground is at Ember Fields(5), out towards Colyford?"

She paused. New immigrants. Wouldn't know the layout too well yet.

"Short walk out on the other side of the Onion Gate, up Losing Street and out. Tell you what, I'll mention you both to Uncle Danie? He can give you a try-out, see how you do. Can I give him your address? Lekker. And after work today – buy Mr O'Connell a beer? Diplomacy. Dankie. "

She turned to Carrot.

"All sorted, sir."

Carrot smiled amiably.

"I knew you would. That's why I asked for you."

Bekki reached for her broomstick.

"And tell Captain Romanoff – yes, I know I owe her a favour." he added.

"Oh, she knows, sir." Bekki said, confidently, and got back in the air again.

"Firebird to Control. All sorted. Breach of the peace averted. And HeadBanger says he owes Syren a favour. Over."

She sighed. Seven forty-five in the morning. And the day had hardly begun yet.

The Zoo Air Station, Ankh-Morpork

Nadezhda Popova settled into her chair and took a few deep breaths. She tried to relax her mind, and remarked to Yelena that Yuri had been a little bit concerned. As well he might, as it is no small thing to be married to a Witch, and for his sleep to be interrupted by her awakening from a dark nightmare next to him. She owed it to him, perhaps, to get this thing settled and dealt with.

Yelena expressed concern and sympathy, and poised her pen over the notepad.

Nadezhda took a deep breath and began recounting.

The Air Station, Pseudopolis Yard:

"Nothing much in the morning briefing would have concerned you directly, Firebird." Olga Romanoff had said on her return to the Air Station. "Quiet day. Routine. As you'll be on Pegasus Service duties for the rest of the day, it really wasn't all that relevant to you anyway. Well done on the shout, incidentally."

She frowned.

"Just as background detail." she said, thoughtfully. "This thing where the men you spoke to this morning let it slip that they'd left your country to avoid a military call-up."

"Draft-dodging." Bekki said, helpfully. She recalled Auntie Heidi had graduated from the Assassins' Guild School and then spent several years finding continuing reasons not to go Home again. Her reason had been to avoid conscription. She'd been quite frankly open about it, in fact. Auntie Heidi also helpfully advised Rimwards Howondalandian students at the Guild School as to how they could dodge, avert and put off the Draft for as long as they could, ideally by finding acceptable reasons to remain in the Central Continent on extended work visas. Auntie Heidi had been notorious for this.

"Are we likely to see a lot of that?" Olga asked. "This is the sort of thing Vetinari is likely to slip into conversation. You know, Any Other Business. I'd quite like to have something to tell him."

"Well, the business with the Zulus isn't helping." Bekki said, frankly.(6) "A lot of people are worried. I'll keep my eyes and ears open, shall I? Maybe ask Mum. She knows the pulse. I remember her saying there seem to be a few more new faces in town and most of them are young men."

"Please." Olga said. She filed Young men from Howondaland, faced with a renewed Zulu War, escaping here to evade the draft as a useful piece of intelligence. Vetinari would certainly have noticed. He could get, if not sarcastic, then at the least mildly sardonic, about things like this.

She changed the subject.

"Let's get you both briefed for today." she decided. "Schpaga?"

Bekki tried not to blink as her wing-mate for today marched in.

"Air Cadet Alexandra Mumorovka reporting for duty, Captain Romanoff, ma'am!"

Lexi threw up an impeccable salute and stamped to an attention for which even the most psychotic and exacting drill-sergeant would have held up a score-card reading "10". She quivered with pride and alertness. Bekki wondered exactly how much time had gone into polishing her boots to such a high perfect gloss. Not to mention those sharp impeccable creases in her uniform. And the front-and-back breastplate that gleamed with perfect metallic lustre.

Bekki remembered being educated by the nuns at Seven-Handed Sek's. Mother Superior had once said the training convents had the tradition of The Living Rule, one nun who devoted her life to wearing the gown and the wimple and the adornments absolutely correctly, all the time, whose life and bearing would be the Guide to everyone else in the convent.(7)

Right now, in a Service where everybody else dressed and styled their uniforms to a merely everyday acceptable standard of presentation, Lexi could have been the Living Rule for the Air Watch.

"Stand at ease, stand easy." Olga said. "Thank you. And, Air Cadet... Alexandra... relax. Please."

Olga considered her two pilots. She smiled.

"Senior Sergeant von Strafenburg is currently on leave." she remarked. "Therefore Pilot Officer Smith-Rhodes steps up to Flight Commander and First Pilot for the day. Pilot-Officer Mumorovka, as Second Pilot, you will take your instructions from First Pilot Smith-Rhodes and respond accordingly."

She smiled at Lexi.

"And relax, devyuschka. It's going to be a long day. Eight stops. Pace yourself and throttle back, just a little? Spassibo."

She noted a ground level commotion.

"Welcome, gentlemen." she said, looking down. One of the two Navigators stomped to an impeccable attention and saluted upwards. Unusually for a Feegle, he gleamed. Such metalwork as Feegle wore glittered, as if it had been polished. Even his hair had been combed. The second Feegle, rather less presentable, came to an approximate upright, as if he had once been shown how to come to attention and sincerely wanted to get it right, sometime. His skin and clothing merely reflected a sort of bluish-grey in the light. One glowed; the other glowered.

"Senior Navigator Wee Heinie. Navigating Officer Wee Archie Aff The Midden." Olga said, acknowledging them. She smiled down.

"What are the duties of the Navigator?"

Wee Heinie clomped to attention again. Even though he was barefoot, like all Feegle, there was still a suspicion of clicking boot-heels. Bekki wondered if her imagination was somehow filling in the blanks.

"Tae serve our Hexe fully and faithfully in all matters." he said. "Mein Ihre ist Treu. We are to guide and navigate and tae deliver the Hexe, und der Pegasus-Flug mit Hexe, exactly tae where it is needed, aye. The Fraulein-Luftfeldwebel von Strafenburg is very definite concerning precision. And if there is a threat or a difficulty tae the Hexe or tae the Pegasus, we are tae respond..." he went into deep concentration, as if recalling something said to him, "... mit Gewalt, die auf den Schwerpunkt des feindlichen Angriffs gerichtet ist. Nae bother."

"We fight for oor Hag an' oor Pegasus, and we pit the hems on the scunner. Aye, tae kick him right up the schwerpunkt." Wee Archie added, helpfully. He grinned. "Aye, Mistress, it sounds guid in Überwaldean. Now there's a tongue for fightin' in."

Olga smiled. Wee Heinie had been Hanna's Feegle for a long time. It showed.

"Good." she said. "You both know the route. You both know the Duty. Khoroscho."

