"Bloody hell!" Charpe shouted as he dove back through the portal.

Chopper helped Charpe back up, then out through the wardrobe door, and said, "Well there's somethin' I'd've never thought of."

A very dusty Charpe looked up and asked, "What's that?"

"Pullin' the entire building down after yourself to cover your escape, sir. That was bloody brilliant."

"Had nothin' to do with me, Pit. I stepped in, nice and quiet, with them all peerin' at something in the glass. I was wonderin' how to get it with them all watchin' it so intently. Then the whole place started comin' apart, so a grabbed it and followed the rope."

"Shall I take that for you, sir?" said Reeves.

"No, you shall not. I think I'll be holdin' onto it for a little while longer, seein' as how Gudanov wants it so. He can have it, but only after he agrees to a couple of things."

"What 'things,' sir?"

"First, if he needs to run any of his 'experiments' outside of the castle, he's to restrict them to the old Watch barracks and trainin' facility here in Greenwood. He can experiment all he wants to over there. Sergeant, what's that concept that DX told us about doing experiments?"

"Beta testin'?"

"That's it. 'Beta testin'.' Gudanov can do all the beta testin' he wants over at the trainin' camp. It should be plenty big enough to serve his needs. Second, if any of those experiments seem worth doin' for the city as a whole, he is to file environmental impact statements with both the city government and the Watch before unleashin' them on an unsuspectin' public. Are we clear, Mr. Reeves?"

"Yes, sir. WOuld you care to wait to deliver the message to Mr. Gudanov yourself, or I shall relay it for you?"

"You take care of it, Reeves. I don't think the sergeant and I need to waste anymore of your time."

    .   .   .

After Charpe and Chopper got back to the Yard, and had secured the sphere, Chopper asked Charpe,"So, do you thing he'll agree to the restrictions?"

"I think he will. He's not evil, just, I dunno, preoccupied or something. And we've got his trinket."

"So why the devil did you offer him our trainin' facility? We may not be headquartered there anymore, but we still need it for trainin' recruits."

"Oh, we'll still train recruits there. There was another concept DX once told me about. Did he ever tell you about something called a 'danger room'?"

The penguin and I wander through the halls of the Watch's new headquarters, Greenwood Yard, looking for Conference Room B. It's our first time in the building, and I can't find it for love or money. Fortunately, Constable Ragman pops out of a door a little ways down the corridor, and points us in the right direction. Charpe is waiting for us, but the other two members of the Oversight Board are nowhere to be seen.

"Hello, Captain Charpe. It looks like we're first to arrive."

"And last to arrive, too, sir. The Councilman sends his regrets, but he's on another fact-findin' tour of the South Sea islands, and Beverly left a message about havin' to attend some sort of rifles demonstration up at the Aztec Palace. I didn't realize they did live demonstrations there."

"They don't. I thought they were doing a Sean Bean film festival there today. Huh."

"Who's he?"

"Actor. Don't worry about it. Although, now that you mention it, you do..." I shake off a very weird thought. "Nah, nevermind." I open my briefcase and pull out the materials I'd brought for the meeting. It's a good thing we wrote the rules so we only need two of us for a quorum. The bird sits down off to the side of the conference table and pulls out a steno pad.

I scan down the agenda to the first item. "Recruitment and Retention." I check a copy of the current personnel roster. There are only eight names on it. "So, how're we doing with that?"

"Better, I think, sir. You know it's been hard, what with full employment in the city. There's not much of a pool to draw from. Plus, there's the hours... And the pay."

"Not to mention the fact that the last recruit you had was eaten by a giant alligator."

"Yes, sir. I had a word with Sergeant Chopper about that. Won't happen again."

"That's good. Sang Sacre is a big place, and right now we don't have enough constables to cover it properly. We're gonna have a hard enough time finding folks to fill the available slots, so we can't be disabling them once we've got them, now can we?"

"No, sir. As I said, it's taken care of."

I nodded. "You said things were getting better?"

"I did, sir. I started a new recruitment program. Initial response seems promising."

"New program? Tell me about it."

"It's similar to something we did back in Orkshire, sir. When someone is hauled before the magistrate there, they're given a choice between sentencing or joining the army."

"Orcs have magistrates?"

Charpe shrugged his shoulders. "Don't believe everything you see in the cinema, sir."

"Point taken, Captain. Do many choose the army?"

"Most of them, sir. The only alternative sentence is death. We orcs believe in firm discipline." He grinned.

"I can see that. Bit more problematic here, though, isn't it? I mean, the usual sentence handed down in these parts is a small fine and perhaps a couple of afternoons of public service, sorting clothes donations down at the Journeycake Center and such like."

