sam vimes
âNo,â Samuel Vimes said, with all the conviction in his soulâor at least the soul-adjacent properties, depending on what sort of priests you listened to. His gut and his heart and his muscles more generally, thatâs what he was talking about. Theyâd all locked up, closed off to new business the more and more Mr. Zickerman kept talking. âNo, no, thatâs notââ
Carrot grimaced. âIâm afraid so, Sir.â
(Carrot had the unfortunate ability to capitalize âsirâ in a way that invariably annoyed Vimes. But he was one of the few originals left, after all this time; Vimes wasnât about to throw him out now. Even if he was talking nonsense.)
Vimes and Carrot had a sort of silent war over the desk, then Vimes exhaled. âAll right fine. Fine. But explain it this timeâslower.â
âNo,â he uninterrupted halfway through the explanation, shaking his head. âNo, okay, likeâclacks, but not like clacks?â
âFaster than clacks,â Zickerman said. âAnd omnipresent, not like clacks. There are so many people sending different flick messages---â
âBut you only---I mean you only collect messages from the people that agree, right?â Sam asked. He could feel the heartbeat of his personal pulse throbbing in his forehead. âYou wouldnât.....deliberately flout what people want, right?
This was, obviously, the incorrect answer, based on Zuckermanâs response of sweaty and hysterical laughter.