She turned to Bekki and Lexi.

"Eight stops. Routine flight. There's not much I can say apart from "Happy flying.". Just for the record..."

She quickly ran through the eight stops and what needed to be done at each one. Then she scrutinised her two pilots.

She stopped in front of the quivering eager keen-ness that was Alexandra Mumorovka. Olga smiled, kindly.

"Impeccable turnout, devyuschka. Can't fault it. Except..."

She reached across and unbuttoned each of Lexi's shoulder epaulettes, and removed the slip-over blue covers that identified her as an Air Cadet. Then she rebuttoned the epaulettes back into place.

Lexi looked uncertain for a moment.

"You're on an active Pegasus Service mission." Olga said. "This is not an Air Cadet's role and I want it to be recognised as such. For today, just for today, I'm making you up. You are now Acting Pilot Officer Mumorovka. The role calls for that. You will also be paid for today as a Pilot Officer, and not as a cadet."

Olga stood back and saluted. Lexi, without hesitation, stamped to attention and saluted back.

"Don't get any big ideas, as the moment you return, you're a Cadet again." Olga advised her. "And I want Flight-Commander Smith-Rhodes to report back on your conduct and performance. If all goes well, we can do this more often. Consider it part of your training."

Olga smiled, benevolently.

"I'd get in the air." she advised Bekki. "First stop's the Post Office. Then the Palace. I'd be on time for both. You're dealing with somebody who prizes punctuality and gets hard to deal with when people turn up for work late."

"And after Postmaster Tulliver Groat, we then get to see Lord Vetinari." Bekki said.

Olga smiled again.

"Exactly. And – almost forgot."

Olga picked up a sack that appeared to have mail items in it.

"Personal mail from Lieutenant Popova to her family." she remarked. "You can leave it with the Ataman, and he'll see it gets the rest of the way. There are also letters from the Siberian Cossacks in Howondaland, serving Queen Ruth of the Zulus. No doubt there will be mail to return there. With that, bring it straight here, and Red Star will see it gets to its destination."

"Very good, ma'am." Bekki replied. She took the sack, then paused. Lexi was a Cossack...

"Pilot Officer Mumorovka? Take care of this, would you? Spassibo."

Shortly afterwards, two Pegasi took off for the short hop across the City to Broad Way.

The Zoo Air Station, Ankh-Morpork. And owing to the vagaries of the Multiverse, at the same time we are in the Western Ukraine, somewhere on the ill-defined border with Poland, in the summer of 1917.

The nearby city had several names, testimony to its location in land claimed by at least three different Empires and nation states. The Ukrainians called it Ivano-Frankisk, or simply Franyk. The Poles named it Stanisławów. The Imperial Russian Empire called it Stanislavov. And the Fritzes opposite insisted it was really Stanislau.

Out here at Shevchenko-Pasichna, an understrength squadron of the Imperial Russian Air Force was dealing with the fact the Front was moving again. And, very possibly, in the wrong direction. General Kerenskey's summer offensive had been confidently talked up as being the one that would end the War once and for all, the decisive battle between Mother Russia and the barbarian invaders from Germany and Austria.

The pilots and groundcrews of the squadron agreed this was broadly correct and was likely to be the decisive battle. It was just that it would have been preferable for that decision to have gone in Russia's favour. Still, nichevo.

Nadezhda Popova, suddenly riding another mind in this strange but familiar place, read the sense of tiredness, demoralisation, and fatalistic resignation that settled on the place like a dark cloud. The details were as yet unclear. What she got was a feeling of a war that had dragged on, without resolution but with terrible loss, for years, and of people who were heartily sick of it all and longed for an end, one way or another. She heard Rodinian spoken all around her and it was familiar, but the details were strange. Rumours of Army mutinies in places like... Petrograd? Navy crews mutinying, refusing to go to sea. She also got that this General Kerenskey had lost the confidence of his command. She frowned. This was not good.

She frowned again, as the realization set in that this was not the body of Nadezhda Veranovna Popova. Who was female, in her early forties, and a mother of three children. She had had forty years of experience of being Nadezhda Veranovna Popova. She also had necessarily second-hand, learnt experience, of what a male body looked like and felt like. This was, without doubt, a male body. She glanced down at a smoothness of chest. Some things were missing. She could see the rest of the body from the top of the chest downwards without needing to lean too far forwards. She was seeing the world from a greater height than Nadezhda Popova usually did, as if she had suddenly grown by four or five inches. She sensed narrower hips. And something else, more than was usually present...

It is possibly a key to Nadezhda's essential personality that the sudden, absurd, thought crossed her mind that it was a pity this body did not appear to have a full bladder, as it might be interesting to experience how it emptied. She thought back to working with Nanny Ogg, in Lancre, and she smiled. Nanny certainly would have wanted to explore this further.

"Hey, Nestor! What's so funny?"

The body in which she was a passenger turned and addressed a comrade. She noted a weary, lined face and thinning hair, on a man who looked nearly fifty but who, she realised, couldn't be much above thirty, if that. But something had aged him, horribly.

"Just an absurd thought." she said, in a male voice. "Came out of nowhere. How this war might have turned out if we conscripted women to fight."

The tired, defeated looking man shrugged.

"Harder, and deadlier, and with less mercy, I imagine." he said. "Or else they'd have got together with the German women and concluded a peace a long time ago."

"Pravda." Nestor said. They walked on towards the aircraft together. These were dispersed across a wide area of the open field. One or two were even in revetments, covered overhead by half-heartedly applied camouflage. Most, however, were in the open. Listless-looking groundcrew were moving around them, all in the same shabby grey-blue uniforms.

"So how many are actually operable?" Nestor asked.

"There are twenty-seven aircraft, counting the ones the British sent us, the ones we have to describe as new."

The man spat on the ground, in a derisory way.

"Most probably clapped-out near-wrecks that have already seen at least a year's use in the West, and obsolete against the best the Germans can put up. They can't get any more use out of them and so they send them to us as aid. Before they kill any more British pilots. But fit for Russians."

Nestor nodded, understanding. That was the British. Glad to give any form of aid, apart from actual help.

"Their military advisors didn't stay long."

"And as much use as a chocolate samovar. Only one of them spoke Russian. Horribly. He soon realised he was dealing with muzhiks off the fields who'd never dealt with machinery more complex than a rusty plough. And they're expected to service our planes."

Inside Nestor's mind, Nadezhda digested all this. She gathered the ground-teks here were lacking in some telling ways. But those aircraft...

"Some of them are good, though. They learn quickly." Nestor said.

"Yes, but how long is it going to take them to learn completely? We don't have that time. At present, out of those twenty-seven aircraft, seven are flightworthy. That's it. Seven. And spare parts don't grow on the Steppe."

