Feet of Clay

When he got back to the gibbet, the empty chain was swinging gently, jingling in the fog.

Sergeant Colon tapped the golem's chest. It went donk.

'Like a flowerpot,' said Nobby. 'How can they move around when they're like a pot, eh? They ought to keep cracking all the time.'

'They're daft, too,' said Colon. 'I heard there was one over in Quirm who was made to dig a trench and they forgot about it and they only remembered it when there was all this water 'cos it had dug all the way to the river …'

Carrot unrolled the chem on the table, and laid beside it the paper that had been put in Father Tubelcek's mouth.

'It's dead, is it?' said Sergeant Colon.

'It's harmless,' said Carrot, looking from one piece of paper to the other.

'Right. I've got a sledgehammer round the back somewhere, I'll just …'

'No,' said Carrot.

'You saw the way it was acting!'

'I don't think it could actually have hit me. I think it just wanted to scare us.'

'It worked!'

'Look at these, Fred.'

Sergeant Colon glanced at the desk. 'Foreign writing,' he said, in a voice which suggested that it was nothing like as good as decent home writing, and probably smelled of garlic.

'Anything strike you about them?'

'Well … they looks the same,' Sergeant Colon conceded,

'This yellowing one is Dorfl's chem. The other one is from Father Tubelcek,' said Carrot. 'Letter for letter the same.'

'Why's that?'

'I think Dorfl wrote these words and put them in old Tubelcek's mouth after the poor man died,' said Carrot slowly, still looking from one piece of paper to the other.

'Urgh, yuk,' said Nobby. 'That's mucky, that is …'

'No, you don't understand,' said Carrot. 'I mean he wrote them because they were the only ones he knew that worked …'

'Worked how?'

'Well… you know the kiss of life?' said Carrot. 'I mean first aid? I know you know, Nobby. You came with me when they had that course at the YMPA.'

'I only went 'cos you said you got a free cup of tea and a biscuit,' said Nobby sulkily. 'Anyway, the dummy ran away when it was my turn.'

'It's the same with life-saving, too,' said Carrot. 'We want people to breathe, so we try to make sure they've got some air in them …'

They all turned to look at the golem.

'But golems don't breathe,' said Colon.

'No, a golem knows only one thing that keeps you alive,' said Carrot. 'It's the words in your head.' They all turned back to look at the words.

They all turned to look at the statue that was Dorfl.

'It's gone all cold in here,' Nobby quavered. 'I def'nitly felt a aura flick'rin' in the air just then! It was like someone …'

'What's going on?' said Vimes, shaking the damp off his cloak.

'… openin' the door,' said Nobby.

It was ten minutes later.

Sergeant Colon and Nobby had gone off-duty, to everyone's relief. Colon in particular had great difficulty with the idea that you went on investigating after someone had confessed. It outraged his training and experience. You got a confession and there it ended. You didn't go around disbelieving people. You disbelieved people only when they said they were innocent. Only guilty people were trustworthy. Anything else struck at the whole basis of policing.

'White clay,' said Carrot. 'It was white clay we found. And practically unbaked. Dorfl's made of dark terracotta, and rock-hard.'

'The last thing the old priest saw was a golem,' said Vimes.

'Dorfl, I'm sure,' said Carrot. 'But that's not the same as saying Dorfl was the murderer. I think he turned up as the man was dying, that's all.'

'Oh? Why?'

'I'm… not sure yet. But I've seen Dorfl around. He's always seemed a very gentle person.'

'It works in a slaughterhouse!'

'Maybe that's not a bad place for a gentle person to work, sir,' said Carrot. 'Anyway, I've checked up all the records I can find and I don't think a golem has ever attacked anyone. Or committed any kind of crime.'

'Oh, come on,' said Vimes. 'Everyone knows …' He stopped as his cynical ears heard his incredulous voice. 'What, never?

'Oh, people are always saying that they know someone who had a friend whose grandfather heard of one killing someone, and that's about as real as it gets, sir. Golems aren't allowed to hurt people. It's in their words.'

'They give me the willies, I know that,' said Vimes.

'They give everyone the willies, sir.'

'You hear lots of stories about them doing stupid things like making a thousand teapots or digging a hole five miles deep,' said Vimes.

'Yes, but that's not exactly criminal activity, is it, sir? That's just ordinary rebellion.'

'What do you mean, 'rebellion'?'

'Dumbly obeying orders, sir. You know … someone shouts at it 'Go and make teapots', so it does. Can't be blamed for obeying orders, sir. No one told them how many. No one wants them to think, so they get their own back by not thinking.'

'They rebel by working?'

'It's just a thought, sir. It'd make more sense to a golem, I expect.'

Automatically, they turned again to look at the silent shape of the golem.

'Can it hear us?' said Vimes.

'I don't think so, sir.'

'This business with the words …?'

'Er … I think they think a dead human is just someone who's lost his chem. I don't think they understand how we work, sir.'

'Them and me both, Captain.'

Vimes stared at the hollow eyes. The top of Dorfl's head was still open so that light shone down through the sockets. Vimes had seen many horrible things on the street, but the silent golem was somehow worse. You could too easily imagine the eyes flaring and the thing standing up and striding forward, fists flailing like sledgehammers. It was more than just his imagination. It seemed to be built into the things. A potentiality, biding its time.

That's why we all hate 'em, he thought. Those expressionless eyes watch us, those bigfaces turn to follow us, and doesn't it just look as if they're making notes and taking names? If you heard that one had bashed in someone's head over in Quirm or somewhere, wouldn't you just love to believe it?

A voice inside, a voice which generally came to him only in the quiet hours of the night or, in the old days,