He smiled and said, ‘Come to think of it, that’s exactly what I do, but I’m a teddy bear by comparison and on the right side.’

Vimes stood up and waved his arms a bit for the circulation and said, ‘And now I think I need to go and see the King about my interesting findings. And don’t worry, I’ll put in a good word too. You pay attention to people and that’s a skill in itself.’

The outside air was permeating the carriages now with the scent of the Sto Plains, which consisted of one scent and that was cabbage or cabbage-like and it was a sad smell, it drooped helplessness. Melancholy. Mind you, the cabbages themselves were excellent, especially the newer varieties.

The town of Big Cabbage, theoretically the last place any sensible person would want to visit, was nevertheless popular throughout the summer because of the attractions of Brassica World and the Cabbage Research Institute, whose students were the first to get a cabbage to a height of five hundred yards propelled entirely by its own juices. Nobody asked why they felt it was necessary to do this, but that was science for you, and, of course, students.

As soon as the train arrived at platform two at Big Cabbage several watchmen appeared alongside the guard’s van. Moist looked on as Commander Vimes passed out the captives he had been so awfully kind to, and watched them whisked away under guard in the hurry-up wagon.

As it disappeared, Vimes said to Moist, ‘We have the names and addresses of their families and they’ll have bodyguards day and night until this damn thing is over. I know Vetinari will huff and puff about the bill but then whenever doesn’t he?’

Right on schedule, the train pulled away from Big Cabbage, leaving the great dirty distant smog of Ankh-Morpork on the horizon far behind them. Moist had a constant feeling that he was going slightly uphill, which was at least moderately the truth. Things were running as they should, people were settling down for the long haul, and that gave him more time to think. Theoretically, he knew the time to worry was when things were going wrong, but his instinct had a tendency to worry when things were just too good to be true and right now a cumulonimbus of worry was again building over his head; the anvil of the gods was just waiting to drop on him. What had he missed? What had he forgotten? No, everything was going to be all right.

There was a bridge ahead, with the usual troll on guard. The troll railway families treated the bridges, shiny and new as they were, as their own. Oh yes, a tunnel to a troll was a delightful walk in the park, but a bridge, your own bridge … especially one with toilet facilities, courtesy of Harry King, and enough space to raise a family … Trolls, thought Moist … Who would have thought it, they keep their bridges sparkling. Indeed, Effie had announced a best-kept bridge contest for the troll bridges throughout the length of the Ankh-Morpork railway, with no fewer than twenty goats for the winner.