"True, sir, and there's also the chance that they could be found not guilty here. Still, I think you'll be surprised at how far some people will go to avoid sortin' though someone else's old knickers. We've already gotten one recruit through the program."

"Really?" I look at the list. "He's not on the roster yet."

"No, sir. His paperwork hasn't gotten back from city hall yet."

"What's his name?"

"Recruit Dobler, sir."

"Dobler." I think a moment. "Wait, you mean Catsmeat Dobler?"

"Yes, sir."

"The guy who sells mystery meat down by the piers?"

"Yes, sir. The man's a terrific cook."

My mouth opens, but no words come out.

"It's true, sir. Best food I've had since coming to the city. Food like muther used to make."

I start to form a question, but he gives me another look.

"Sir, it's hard on some of the orcs bein' so far from home, and Dobler seems to have a real flair for Orkish cuisine. The watch needed a cook, and Dobler needed, er, a change of career. Besides, the firehouses all have cooks."

OMG, I'm giggling like a loon. Do loons giggle?

I'm wandering idly through town, just taking in the sight of the beginnings of Fall Colour, pondering the possibility of organizing a leaf-raking party, when I hear an odd sound. The delicate giggle of a loon. Huh. Loons usually giggle plenty in Spring, mating season and all, but generally this time of year the best they get going is a mildly amused snort or the occasional chortle. Then again, we have had some rather odd weather this summer, and some of the Spring flowers in my garden bloomed a bit after all that rain in August. Maybe the birds are a bid confused too. I just hope they don't try to fly north again instead of south.

So, right, leaf raking party.

Cider... check. Hard Cider... goes without saying. Popcorn... check. Barbecue... rats, I'm gonna have to find a new caterer, the one that nice orc from the Watch recommended has found a new job. Ah well, I've heard a few less complimentary things about him from other sources than Constable Chopper. Maybe I should just marinate some chicken and grill it myself. Hmm, what about a creamy cucumber salad, and some squash blossom soup?

It's been a long, but productive meeting. I read the last item on the agenda. "New Uniforms."

"New uniforms, sir? What's wrong with the old ones?" Charpe asked.

"Well, it's a bit delicate, I'm afraid, Captain. I mean, they are the same ones your orcs were wearing when you came to town five years ago. To tell the truth, they're getting a bit, er, frayed around the edges, if you catch my drift. Also, there have been some suggestions that if some of your constables had a change of uniform, then perhaps they could launder the old ones occasionally. There's a rumor floating around that one of your orcs left his post in front of city hall for a quick pint, leaving his uniform standing empty in his place, thinking nobody would notice."

"No one did notice, sir."

"Well, except for the barman down at the Client & Server who certainly noticed a butt-naked orc ordering a Yogi draft. Corporal Knobsmasher was it?"

Charpe shrugged. "Point taken, sir. Oh, and it's Constable Knobsmasher now."

"Look, the other thing is that since the city converted the old militia into the Watch, there have been a few folks hinting that perhaps a less, er, militaristic uniform might be better suited to the new mission. You do have to admit that your present uniforms might be a bit out of place."

"With all due respect, sir, they're classics. The Orkish army has worn these uniforms for hundreds of years."

"My point exactly, Captain. It's time for a change. And you have to admit, those shakos do look a little silly these days."

"And lookin' like Smokey the bear is so much better, sir?" He grins. I hate it when he grins like that.

"Point taken, Captain. Still, you have to admit that if we're gonna add all these new recruits we've talked about, we're gonna need uniforms for them." I pull out a thickish catalog from my briefcase and hand it to him. "Here, there's a local supplier in Dalrymple does this sort of work. Take a look through the catalog and see if there's anything that might work."

Charpe takes the book, looking a bit puzzled as he reads the cover, "S. Brooks, Ltd." "I didn't know we had an armourer in the city, sir." He starts to thumb through it.

"Ms. Brooks is not so much an armorer as she's, er, a theatrical costumer. Don't worry, though. I hear she can do wonders with kevlar."

"...And so, Pit, we have to pick out a new uniform. DX gave me this to look at." Charpe handed Sergeant Chopper the catalog. See if there's anythin' in it that strikes your fancy."

Chopper flipped through the first few pages, the section in the table of contents marked "Ballet Outfits". "Oh yes, Captain, sir, the Watch will look especially sharp in some of these. Might get a bit chilly for the night shift, though. Likely hard to conceal a weapon, as well, sir."

"Very funny, sergeant. Now, if you will just flip to the section marked military and police costumes..."