She frowned again. She got that she was travelling as a passenger in somebody else's mind. Learning about this strange place. Made even stranger by the fact it was just familiar enough. She focused, emphasising what she was absolutely certain of, using it to ground herself.

This is not my body. This is a bizarre place. Recognisably Rodinia, but a strange parellel Rodinia. Where many strange things are present. My language is Russian here. Not Rodinian. I am not Nestor. I am Nadezhda Veranovna Popova. What does Nadezhda Veranovna Popova remember which is hers and hers alone? I remember evening dinner last night. My husband Yuri was present. Yuri is a riding instructor. He works for the Guild of Assassins. We have three children. Yuri, Nikita and Tatiana. Also present was my Air Watch comrade Vasilisa Budonova, who sleeps over with us on her Watch duty days. She is pleasant and a good guest who is good with the children. I asked about their school days. Tatiana is being educated by the nuns at Seven-Handed Sek's Convent School, who are wise and understand my daughter has the Witch-stuff. They have educated girls with the Witch-stuff before and they know what is needed. I trust her with them. Vasilisa talked about her Steading and the six days a week she spends there. We discussed Witch-things together.

Nestor and his flight-commander were brought leather gauntlets and big warm shuba coats by orderly soldiers. She saw the point of this if they were going flying. It got cold up there. They donned weapon belts and reassuringly familiar flying helmets and goggles. They greeted other pilots and aircrews, none of whom emanated any great enthusiasm or pleasure. It was simply a job that had to be done.

Nadezhda took in the mixed smells of machinery, oil, some sort of sweet oily essence, of stale tobacco, and a hint of imperfectly washed human bodies. But above all, she took in the incredible aircraft.

My son Yuri is only a few weeks into his time at a new school. The Assassins' School. I worry about this. Over dinner last night he spoke about it. He says that when he and the other boys in the First Year had their equestrian assessment, he couldn't believe how he could be among boys his own age who have barely even seen a horse before. Some will need to be taught as absolute beginners. My husband Yuri expressed pride that our son was graded absolutely exceptional as a rider. Easily the top of his class. But he told Yuri to remember that he is the only Cossack in his class. None of the others are even Rodinian. Be prepared, Yuri my husband said, to do the correct and right thing. Be generous with your skills and your knowledge. Be a brother to them. Pupils like you will be called on to help.

She studied the aircraft. The body like that of a fat bulbous spider. Two massive wings, one above, one below, with vertical wooden struts holding them in parellel. A rear-mounted engine driving a massive airscrew. Some sort of rudder, to guide and steer? And the whole, held together with so much wire rigging that the assembly looked like a flying birdcage. A long tail, a mere skeleton of wooden struts, a lattice of wood held together with three times as much in bracing wire. A ludicrously large circular rudder. She had the impression of a ship without sails. On all prominent surfaces, it carried a roundel, decreasing circles in red, blue and white. On some of the aircraft it looked as if older roundels had been imperfectly overpainted, with the red, blue and white circles in a different order. Serial numbers, but not painted in the Rodinian style, and headed with the letter "F", in Western script, and not the Cyrillic ф.

After dinner, time spent with Tatiana, discussing her vocation as Witch and shamanka. Vasilisa had contributed. Then, bed. She had fallen asleep next to Yuri...

I am therefore dreaming this. As this is clearly not a bedroom at Irrisory Street, Ankh-Morpork. The view is not the one I see out of the bedroom window, of rooftops and the old City Wall at Endless Street. Khoroscho. We are therefore getting somewhere. Now let us see how these contraptions fly. And above all, I am not Nestor. I ride in his mind, a guest. Above all, I am Nadezhda Veranovna Popova. Do not lose that identity. The first thing your tutor drums into you about any sort of Borrowing.

Nestor's job, she discovered, was to be the observer and air-gunner. With only seven serviceable aircraft, there were just too many pilots, for now. Spare pilots were being redeployed on the newly arrived, but by no means new, two-seater British aircraft.

Nadezhda let him get on with it, mounting the two machine-gonnes in their places, stowing the reserve ammo in a safe place, and bracing himself for the take-off. This was as rocky and as bumpy as Nadezhda had expected. She tried to memorize as many of the details as she could, knowing this sort of powered flight was at least a theoretical possibility on the Disc. Better the Air Watch reaped the benefits of visiting people who knew how to do it. Powered flight, purely mechanical, and needing no magic whatsoever.

And as the birdcage left the ground and things became an awful lot smoother, Nestor watched the two other aircraft falling into place alongside them. Nadezhda relaxed into appreciating the sensation of pure flight. However it was accomplished, you never got tired of it.

So far, an agreeable dream. That is, if it is completely a dream.

The Royal Mail and Post Office, Ankh-Morpork

"Firebird to Control. Reporting that the Hubwards States Flight is now landing at the Post Office to pick up outgoing mail. Firebird and Schpaga now landing. Firebird out. "

~~Roger on that, Firebird. Keep it quick, don't let them bullshit you, and remember you need to be at the Palace soonest, for flight briefing from Sunray. Red Star Control out.

People at work in the Post Office courtyard looked up to watch the two Pegasi coming in to land. Bekki deliberately picked a clear space a long way from the mail coaches, brought Boetjie in for a four-hoof landing, and didn't need to look back to know that Lexi had come down behind her. She checked that her Post Office badge was there and prominently displayed, attached to her tunic in exactly the place decreed for it by Post Office regulations. Deputy Postmaster Groat had been known to get difficult with a Pegasus Service pilot who had not been wearing her badge on the day, arguing that she could be just about anybody, who was just pretendin' to be a Pegasus Service pilot, so as to steal the mail. (8)

Lexi followed on as she cantered her Pegasus towards the main Post Office building, then dismounted at the approved loading bay. Usually, mail carts taking the overland routes backed up to the elevated platform to load and unload. They hadn't been designed for the Air Mail service.

Bekki sighed.

"Nobody waiting for us?" Lexi asked, puzzled. Bekki consulted her watch.

"We're three minutes early." she said. "Mr Groat prides himself on absolute punctuality. If the mail goes too early, that's as big a breach of Regulations as if it went late."

She focused. Hanna usually dealt with the formalities here. She instinctively understood about Rules and Regulations and had a chilly but good working relationship with Groat, a man who was the Living Rule for the Post Office. Today, it was down to Bekki. She wondered if Groat would take advantage and attempt to browbeat her. She sighed again. Of course he would. And even if she was sitting a Pegasus, he'd be standing on top of a nearly five-foot high loading platform and would still have the advantage of height over a seated rider. One who was new to commanding a Pegasus flight.

Well, I can do something about that...

