'Well, of course, "human" is just a word,' said Mr Pin.

He felt weight slowly press down on to his toes as he was lowered to the floor.

'I think perhaps we'll just be going,' he said carefully.

'Right,' said the werewolf. Mr Tulip had smashed open a big jar of pickles, or at least things that were long, chubby and green, and was trying to insert one up his nose.

'If we wanted to stay, we would,' said Mr Pin.

'Right. But you want to go. So does your... friend,' said the werewolf.

Mr Pin backed towards the door. 'Mr Tulip, we have business

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elsewhere,' he said. 'Sheesh, take the damn pickle out of your nose, will you? We're supposed to be professionals!'

That's not a pickle,' said a voice in the dark.

Mr Pin was uncharacteristically thankful when the door slammed behind them. To his surprise, he also heard the bolts shoot home.

'Well, that could have gone better,' he said, brushing dust and hair off his coat.

'What now?' said Mr Tulip.

'Time to think of a plan B,' said Pin.

'Why don't we just --ing hit people until someone tells us where the dog is?' said Mr Tulip.

'Tempting,' said Mr Pin. 'But we'll leave that for plan C--'

'Bugrit.'

They both turned.

'Bent treacle edges, I told 'em,' said Foul Ole Ron, lurching across the street, a wad of Timeses under one arm and the string of his nondescript mongrel in his other hand. He caught sight of the New Firm.

'Harglegarlyurp?' he said. 'LayamEnipl You gents want a paper?'

It seemed to Mr Pin that the last sentence, while in pretty much the same voice, had an intrusive, not-quite-right quality. Apart from anything else, it made sense.

'You got some change?' he said to Mr Tulip, patting his pockets.

'You're going to --ing buy one?' said his partner.

'There's a time and a place, Mr Tulip, a time and a place. Here you are, mister.'

'Millennium hand and shrimp, bugrit,' said Ron, adding, 'Much obliged, gents.'

Mr Pin opened the Times. 'This thing has got--' He stopped and looked closer.

' "Have You Seen This Dog?"' he said. 'Sheesh...' He stared at Ron.

'You sell lots of these things?' he said.

'Qeedle the slops, I told 'em. Yeah, hundreds.'

There it was again, the slight sensation of two voices.

'Hundreds,' said Mr Pin. He looked down at the paper seller's

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dog. It looked pretty much like the one in the paper, but all terriers looked alike. Anyway, this one was on a string. 'Hundreds,' he said again, and read the short article again.

He stared. 'I think we have a plan B,' he said.

At ground level the newspaper seller's dog watched them carefully as they walked away.

'That was too close for comfort,' it said, when they'd turned the corner.

Foul Ole Ron put down his papers in a puddle and pulled a cold sausage from the depths of his hulking coat.

He broke it into three equal pieces.

THE TRUTH SHALL MAKE YE FRED • EXTRA!

HAVE YOU SEEN THIS DOG?

$25 Reward for Information

William had dithered over that, but the Watch had supplied quite a good drawing and he felt right now that a little friendly gesture in that direction would be a good idea. If he found himself in deep trouble, head downwards, he'd need someone to pull him out.

He had re-written the Patrician story, too, adding as much as he was certain of, and there wasn't much of that. He was, frankly, stuck.

Sacharissa had penned a story about the opening of the Inquirer. William had hesitated about this, too. But it was news, after all. They couldn't just ignore it, and it filled some space.

Besides, he liked the opening line, which began: 'A would-be rival to Ankh-Morpork's old-established newspaper, the Times, has opened in Gleam Street

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'You're getting good at this,' he said, looking across the desk.

'Yes,' she said. 'I now know that if I see a naked man I should definitely get his name and address, because--'

William joined in the chorus: '--names sell newspapers.'

He sat back and drank the really horrible tea the dwarfs made. Just for a moment there was an unusual feeling of bliss. Strange word, he thought. It's one of those words that described something that does not make a noise but if it did make a noise would sound just like that. Bliss. It's like the sound of a soft meringue melting gently on a warm plate.

Here, and now, he was free. The paper was put to bed, tucked up, had its prayers listened to. It was finished. The crew were already filing back in for more copies, cursing and spitting; they'd commandeered a variety of old trolleys and prams to cart their papers out into the streets. Of course, in an hour or so the mouth of the press would be hungry again and he'd be back pushing the huge rock uphill, just like that character in mythology... what was his name... ?

'Who was that hero who was condemned to push a rock up a hill and every time he got it to the top it rolled down again?' he said.

Sacharissa didn't look up. 'Someone who needed a wheelbarrow?' she said, spiking a piece of paper with some force.

William recognized the voice of someone who still has an annoying job to do.

'What are you working on?' he said.

'A report from the Ankh-Morpork Recovering Accordion Players Society,' she said, scribbling fast.

'Is there something wrong with it?'

'Yes. The punctuation. There isn't any. I think we might have to order an extra box of commas.'

'Why are you bothering with it, then?'

'Twenty-six people are mentioned by name.'

'As accordionists?'

'Yes.'

'Won't they complain?'

They didn't have to play the accordion. Oh, and there was a big crash on Broad Way. A cart overturned and several tons of flour

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fell on to the road, causing a couple of horses to rear and upset their cartload of fresh eggs, and that caused another cart to shed thirty churns of milk... So what do you think of this as a headline?'

She held up a piece of paper on which she'd written:

CITY'S BIGGEST CAKE MIX-UP!!

William looked at it. Yes. Somehow it had everything. The sad attempt at humour was exactly right. It was just the sort of thing that would cause much mirth around Mrs Arcanum's table.

'Lose the second exclamation mark,' he said. 'Otherwise I think it's perfect. How did you hear about it?'

'Oh, Constable Fiddyment dropped in and told me,' said Sacharissa. She looked down and shuffled papers unnecessarily. 'I think he's a bit sweet on me, to tell you the truth.'

A tiny, hitherto-unregarded bit of William's ego instantly froze solid. An awful lot of young men seemed happy to tell Sacharissa things. He heard himself say: 'Vimes doesn't want any of his officers to speak to us.'

'Yes, well, I don't think telling me about a lot of smashed eggs counts, does it?'

'Yes, but--'

'Anyway, I can't help it if young men want to tell me things, can I?'

'I suppose not, but--'

'Anyway, that's it for tonight.' Sacharissa yawned. I'm going home.'

William got up so quickly he skinned his knees on the desk. I'll walk you there,' he said.

'Good grief, it's nearly a quarter to eight,' said Sacharissa, putting on her coat. 'Why do we keep on working?'

'Because the press doesn't go to sleep,' said William.

As they stepped out into the silent street he wondered if Lord Vetinari had been right about the press. There was something...

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compelling about it. It was like a dog that stared at you until you fed it. A slightly dangerous dog. Dog bites man, he thought. But that's not news. That's olds.

Sacharissa let him walk her to the end of her street, where she made him stop.