`Oh, not yet, sarge. Broccolee's on next. She can touch the back of her head with her foot, you know-'

`I don't believe that!' said Fred Colon.

`She can, sarge, I've seen-'

`I don't believe there's a dancer called Broccoli!'

`Well, she did use to be called Candi, sarge, but then she heard that broccoli is better for you-'

`Corporal Nobbs!'

The sound appeared to be coming from under the table.

Nobby stared at Fred Colon, and then looked down. `Yes?' he ventured, with caution.

`This is Sergeant Angua,' said the floor.

`Oh?' said Nobby.

`What is this place?' the voice continued.

`The Pink PussyCat Club, sergeant,' said Nobby obediently.

`Oh, gods. There was some conversation down below, and then the voice said: `Are there women up there?'

`Yes, sergeant. Er, what are you doing down there, sarge?' `Giving you orders, Nobby,' said the voice from below. `Are there women up there?'

`Yes, sarge. Lots.'

`Good. Please ask one to come down into the beer cellar. We'll need a couple of buckets of warm water and some towels, got that?'

Nobby was aware that the musicians had stopped playing and Tawneee had paused in mid drop-and-split. Everyone was listening to the talking floor.

`Yes, sergeant,' said Nobby. `I've got it.'

`And some clean clothes. And' - there was subterranean whispering -'make that several buckets of water. And a scrubbing brush. And a comb. And another comb. And more towels. Oh, and two pairs of shoes, size six and ... four and a half? Really? Okay. And is Fred Colon with you, or is that a stupid question?'

Fred cleared his throat. `I'm here, sergeant,' he reported. `But I only came along to-'

`Good. I want to borrow a set of your stripes. I've got a bad feeling about the next few hours and I don't want anyone to forget I'm a sergeant. Got that, the pair of you?'

`It's full moon,' Fred whispered to Nobby, as one man to another, and then he said aloud: `Yes, sergeant. This may take a while-'

`No! It won't. Because you've got a werewolf and a vampire down here, understand? I'm having a really bad hair day and she's got toothache! We come up in ten minutes looking human or we come up anyway! What?' There was more whispering. `Why a beetroot? Why in gods' names is a girly show likely to contain a beetroot? What? Okay. Will an apple do? Nobby, Lance-Constable Humpeding needs an apple, urgently. Or something else that she can bite. Now, jump to it!'

Coffee was only a way of stealing time that should by rights belong to your slightly older self. Vimes drank two cups, and had a wash and at least an attempt at a shave that made him feel quite human if he ignored the sensation that parts of his head were stuffed with warm cotton wool. At last, deciding that he felt as good as it was going to get and could probably handle quite long questions, he was ushered into the Oblong Office of the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork.

`Ah, commander,' said Lord Vetinari, looking up after a considered interval and pushing aside some paperwork. `Thank you for coming. It seems that congratulations are in order. So I am told.'

`And why's that, sir?' said Vimes, putting on his special blank talking-to-Vetinari face.

`Come now, Vimes. Yesterday it looked as if we would be having a species war right in the middle of the city, and suddenly we are not. Those gangs were quite fearsome, I gather.'

`Most of 'em were asleep or squabbling amongst themselves by the time we arrived, sir. We just had to tidy them away,' Vimes volunteered.

`Yes indeed,' said Vetinari. `It was quite astonishing, really. Do sit down, by the way. It really is not necessary for you to stand in front of me like a corporal on a charge.'

`Don't know what you mean, sir,' said Vimes, collapsing gratefully into a chair.

`You don't? I was referring, Vimes, to the speed with which both parties managed to incapacitate themselves with strong liquor at the same time ... ?'

`I wouldn't know anything about that, sir: That was an automatic reaction; it made life simpler.

`No? It appears, Vimes, that whilst steeling themselves for the fracas to come, both the trolls and the dwarfs came into possession of what I assume they thought was beer ... ?'

`They had been on the pi- been drinking all day, sir,' Vimes pointed out.

`Indeed, Vimes, and possibly that is why the dwarf contingent were less than cautious in drinking copiously from beer that had been considerably ... fortified? Areas of Sator Square, I gather, still smell faintly of apples, Vimes. One could come to believe, therefore, that what they were drinking was in fact a mixture of strong beer and stumble, which is, as you know, distilled from apples-'

'Uh, mostly apples, sir,' said Vimes helpfully.

`Quite. The cocktail is known as Fluff, I believe. As to the trolls, one might speculate that it would be very hard to find anything to make their beer even more dangerous than it palpably is, but I wonder if you have heard, Vimes, that an admixture of various metallic salts produces a drink known as luglarr, or "Big Hammer"?

'Can't say I have, sir:

`Vimes, some of the flagstones in the plaza have actually been etched by the stuff!'

`Sorry about that, sir:

Vetinari drummed his fingers on the table. `What would you do

if I asked you an outright question, Vimes?'

`I'd tell you a downright lie, sir:

`Then I will not do so,' said Vetinari, smiling faintly. `Thank you, sir. Nor will I' `Where are your prisoners?'

`We spread them around the Watch House yards,' said Vimes. `As

they wake up we hose 'em clean, take their names, give 'em a receipt

for their weapon and a hot drink and push 'em out into the street.' `Their weapons are culturally very important to them, Vimes,' said Vetinari.

`Yeah, Sir, I know. I myself have a strong cultural bias against

getting my brains bashed in and my knees cut off,' said Vimes,

stifling a yawn and wincing as his ribs objected.

`Indeed. Were there any casualties in the battle?'

`None that won't heal.' Vimes grimaced. `I have to report that

Mr A. E. Pessimal sustained a broken arm and multiple bruises,

though.'

Vetinari actually looked taken aback. `The inspector? What was

he doing?'

`Er, attacking a troll, sir:

I'm sorry? Mr A. E. Pessimal attacked a troll?' `Yessir.'

`A. E. Pessimal?' Vetinari repeated. `That's the man, sir.' `A whole troll?'

`Yessir. With his teeth, sir:

`Mr A. E. Pessimal? You are sure? Small man? Very clean shoes?' `Yessir.'

Vetinari grabbed a helpful question from the gathering throng. `Why?'

Vimes coughed. `Well, Sir...'

The troll mob was a tableau. Trolls stood or sat or lay where they had been when the Big Hammer had struck. There were a few slow imbibers who put up a bit of a fight, and one who had stuck with a bottle of looted sherry put up a spirited last-drop stand until golem Constable Dorfl picked him up bodily and bounced him on his head.

Vimes walked through it all, as the squad dragged or rolled slumbering trolls into neat lines to await the wagons. And then

The day was not improving for Brick. He'd drunk a beer. Well, maybe more'n one. Where was der harm in dat?

And now, there, right in front of him, wearing one o' dem helmets an' everyt'ing, was, yeah, could be a dwarf, insofar as the fizzing, sizzling pathways of his brain were capable of deciding anything at all. What der hell, they decided, it wasn't a troll and dat was what it was all about, right? An' here was his club, right here in his han'

Instinct caused Vimes to turn as a troll opened red eyes, blinked and began to swing a club. Too slowly, too slowly in the suddenly frozen time, he tried to dive away, and he felt the club smash into his side and lift him, lift him up and tip him on to the ground. He could hear shouting as the troll lumbered forward, club raised again to make Vimes at one with the bedrock.