She patted Boetjie's neck reassuringly, then gripped the edge of the high platform, flexed her knees, and pushed herself up, scrambling and rolling onto the platform and getting to her feet there. She hoped she'd done that elegantly, as she spotted the elderly Deputy Postmaster in the gloom of the building, supervising a mail trolley being pushed towards them.

"It has to be Loading Bay Seven on this run." she explained to Lexi. "Post Office Regulations, Supplemental Volume Five, concerning Air Mail. Schedule Nine regulations concerning handover point for all mail to be conveyed by air to Island, the Skaggeraks, Nothingfjord, Hubsvensska, Swommi and the Vortex Plains, excluding Bloodibostock."

Lexi looked puzzled.

"The Bloodibostock Oblast is geographically considered an extension of the Vortex Plains, but as it's so remote, it makes operational sense for it to be covered on the Rehigreed and Genua run." Bekki clarified. "So not our concern. Vorona usually does that one."

"Ah. Would like to visit. One day." Lexi said. "Is a part of Rodinia."

She grinned at Bekki.

"You know Post Office Regulations?"

Bekki grinned back.

"Lexi, I've got a boyfriend who plays crockett." she said. "When you've had to deal with the Morpork Crockett Club Rules for the game, you soon realise Post Office Regulations were written by people who think in exactly the same way. Maybe even written by the same people."(9)

The persistent critical grumble that was Deputy Postmaster Tolliver Groat was getting nearer. He was currently berating a very junior Postman for allowing even the slightest possibility of a sack full of valuable and precious mail falling off a trolley.

"Here he comes." she said. "Stay alert."

Bekki timed her next move for the moment Groat came out of the gloom and into the late summer sunlight, knowing he'd be at a disadvantage here until his eyes adjusted. She stamped to a loud and deliberately impeccable attention, ignoring that it made her ankle hurt slightly. She threw up a very sharp salute.

"Flying Officer Smith-Rhodes, flight commander of the Pegasus Service run to the Hubwards States, present alongside Pilot Officer Mumorovka, here to collect outgoing mail to be conveyed by air to those States, sir!"

The old man blinked uncertainly and returned an arthritic salute.

He looked from Bekki to Lexi and back and frowned, disapprovingly.

"This ain't right." he said. "Usually it's Sergeant von Strafenburg what commands this air mail flight, and you're just the assistant girl."

Bekki looked back at him.

"Regret to say the Sergeant is currently on sick leave." she said. "Today, sir, I'm commanding the flight. Captain Romanoff's authorisation."

"This ain't right. Nobody told me." Groat grumbled.

Bekki sighed again. She assembled an argument.

"I'm sure we can wait while you clacks the Air Watch for Captain Romanoff or in her absence, Lieutenant Politek, to confirm the arrangements, sir." she said, diplomatically. "But on a busy morning it could take a while for one of them to be found to clacks back, which I'm sure we can accommodate, if you don't mind the mail leaving late. We can wait for you."

She let this sink in.

"And I'm sure Lord Vetinari won't mind a bit about being kept waiting for us while you confirm a point of protocol. I'm certain he understands Post Office Regulations have to be followed to the letter, however long it takes."

She smiled again.

"But I can see your point of view. That you need to know, preferably in writing, that I'm authorised to command this flight while carrying air mail entrusted to me by the Post Office."

Tulliver Groat folded.

"I suppose you can do it." he said, grudgingly. "Been seein' you here with the Sergeant for nearly a year now. I can send the clacks to your Captain anyhow. Just to make sure."

He glared at Lexi. She returned his glare.

"You was here to do the Walk. I recognises you." he said. "But you ain't been here since, young lady."

"Pilot Officer Alexandra Mumorovka, sir." Bekki said. "Captain Romanoff personally asked for her to be here today."

Groat grunted.

"Bit young to be doin' this." he observed. "Regulation 12, sub clause 5, sub-regulation (iii). Concerns minimum age of a Postman doin' any sort of Walk. Get up here, young woman." he ordered. "Quick word."

Bekki nodded to Lexi. She nodded back, and slipped her feet from the stirrups. She patted Shashka's neck soothingly, then placed both hands on the forward edge of her saddle.

People watching would then agree it had been bloody impressive, like, the way the forn girl just leapt upright like that, no messin', and actually stood upright on the top of her saddle. Without fallin' off.

Lexi had glanced downwards dispassionately, as if her precarious position and the distance to fall were of no account, and had then flexed her knees and jumped again.

This second jump placed her very close to Deputy Postmaster Groat, but not so close as to be insubordinate. Lexi came to attention and saluted him, from very close to.

Bekki smiled.

"As you can see, sir, now she's up here, she wears the Post Office badge denoting her as a Postman, Second Class." she said. "It might not have been clearly visible before, as it's a rather small badge? Issued by Postmaster-General von Lipwig himself. After we'd all done the Walk here, sir, Mr von Lipwig asked for us all to be paraded and there was a little ceremony." (10)

She sensed Groat beginning to fold. But he was still inclined to be awkward. At least the junior Postmen standing behind him were suppressing grins at his discomfort.

He glared at Lexi. She returned a stony impassible Rodinian glare.

"How old are you, girl?" Groat demanded. Lexi shrugged.

"Thirteen years and ten months. Is problem?" she replied.

Bekki intervened.

"Regulation 12, sub clause 5, sub-regulation (iii), codicil four." she said. "States that a Post Office employee or associate employee of under fourteen years old may legitimately carry the Mail, if accompanied an older Post Office employee in a supervisory role."

She discreetly crossed her fingers that Groat would not go and check. A passing familiarity with the Rules and Ordinances of the Game of Crockett had taught her how these things were constructed and how she could usefully bluff. Her boyfriend Ampie had been impressed.

The old man scowled.

"Maybe so." he conceded. "But what if you're attacked or waylaid by bandits on the Walk? Little chit of a girl, not even fourteen!"

Bekki winced. She quickly said, in her best Rodinian,

"Lexi. "Chit" is an old Morporkian word meaning "devyushka". Also, he doesn't think you can fight."

Lexi's eyes narrowed. Her right arm blurred. Tulliver Groat suddenly found himself looking at twenty-seven inches of Cossack sabre. And a hard-eyed determined Cossack girl.

"Это в мире." Lexi said, according to custom. "На данный момент."(11)

Tulliver Groat took a step back. From nearby, two Feegle in their respective manes cheered in appreciation.

Bekki smiled as Lexi resheathed her sabre.

"Are you answered, sir?" she asked, pleasantly. She patted her own sword-hilt. It wasn't a Cossack shashka, but she considered a bush-machete could usefully make its own point if needed. And its own edge. "As you may have noticed, we also have Navigators." Tulliver Groat nodded. She hoped he wasn't now going to object to the Feegle, who had not been badged to the Post Office. She wondered how to argue out of that one...

