'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, half-way down a whisky bottle, added: Given how we use them, maybe we're scared because we know we deserve it...
No... there's nothing behind those eyes. There's just clay and magic words.
Vimes shrugged. 'I chased a golem earlier,' he said. 'It was standing on the Brass Bridge. Damn thing. Look, we've got a confession and the eyeball evidence. If you can't come up with anything better than a ... a feeling, then we'll have to - '
To what, sir?' said Carrot. There isn't anything more we could do to him. He's dead now.'
'Inanimate, you mean.'
'Yes, sir. If you want to put it that way.'
'If Dorfl didn't kill the old men, who did?'
'Don't know, sir. But I think Dorfl does. Maybe he was following the murderer.'
'Could it have been ordered to protect someone?'
'Maybe, sir. Or he decided to.'
'You'll be telling me it's got emotions next. Where's Angua gone?'
'She thought she'd check a few things, sir,' said Carrot. 'I was... puzzled about this, sir. It was in his hand. 'He held the object up.
'A piece of matchstick?'
'Golems don't smoke and they don't use fire, sir. It's just... odd that he should have the thing, sir.'
'Oh,' said Vimes, sarcastically. 'A Clue.'
Dorfl's trail was the word on the street. The mixed smells of the slaughterhouse filled Angua's nostrils.