As soon as you saw people as things to be measured, they didn't measure up. What would run through the streets soon enough wouldn't be a revolution or a riot. It'd be people who were frightened and panicking. It was what happened when the machinery of city life faltered, the wheels stopped turning and all the little rules broke down. And when that happened, humans were worse than sheep. Sheep just ran; they didn't try to bite the sheep next to them.

By sunset a uniform would automatically be a target. Then it wouldn't matter where a watchman's sympathies lay. He'd be just another man in armour—

“What?” he said, snapping back to the present.

“You all right, sarge?” said Corporal Colon.

“Hmm?” said Vimes, as the real world returned.

“You were well away,” said Fred. “Staring at nothing. You ought to have had a proper sleep last night, sarge.”

“There's plenty of time to sleep in the grave,” said Vimes, looking at the ranks of the Watch.

“Yeah, I heard that, sarge, but no one wakes you up with a cup of tea. I got 'em lined up, sarge.”

Fred had made an effort, Vimes could see. So had the men themselves. He'd never seen them looking quite so…formal. Usually they had a helmet and breastplate apiece. Beyond that, equipment was varied and optional. But today, at least, they looked neat.

Shame about the heights. No man could easily inspect a row that included Wiglet at one end and Nancyball at the other. Wiglet was so short that he'd once been accused of navelling a sergeant, being far too short to eyeball anyone, while Nancyball was always the first man on duty to know when it was raining. You had to stand well back to get both of them into vision without eyestrain.

“Well done, lads,” he managed, and heard Rust coming down the stairs.

It must have been the first time the man had seen his new command in full. In the circumstances, he bore up quite well. He merely sighed.

He turned to Vimes and said: “I require something to stand on.”

Vimes looked blank. “Sir?”

“I wish to address the men in order to inspire them and stiffen their resolve. They must understand the political background to the current crisis.”

“Oh, we know all about Lord Winder being a loony, sir,” said Wiglet cheerfully.

Frost nearly formed on Rust's forehead.

Vimes drew himself up. “Squad diiiiismiss!” he shouted, and then leaned towards Rust as the men scuttled away. “A quiet word, sir?”

“Did that man really say—” Rust began.

“Yes, sir. These are simple men, sir,” said Vimes, thinking quickly. “Best not to disturb them, if you take my meaning.”

Rust inserted this into his range of options. Vimes could see him thinking. It was a way out, and it suited his opinion of the Watch in general. It meant that he hadn't been cheeked by a constable, he'd merely dealt with a simpleton.

“They know their duty, sir,” Vimes added, for reinforcement.

“Their duty, sergeant, is to do what they are told.”

“Exactly, sir.”

Rust stroked his moustache. “There is something in what you say, sergeant. And you trust them?”

“As a matter of fact, sir, yes.”

“Hmm. We will make a circuit of the surrounding streets in ten minutes. This is a time for action. Reports are disturbing. We must hold the line, sergeant.”

And he believes it, thought Vimes. He really does.

The watchmen marched out into the afternoon sunshine, and did so badly. They were not used to marching. Their normal method of progress was the stroll, which is not a recognized military manoeuvre, or the frantic withdrawal, which is.

In addition, the convection currents of prudent cowardice were operating in the ranks. There was a definite sideways component to each man's progress as he sought to be in the middle. The watchmen had shields, but they were light wicker-work things intended to turn blows and deflect stones; they wouldn't stand up to anything with an edge. The advance, therefore, was by means of a slowly elongating huddle.

Rust didn't notice. He had a gift for not seeing things he did not want to see and not hearing things he did not want to hear. But he could not ignore a barricade.

Ankh-Morpork wasn't really a city, not when the chips were down. Places like Dolly Sisters and Nap Hill and Seven Sleepers had been villages once, before they were absorbed by the urban sprawl. On some level, they still held themselves separate. As for the rest…well, once you got off the main streets it was all down to neighbourhoods. People didn't move around much. When tension was high, you relied on your mates and your family. Whatever was going down, you tried to make sure wasn't going down your street. It wasn't revolution. It was quite the reverse. It was defending your doorstep.

They were building a barricade in Whalebone Lane. It wasn't a particularly good one, being made up mostly of overturned market stalls, a small cart and quite a lot of household furniture, but it was a Symbol.

Rust's moustache bristled. “Right in our faces,” he snapped. “Absolute defiance of constituted authority, sergeant. Do your duty!”

“And what would that be at this point, sir?” said Vimes.

“Arrest the ringleaders! And your men will pull the barricade down!”

Vimes sighed. “Very well, sir. If you will stand back, I shall seek them out.”

He walked up to the domestic clutter, aware of eyes watching him before and behind. When he was a few feet away he cupped his hands. “All right, all right, what's going on here?” he shouted.

He was aware of whispering. And he was ready for what happened next. When the stone flew over the top of the furniture he caught it in both hands.

“I asked a civil question,” he said. “Come on!”

There was more whispering. He distinctly heard “—that's the sergeant from last night—” and some sort of sotto voce argument. Then a voice shouted, “Death to the Fascist Oppressors!”

This time the argument was more frantic. He heard someone say “oh, all right”, and then “Death to the Fascist Oppressors, Present Company Excepted! There, is everyone happy now?”

He knew that voice. “Mr Reginald Shoe, is it?” he said.

“I regret that I have only one life to lay down for Whalebone Lane!” the voice shouted, from somewhere behind a wardrobe.

If only you knew, Vimes thought.

“I don't think that will be necessary,” he said. “Come on, ladies and gentlemen. Is this any way to behave? You can't take…the law…into your own…hands…” His voice faltered.

Sometimes it takes the brain a little while to catch up with the mouth.

Vimes turned and looked at the squad, who'd needed no prompting at all to hang back. And then he turned to look at the barricade.

Where, exactly, was the law? Right now?

What did he think he was doing?

The Job, of course. The one that's in front of you. He'd always done it. And the law had always been…out there, but somewhere close. He'd always been pretty sure where it was, and it definitely had something to do with the badge.

The badge was important. Yes. It was shield-shaped. For protection. He'd thought about that, in the long nights in the darkness. It protected him from the beast, because the beast was waiting in the darkness of his head.

He'd killed werewolves with his bare hands. He'd been mad with terror at the time, but the beast had been there inside, giving him strength…

Who knew what evil lurked in the hearts of men? A copper, that's who. After ten years you thought you'd seen it all, but the shadows always dished up more. You saw how close men lived to the beast. You realized that people like Carcer were not mad. They were incredibly sane. They were simply men without a shield. They'd looked at the world and realized that all the rules didn't have to apply to them, not if they didn't want them to. They weren't fooled by all the little stories. They shook hands with the beast.