"Load the mail." he said, conceding all the way. "Look lively, you two! Bring the mail forwards!"

Bekki dropped down into the loading bay in the orthodox way. Lexi repeated her feat, only this time with a back-flip onto Shashka's saddle. Just to make the point.

"Is Cossack skill." she said. "From standing horse, is simple. Trick is to do it from moving horse, at full gallop."

The next stop would be the Palace. For the flight-briefing.

The Zoo Air Station, Ankh-Morpork. With a little Western Ukraine, summer of 1917, creeping in.

"So in the dream, you took off." Yelena said, prompting. "This odd detail. The priest who blessed the aircraft. And held up an icon."

"Da." Nadezhda said. "Perhaps in the dream, that was a link to this world, my correct world. Something to remind me of who I truly am, and that I was only visiting, Borrowing that body. But the portrait was of a Tsar Nikolas II Romanoff. The face of the Tsar of that world was that of Olga's father. This was a strange and disconcerting detail."

Yelena shrugged.

"I have never met Grand Duke Nikolas." she said, carefully. "I understand he is the closest claimant to the throne of Rodinia. That is, if Rodinia existed as it once did."

Nadezhda shrugged.

"Mystery." she said. "But voices I heard, and the feelings I received while in that place, suggested people in this Russia are not happy with their Tsar. That he has failed as Little Father. Rumours of rebellions and mutiny."

Yelena smiled slightly.

"I understand Olga Anastacia is consulting Professor Stibbons at the University, who will seek to discover how far the Russia of our bad dreams has objective reality." she said. "There appear to be several different iterations involved. Four or five versions of the same country in different worlds – of which our Rodinia might be only a sixth. Or else the same nation, but episodes taken from different points in its history."

Nadezhda shrugged again.

"It is possible." she said. "But to return to the story. I discovered the aircraft in which I was flying was a British design, the British being another people in that world, an ally of Russia against the same enemy, called the Central Powers. Who were apparently Überwaldean. Called, there, Germans and Austrians. The mind of my host, the man called Nestor, told me this. And the aircraft itself was called an FE-Two-B.(12) I can sketch it for you, as it was exceedingly strange. such oddness tends to remain in the memory. And also, flimsy."

Soon, Nadezhda resumed her account.

Riding in the mind of Nestor, she decided to appreciate the journey and the sensation of pure flight as it was known in this world. She wasn't even the pilot: here, in the crew-space in front of and just below the actual pilot, she was observer and air-gunner. In a space with a broadly circular rim, an open compartment that made her feel like a priest in a temple pulpit, she passively observed whilst her host methodically quartered the sky for other air-users. He had also been briefed to watch the land below for signs of the advancing German Army. Apparently there were hardly any Imperial Russian units there to impede their progress. Not after General Kerenskey's ill-fated offensive.

The vague and half-hearted orders were to come to the aid of any fighting Russian units on the ground, and if at all possible to impede the Germans by ground-strafing.

Nestor and his pilot had agreed that friend and foe alike on the ground couldn't tell if an aircraft was on their side or not, and tended to shoot at anything in the sky, just to be on the safe side. Any Russian unit down there would, therefore, receive long-distance help from beyond the range of small-arms fire.

"Besides." Nestor had said. "If you shtraf their men on the ground. With two machine guns and all the rounds you have. Then, if you are forced to crash-land. They're less inclined to take you prisoner then."

Nadezhda/Nestor methodically quartered the brilliant blue sky, which was no more than two-tenths cloud. Only the three Russian planes appeared to be in it, for now. Nadezhda frowned; that two-tenths sky still offered lots of cloud for things to hide behind or hide in. And that brilliant sun could even now be concealing a whole squadron in its glare. She was almost sure nothing else was out there. But it never paid to assume. So you watched. All the time. Then she scanned the ground. She wanted to sigh with melancholy. Although it was summer and she knew the ground would be gloriously coloured, it didn't look that way; the colours were there, greens and yellows and browns, but muted somehow, faded, as if they'd been applied by an indifferent artist. It was as if the life and the vitality had drained out of the world.

Nadezhda, a Witch, realised she was seeing through the eyes of a man who was running out of vitality, tired, depressed, resigning himself to an inevitable death. She looked further, probed more, and sensed it in the prematurely aged pilot too. Then realised that in this summer of 1917, this was the mood of a whole country, perhaps of a world. Feeling a sense of horror, she wondered what sort of calamity had happened. A snippet of Nestor's memories reached her: since 1914. She digested this. Three years of continual war... she reached further.

The Patrician's Palace, Ankh-Morpork.

Bekki had supervised distributing the weight of the mail-sacks on the two Pegasi, reminding Lexi that there were retaining hooks on the rear traces for carrying and securing the sacks. Make sure the destination labels are clearly visible, I'll carry the manifests, and every time we make a delivery stop, we get a signature. Post Office Regulations, remember?

Praying nothing would fall off, they had got airborne again, and had moved onto the next stop, advising Red Star Control. Irena Politek had acknowledged and advised them to watch for airborne elephants, as a flight of Heavies is due to take off about now. Bekki had understood; even on the ground, horses and elephants didn't mix easily and tended to spook each other. Pegasus pilots only landed at the Zoo Station in emergencies, or if they were expected in advance and Preparations could be made. In the air, a chance meeting could cause real problems.

But speaking of the sort of Meeting where you had to come prepared...

A Palace clerk had received them and led them up several flights of stairs to the sort of place where people only came by clear invitation. Bekki and Lexi were led to a waiting room where there was a very unique clock. It looked perfectly normal, the sound it made wasn't overly loud, it kept very accurate time... but after a while it became the only thing you noticed. Trying to work out why could derail the most determined train of thought.

"Have been here once before, Firebird."(13) Lexi said. "Olga Anastacia said to ignore that bloody clock."

Bekki sighed.

"Did I tell you that when my family were invited here, my little sister took that off the wall to look at the works?" she said. "Dad was going spare and Mum was saying "Put that back, Ruth Leonora!" and Ruthie was coming back with "But Mummy, I can see what's wrong with this clock and I can fix it, I know I can!"

"And, do not tell me, Firebird. At that moment, Mr Rufus Drumknott walked in?" Lexi replied.

"In one, Lexi. I understand Ruth was one of the reasons Mum and Dad got the invitation from the Palace for an afternoon audience with the Patrician, as it would be pleasant to interact socially with your three talented daughters." (14)

Lexi giggled. She asked how Famke had annoyed the Patrician, as your sister must have done, since she annoys everybody...

