" Tall, was he?" said Albert.

" Could have been tall, could have been tall," nodded the corporal. "He had a tall voice, certainly." He looked puzzled at the words coming out of his own mouth.

" What did he look like?"

" Well, he had a... with... and he was about... more or less a..."

" Did he look... loud and deep?" said Albert.

The corporal grinned with relief. "That's him," he said. "Private... Private... Beau... Beau... can't quite remember his name..."

" I know that when he walked out of the..." the sergeant began, and began to snap his fingers irritably, "... thing you open and shut. Made of wood. Hinges and bolts on it. Thank you. Gate. That's right... gate. When he went out of the gate he said... what was it he said, corporal?"

" He said, "EVERY LAST DETAIL", Sir."

Albert looked around the fort.

"So he's gone."

" Who?"

" The man you were just telling me about."

" Oh. Yes. Er. Have you any idea who he was, offendi? I mean, it was amazing... talk about morale..."

" Esprit de corpse?" said Albert, who could be nasty at times. "I suppose he didn't say where he was going next?"

" Where who was going next?" said the sergeant, wrinkling his forehead in honest enquiry.

" Forget I asked," said Albert.

He took a last look round the little fort. It prob­ably didn't matter much in the history of the world whether it survived or not, whether the dotted line on the map went one way or the other. Just like the Master to tinker with things...

Sometimes he tries to be human, too, he thought. And he makes a pig's ear out of it.

" Carry on, sergeant," he said, and wandered back into the desert.

The legionnaires watched him disappear over the dunes, and then got on with the job of tidying up the fort.

" Who d'you think he was?"

" Who?"

" The person you just mentioned."

" Did I?"

" Did you what?"

Albert crested a dune. From here the dotted line was just visible, winding treacherously across the sand.

SQUEAK.

" You and me both," said Albert.

He removed an extremely grubby handkerchief from a pocket, knotted it in all four corners, and put it on his head.

" Right," he said, but there was a trace of uncertainty in his voice. "Seems to me we're not being logical about this."

SQUEAK.

" I mean, we could be chasing him all over the place."

SQUEAK.

" So maybe we ought to think about this."

SQUEAK.

" Now... if you were on the Disc, definitely feeling a bit strange, and could go absolutely anywhere, any­where at all... where would you go?"

SQUEAK?

" Anywhere at all. But somewhere where no‑one re­members your name."

The Death of Rats looked around at the endless, featureless and above all dry desert.

SQUEAK.

" You know, I think you're right."

It was in an apple tree.

He built me a swing, Susan remembered.

She sat and stared at the thing.

It was quite complicated. In so far as the thinking behind it could be inferred from the resulting con­struction, it had run like this:

Clearly a swing should be hung from the stoutest branch.

In fact ‑ safety being paramount ‑ it would be better to hang it from the two stoutest branches, one to each rope.

They had turned out to be on opposite sides of the tree.

Never go back. That was part of the logic. Always press on, step by logical step.

So... he'd removed about six feet from the middle of the tree's trunk, thus allowing the swing to, well, swing.

The tree hadn't died. It was still quite healthy.

However, the lack of a major section of trunk had presented a fresh problem. This had been overcome by the addition of two large props under the branches, a little further out from the ropes of the swing, keeping the whole top of the tree at about the right height off the ground.

She remembered how she'd laughed, even then. And he'd stood there, quite unable to see what was wrong.

And then she saw it all, all laid out.

That was how Death worked. He never understood exactly what he was doing. He'd do something, and it would turn out wrong. Her mother; suddenly he had a grown woman on his hands and didn't know what to do next. So he did something else to make it right, which made it more wrong. Her father. Death's apprentice! And when that went wrong, and its potential wrongness was built right into it, he did something else to make it right.

He'd turned over the hourglass.

After that, it was all a matter of maths.

And the Duty.

" Hello... hells, Glod, tell me where we are ... Sto Lat! Yay !"

It was an even bigger audience. There'd been more time for the posters to be up, more time for the word‑of‑mouth from Ankh­Morpork. And, the band realized, a solid core of people had followed them from Pseudopolis.

In a brief break between numbers, just before the bit where people started leaping around on the furniture, Cliff leaned over to Glod.

" You see dat troll in der front row?" he said. "The one Asphalt's jumping on the fingers of?"

" The one that looks like a spoil heap?"

" She was in Pseudopolis," said Cliff, beaming. "She keeps looking at me!"

" Go for it, lad," said Glod, emptying the spit from his horn. "In like Flint, eh?"

" You think she's one of dem gropies Asphalt told us about?"

" Could be."

Other news had travelled fast, too. Dawn saw another redecorated hotel room, a royal proclamation from Queen Keli that the band was to be out of the city in one hour on pain of pain, and one more rapid exit.

Buddy lay in the cart as it bumped over the cobbles towards Quirm.

She hadn't been there. He'd scanned the audience on both nights, and she hadn't been there. He'd even got up in the middle of the night and walked through the empty streets, in case she was looking for him. Now he wondered if she existed. If it came to that, he was only half certain that he existed, except for the times when he was on stage.

He half listened to the conversation from the others.

" Asphalt?"

" Yes, Mr Glod?"

" Cliff and me can't help noticing something."

" Yes, Mr Glod?"

" You've been carrying a heavy leather bag around, Asphalt."

" Yes, Mr Glod."

" It was a bit heavier this morning, I think."

" Yes, Mr Glod."

" It's got the money in it, yes?"

" Yes, Mr Glod."

" How much?"

" Er. Mr Dibbler said I wasn't to worry you with money stuff," said Asphalt.

" We don't mind," said Cliff.

" That's right," said Glod. "We want to worry."

" Er." Asphalt licked his lips. There was something deliberate in Cliff's manner. "About two thousand dollars, Mr Glod."

The cart bounced on for a while. The landscape had changed a little. There were hills, and the farms were smaller.

" Two thousand dollars," said Glod. "Two thousand dollars. Two thousand dollars. Two thousand dollars."

" Whyd' you keep saying two thousand dollars?" said Cliff.

" I've never had a chance to say two thousand dollars."

" Just don't say it so loud."

" TWO THOUSAND DOLLARS!"

" Ssh!" said Asphalt, desperately, as Glod's shout echoed off the hills. "This is bandit country!"

Glod eyed the satchel. "You're telling me," he said.

" I don't mean Mr Dibbler!"

" We're on the road between Sto Lat and Quirm," said Glod patiently. "This isn't the Ramtops road. This is civilization. They don't rob you on the road in civilization." He glanced darkly at the satchel again. "They wait until you've got into the cities. That's why it's called civilization. Hah, can you tell me the last time anyone was ever robbed on this road?"