"Officers? The Patrician will see you now."

They followed Drumknott into the Oblong Office. Bekki was pleased to see Lexi knew the formalities without needing to be reminded. Helmet off, tucked into the crook of the left arm, march smartly forwards and come to a halt and strict Attention on the line marked in the carpet, two swords' lengths away from the Patrician's desk. Senior officer only – which is me, Hanna isn't here – salutes the Patrician.

Vetinari looked up from the paperwork.

"Flight-Commander Smith-Rhodes." he said, pleasantly. He looked to her right. "And... Pilot-Officer Mumorovka, as I recall. I see Captain Romanoff has promoted you? The last time I spoke to you, you were an Air Cadet."

Lexi quivered with pride.

"Acting Pilot-Officer, sir." Bekki said. "Captain Romanoff considered it carried more weight for a Pegasus Service pilot deployed to a full Mission not to be a Cadet."

"Is correct, sir." Lexi said. "The rank is acting. At end of day, I am Cadet again. Nichevo."

"I'm sure you'll perform creditably." Vetinari remarked. "After all, the Crown Princess of Lancre was flying regular Pegasus missions when she was your age. Today, she is a Lieutenant. Something for you to work towards, perhaps."

He steepled his fingers.

"Drumknott has the prepared Despatches for our diplomatic missions and for Heads of Government at each of your stops." he said. "These will be routine messages, as befits everyday communication between Governments. You will, of course, bring back any replies to deliver here. As well as any air mail for the City, of course. Deputy Postmaster Groat does rather consider that to be the absolute first priority, after all, and I hate to disappoint him."

Vetinari smiled, gnomically.

"Nor do I wish to incur his displeasure. He does rather believe that I prioritise the inessential business of Government above that of speeding the Royal Mail."

Bekki smiled, understanding he was going into detail for Lexi's benefit.

"By the way, how is Senior Sergeant von Strafenburg?" he asked. "I understand she is on personal leave to deal with a few little issues which have cropped up in her life."

"I understand she's in contact with Captain Romanoff, sir." Bekki said. "Keeping her informed."

"Capital." Vetinari said. "I'm sure Captain Romanoff is making it her business to be exceedingly well-informed, so as to be a very supportive friend to one of her key senior people."

Vetinari left this hanging.

"Which means, Flight-Commander Smith-Rhodes, after understudying her for a year and becoming familiar with this route and the key people in the Hubland States, you have now stepped into her boots, so to speak, and you will play the key role on behalf of the City."

He held Bekki's eyes for a moment. She felt herself being searched.

"But I suspect you have the experience to do well. Capital. And of course, Pilot-Officer Mumorovka is now understudying the junior role and building experience of her own."

He turned to Lexi.

"Вы побываете в Сибири. Ты казак. Для вас есть конкретная задача." Vetinari said.

Bekki listened. She got that Vetinari wanted her to play more of an active part in discussions with the Ataman and Council of the Vortex Plains Cossacks. She was also not surprised that Vetinari could speak Rodinian. He was said to be very good at languages.

Vetinari turned back to Bekki.

"Now let us discuss "word of mouth" he said, pleasantly. "I know you have got a very good memory."

Word of mouth covered any verbal additions, either too last-minute to be committed to paper, or else not meant to be committed to paper at all. A Service pilot needed a good memory for this. Hanna usually handled this, relying on Bekki to pay attention at the briefing as a fail-safe.

She committed several messages and general situations to memory, repeated them back, and politely asked about the Vortex Cossacks, apologising for her Rodinian not being completely fluent and that she'd missed the precise sense of Vetinari's briefing to Lexi.

Vetinari smiled slightly again.

"It makes sense for a native speaker of the language to be present. One who understands the people and the culture intimately, as she belongs to that culture herself." he remarked. "I understand the Vortex Cossacks will shortly be electing a new Ataman. Pilot-Officer Mumorovka has been asked to pay special attention here, to discover who the contenders are, and to find out what she can about them."

"I get that, sir." Bekki said. "It makes sense for this to be her assignment. Very much so." And Lexi gets a valid job, one tailored for her. Vetinari wants her to get a lot of Pegasus Service experience. The way he referred to Nottie Garlick, for instance, and reminded her how young Nottie was when she joined the Air Watch. Making a point..

""Capital." Vetinari said. "Well, I think that's everything. You're shortly due in Wrekyavik, I understand?"

Bekki understood dismissal. She saluted. Vetinari acknowledged this.

The Zoo Air Station, Ankh-Morpork. With a little Western Ukraine, summer of 1917, creeping in.

Nadezhda considered the air machine contraptions, although marvellous and ingenious, really didn't move all that fast. An Air Watch broomstick could so easily out-fly them.

Although studying the other FE2b's in the air, she marvelled that something that looked like that was capable of getting into the air at all. Still less for it to ascend, slowly and steadily, to nine angels. This was far higher than the Air Watch usually went, and she appreciated the novelty of it. Grasping that the movement of the airscrew at the rear of the cabins somehow pushed the aircraft along, it began to dawn on her that such a small engine was capable of putting out a lot of power. She wondered how it worked, and who fuelled it with coal.

After she guessed they'd been in the air for three hours and had travelled perhaps three hundred versts, she began to see signs of movement down there. Lots of infantry, straggling lines of men, their fatigue evident even from this height, who appeared to be forming some sort of defensive line on the crest of higher ground. They seemed solid enough with no sign of rout or panic. Nestor had recognised they were Russian, therefore our own people.

Nadezhda frowned again, sensing they were in retreat. Something indefinable suggested to her that the Russian army had already been defeated and all it could do now was to fight an ordered withdrawal, the best retreat it could. She sensed Nestor making a fatalistic resigned sigh and caught the spill-thought

Sooner or later we too will need to abandon our Base. Burn all the planes that cannot fly. Retreat eastwards.

She sensed her host was thinking in terms of maybe this is the last flight of the Imperial Russian Air Service, the last gasp of a dying bird. But the Last Flight carried on into the West, leaving the defensive line behind it. While they over-flew less organised straggling bands of Russian soldiers seeking safety, and even over an isolated village or two, he still knew what they were doing. Knowingly flying into enemy space.

Nadezhda jumped inwardly as Nestor tested both machine-gonnes with brief bursts of fire. She felt the recoil into her host's shoulder like a kick from a horse, and winced at the ear-shattering noise of the weapons. She was used to automated crossbows, which made less noise, and fireballs, which were generally almost silent.

She also saw the flaw with the rear-mounted machine-gonne straight away. This was mounted on top of the machine, meaning the man in the nose compartment had to stand on his seat, unsecured, to reach it. It was also on the spar immediately above the pilot's head, meaning that his view was at that moment obstructed by the body of his Gonner.

Otherwise, the pilot's seat was elevated above the level of his observer. Except when the rear gonne was in play.

Nadezhda decided this piece of design stupidity was definitely going to go into any account of this dream, which she felt she ought to write, even if all Gertrude Schilling was likely to do with it was to go "wow!"

A grey streak on the ground compelled the flight to go lower. As it resolved into an orderly column of marching men, moving as if they were parading through the broad streets of a city, Nadezhda realised they had just encountered the first Germans. The men on the ground seemed unaware for a long time. Some looked up and pointed to the aircraft. Some even waved. But they just plodded on, taking no heed.

Then they noticed.

Nadezhda, interested, saw even from a couple of thousand feet up how the German marching column broke ranks, dispersed, and stopped. She suspected NCO's were down there calling orders, steadying the men. They seemed to be acting with intent.

A ripple of flashes started to happen at ground level, like a thousand men each striking matches. She wondered what it was, and what purpose it served.

She saw a sudden hole appearing in the canvas side of her aircraft. A sudden air current whipped past her face and she heard a metallic high-pitched grating nose as something hit one of the bracing wires. She heard Nestor swear. She focused on his memories and impressions. Apparently if enough ground fire was happening and enough men were firing rifles at you, something was bound to get through. Not often. Just sometimes.

Nestor swore again as the other aircraft in the flight angled downwards towards the Germans on the ground. She caught the spill-thought.

If we're going to do a ground attack, then that's it for being taken prisoner if we crash. Always assuming you can walk away from the wreck. They put you up against a wall and shoot you.

As Nestor reluctantly lifted the machine-gonne to assess the best line of attack on the German infantry, planning an arc of fire to try to get as many of them as possible, he heard a loud angry shout from the pilot, loud enough to carry over the engine roar. At the same time, the pilot pulled his machine into a sharp rolling turn that threw Nadezhda/Nestor around the observer position. She made him grip the sides of the observer compartment for dear life as the floor tilted underneath them.

No harness. Stupid.

Nadezhda saw several things happen, in very close succession. The Russian aircraft to their left had simply disintegrated. One minute a functioning FE2b. The next, it was an expanding cloud of debris, with a pitifully small fireball blossoming in the middle. She glimpsed a falling body. Large pieces of the aircraft's fabric caught in the air and floated away, looking like ragged discarded flags.

As her aircraft banked up and to the left, she heard a sound like tearing cloth. Another machine-gonne, or gonnes, but not hers. She glimpsed a shark in the sky, something that looked like a sleek marine predator, all curves, but with wings. There was a large black cross on the fuselage.

Albatros, Nestor thought, in deep gloom. We saw the ground targets. They were bait. While we were looking down, the Germans were above us. And we didn't notice. And an Albatros. Their best fighter.

Nadezhda rode as a passenger in Nestor's body and felt a sudden change in him. The lethargy and the depression seemed to have gone, There was a sort of elation there now, almost a mania, as he swung the gonne up and around. Nadezhda felt a fellow-professional approval that he knew to lead ahead, to pick up the German fighter as it came round on an approach pass, to allow it to get closer, closer...

He fired. Nadezhda felt the ear-destroying sound again, so close to her right ear. She felt the recoil against the right shoulder she was Borrowing.

But the German pilot, chasing an easy kill, possibly recognising a machine that should not have been in the same sky, flew right into Nestor's fire.

Unsteady and with its nose trailing smoke, it briefly filled the whole sky until it somehow soared over the FE2b, missing it by perhaps a few feet. Nadezhda retained a flash-screen memory of its underside and the ridiculously crude wheels underneath it.

I can get it, Nestor thought. Anger and elation filled him. She sensed the manic determination of a man wanting to make sure of a kill and to her horror, he climbed onto the observer's seat to get to the rear-facing gonne.

At exactly the same moment, his pilot banked again.

As Nadezhda/Nestor lost their tenuous hold on the aircraft and were spilled into space, she glimpsed the other Albatros that had been stalking their aircraft.

But by then, Nestor, arms and legs splayed out, looking like an absurd five-pointed star in his shuba coat, was pinwheeling across the sky, perhaps fifteen hundred feet above the Ukraine.

"Nichevo." he thought, as the ground spun crazily in front of him and drew ever closer. Above them, two more Russian FE2b's, easy and obsolete meat against the best planes in the German inventory, were now blazing wreckage. Even though a madly twisting black spiral of smoke suggested one German wouldn't make it back. And the ground spiralled closer...

Nadezhda Popova had been sleeping face down in her bedroom at Irrisory Street. This deprived her of the opportunity to perform the classic reaction to waking up from a really bad dream(15). Even so, she whimpered into wakefulness, and still managed to bring both knees sharply up into Yuri's back.

He had been forgiving and concerned and had even made her tea. After a while, he had poured two vodkas. Big ones.

At the Air Station, Yelena Garianova studied the sketches Nadezhda had made of both types of aircraft she had encountered. One that looked like a big flimsy slow box-kite. And the other like a shark, built to bring death. A shark. And a large clumsy whale.

"So what next?" Nadezhda asked.

Yelena smiled slightly.

"I believe Olga Anastacia wants to being us all together to discuss this in a group." she said. "So we can talk it out and the dreams hold no terrors. Copies of this material will go to Professor Stibbons at the University, if you are agreeable? So he can check our accounts against the known history of a place called Roundworld. Olga's husband is involved too, I understand. He was as concerned for her as Yuri is for you."

"Good. I trust Eddie. Also, Vasilisa Budonova, who was staying overnight with my family, reported she had a bad dream too. Have you seen her yet?"

"I'll make arrangements, Nadezhda Veranovna. Also with Vorona and Skripka."

The sky over Ankh-Morpork, about the same time:

"Firebird to Red Star Control. Reporting that the Hubwards States Flight is about to make transition with our first stop being Wreckyavik, Island. Transition in one minute. Firebird out."

~~Read you, Firebird. See you this evening and try to get Dipstick to relax a bit, would you? Tell her that parade-ground gloss wears off after a few hours. Red Star out.

To be continued

And just so pleased I'm getting this one out! Next – more fun and games in Lake Konstanz de Coverlet when Olga sends a discreet comms flight in. At least, they will try their best to be discreet.

(1) In Hindu myth, Airavarta is a unique flying elephant who is the personal mount of the God Indra. She is said to have anything up to five heads and seven trunks with four sets of tusks. On the Discworld, Aishwara Sakurjee has shrugged and put this down to an over-imaginative religious artist who went over the top a bit in their representation. Her Airavata is normally endowed in the heads, trunks and tusks department, but is still coloured a pale grey that could be taken for white.

(2) Welsh-speakers will have got this, perhaps after some thought. For everyone else: The Place with the impossible name, even for Rodinians, was called Llanwyaugydachaws. Just playing with ideas here: the Welsh prefix Llan, meaning "Church of... followed usually by Insert Saint's Name Here, is frequently flattened to "Flan" by people trying to make sense of the Welsh phoneme "Ll-", which doesn't exist in English. "Wyau gyda chaws" means "eggs with cheese". Therefore, "Egg and Cheese Flan", or "Quiche". Olga Romanoff darkly suspected the Llamedosians were deliberately using their placenames to confer an extra degree of security.

(3) It wasn't official, just accepted, that Sophie spent as much time as she could get away with in the Pegasus stables. Olga and Irena reasoned that day-to-day management and administration of the Pegasi should be in the hands of a person who wasn't only good at it, she was gifted. It made sense. Provided Sophie met an informally agreed quota of Watch patrols and Pegasus Service flights of her own, the Command officers permitted this.

(4) I know. Low pun. Irish rugby. Couldn't resist.

(5) A now-defunct London South African rugby team played out of Imber court, at Esher, Surrey, just on the edge of Greater London.

(6) A necessary call-across to the parellel tale Strandpiel 2, concerning the swiftly deteriorating situation in Howondaland which is building to a climax. At this point in the timeline we're a couple of months away from a civil war in the Zulu Empire, the sort which is alarming the neighbours, who are making preparations of their own. But this isn't that story – it does need to be alluded to here and there

(7) "So that the rest of us didn't have to", Mother Superior had said, drily.

(8) Postmaster von Lipwig had sighed heavily, then gone to the office to pick up a replacement badge, which he had given to the Pegasus pilot. He conceded that without ID she could have been a very organised thief, one who had undergone long and painful Igorina cosmetic surgery to look exactly like Pilot Officer Cronkhart, and who had then stolen a Pegasus from under the noses of the City Watch, persuaded it to fly for somebody not its owner, and gone to all this trouble just to steal three sacks of airmail destined for Aceria. "I'm happy to take that chance, Officer." Moist had said. "Give my regards to Olga Romanoff, would you?"

(9) The Post Office ran several crockett teams in the local league. They were renowned as expert players who could absolutely infallibly interpret the most subtle nuances of the sport's rulebook to advantage.

(10) Olga Romanoff had graciously agreed and had obligingly paraded all her Pegasus fliers. This had taken a little organisation and had been slightly disruptive to normal flying, but she had reasoned there had to be a formal acknowledgement that her Service was now authorised to carry the city's air mail. Lord Vetinari had approved.

(11) "This is in peace. For now."

(12) A two-seater British aircraft of WW1, used for recce, observation and bombing duties. Top speed 75 - 80mph on a good day. Hopelessly outclassed by the end of 1916, surviving examples were shipped to less crucial war fronts in places like Africa, or else sent to the Russians as war aid. Nestor is soon to find out exactly how obsolescent it is. And how fragile.

(13) See Strandpiel2, where Lexi first came to Vetinari's attention following interesting events in Feegle Space.

(14) This is a tale in preparation. Vetinari had his reasons for wanting to meet Ruth Smith-Rhodes-Stibbons socially. He fully understood her parents should be present, "and while you're about it, Doctor Smith-Rhodes, I don't believe I've met Famke yet? One hears reports from the School concerning exceptionally gifted pupils."

(15). You know. Where you sit up abruptly, bolt upright, from a supine position, with the mandatory muted scream and mad staring eyes. Nadezdha had to improvise.

Notes Dump:

Bullseye! although I didn't know it at the time. I had the idea that Olga romanoff's Air Watch call sign came from a faulty Watch broom where the installed technomantic Watch Syren could not be switched off. Therefore, Syren. Admittedly a more unqiquely Russian derivation - Sirin, after a Russian Undead were-creature (half woman, half-owl) - did come along later.

I found this on TV Tropes:

As mentioned above, the Stuka's famous scream was due to a siren installed in the airplane (either in the leading edge of the wings or on the landing gear). This was phased out in later models because equipping a bomber with an air raid siren proved to be counterproductive once the enemy got over the initial shock (though they did also provide audible feedback on the plane's dive speed to the pilot). Moreover, the Jericho Trumpet added a fair amount of drag, reducing the Stuka's performance somewhat. The pilots also hated the siren, only some of the later models could actually be turned off during flight, and acording to The Other Wiki similar devices were often installed in the bombs instead. Otherwise the pilot had to listen to the damn thing for the entire flight.

Had this great idea for a (non-Discworld) sort of chick-lit/scifi fantasy/horror story involving virtual reality.

Just realised I didn't expand on this bit. It depends on how secure a person's VR adventures might be in the holodeck. Who can monitor and record and store them? What purposes could the recordings be put to - blackmail? Government surveillance?

And can a VR adventure be hacked - could a hacker then dictate what happens, for the lulz, for revenge, for a laugh? (Or to stalk the person who beleives they're completely private and secure and, perhaps, getting it on with a 100% accurate cybersprite. But what happens of your Abhorrent Admirer, your stalker, has hacked the program and what you THINK is a cyberconstruction is really your stalker, in a shared VR world...

Weird Welsh:

Nid oes yr yn aderyn na anifail y'n bwyta'r bresych, y garetsh a'r topiau radish! Stopiwch daflu'ch gwastrarff bwyd yma, plis gwaredwch o yn y bin gartref.

There is neither bird nor animal that will eat the cabbage, garetsh and radish tops! Stop throwing your food trash here, please dump it in the bin at home.

From an advisory notice posted at a beauty spot in Carmarthenshire, which might explain the oddities.

Meanwhile in Fortean Times (FT315, archive copy, July 2014)

An interesting article on Russian cryptozoologist Igor Bourtsev, who managed to persuade the USSR to fund his research into yetis in Siberia. He coined the phrase Smyeshny Chelovek as the accepted new-minted Russian word for them - meaning both "adjacent human", ie as a hominid species related to homo sapiens – not a million miles away from Snyeshny Chelovek, meaning "snowman". At least, that's what FT asserts: Google Translate gives the variant соседний человек and снеговик

Lake Konstanz (die Bodensee) and the town of Konstanzia-am-der-Koverlet, Überwald

The Air Station, Pseudopolis Yard, Ankh-Morpork

Other locations:

Wreckjavik, Island

Frivoli, the Scatterguts

Nothingfjord

Självmonteringsmöblerstad, Hubsvensska

Hell's Sink, in the Swommi country

Novo Vonyuchayapodmyszka, the Vortex Plains

(Ново вонючая подмышка, Сибирь)