"Ah yes, sir. These are much better. Some of them even have pockets, I see."

"Come now, sergeant, they're not that bad. In fact, there was one I liked quite a bit." Charpe took the catalog, and opened it to a dog-earred page near the end of the section. "Here, what do you think of that one?"

Chopper glanced at the page briefly, then looked up at his commander and shook his head. "No, sir, not that one."

"Why the devil not, sergeant? I think it's rather strikin', myself. Don't you like the colour?"

"Oh, 'tis a very pretty uniform, sir, and black is a fine colour, but I really think we should find somethin' else."

"But look at those boots, Pit. And it even comes with badges inscribed with the city's initials as little thunderbolts. Bloody posh, that is. We wouldn't even have to get them customized."

"Sir, 'tis a Nazi uniform."

"But..." Charpe stopped for a second, then asked, "What's a Nazi?"

"Sir, you know that fella over in Bresilica, old man Liebkind?"

"What, that bleedin' loony with the pigeons and the helmet?"

"Yes, sir. We get complaints about him all the time from his neighbour."

"So? I wouldn't want to live near those birds, either, but they're not illegal."

"No, sir, that's not the complaint. Mr. Godwin claims Liebkind's a Nazi, and that we should do something about it. He's not the only one complainin', either. I don't have a full understandin' of why, but apparently humans don't like Nazis very much. That uniform could be seen as inflammatory, if you know what I mean." Chopper shrugged. "It'd be better to go with something else."

Disappointed, Charpe looked through a few more pages. "There's not much else in here, Pit. Mostly forest ranger outfits with bloody stupid lookin' hats." Charpe shook his head.

"Ya know, sir, I think we got another catalog today. Let me find it." Chopper went off and retrieved something from the stack of incoming mail on the front desk. "Here it is." Charpe looked at the cover. It had a picture showing a human wearing a colorful uniform with lots of gold braid. Except for the dazzling colors, it was very like Charpe's own green jacket. "That's better, but it's way too bright. May as well wear a bloody target on your back."

"I took a quick look, sir, and they do seem to have some in more appropriate colours."

A look of approval came over Charpe's face as thumbed through the book. "Yes, they do, and proper headgear as well. Well done, sergeant." He closed the book and looked again at the cover. It read, "H. Hill and Associates—Band Uniforms."

band uniforms! snerk! And wait till he sees the drum major's baton!

Newly minted Constable "Catsmeat" Dobler wasn't having his best week. Come to think of it, it hadn't been his best year, either. He'd arrived in Sang Sacre like so many others before him, full of hope and ideas, and with the determination to persevere until his talents could bring those ideas to fruition. Unlike most of those others, however, it turned out he'd had some really lousy ideas, ones that were even worse in practice than they'd been in theory, since talent wasn't his strongest suit, either. It didn't help that he'd chosen a career as a street vendor, with it's razor thin (figuratively) margins and cutthroat (literally) competition.

Catsmeat thought it'd be easy. He would sell hot food made from the freshest local ingredients (sometimes picked up off the side of the road minutes after it'd been killed) off a cart in the bustling streets of Sang Sacre. He'd watched the Food Network. Cooking wasn't hard, and people were always hungry. They'd be lining up in droves for his tasty treats. Funny thing, though, while he was occasionally able to entice someone new into trying one of his stick-mounted specialities, he didn't seem to get a lot of repeat business. That wasn't good. He knew how important repeat business and word of mouth were in the food service industry. He'd chalked it up to unlucky choices of location. He'd probably chosen spots that people didn't repeatedly pass by. Of course, he never noticed that upon noticing his cart many of his former customers would cross the street rather than walk anywhere near it.

But business had finally started to come around. He thought he'd found the answer—pies. He'd made a batch of steak and kidney pies, and suddenly people did line up to try them. Things were looking good. And then five minutes later it all went to hell.

Now, the former President, CFO, Executive Chef, and Sales and Marketing Director of C.O. Dobler Mobile Food Marketing Enterprises, LLC, was standing in front of a stove in the cafeteria kitchen at Greenwood Yard, whisking ingredients into a saucier, while Constable (ex-Corporal) "Knobby" Knobsmasher plucked off the feathers from several birds piled upon a counter. Given the state of the budget Charpe had given him, the birds were a bit of good fortune, freshly killed by Constable Ragman. There'd been complaints about the noise that they'd been raising, and Ragman was the best shot in the Watch. Two problems solved at once—the complaint, and what to have for dinner. Still, that didn't keep Catsmeat from complaining about the situation.

"How was I supposed to know those kidneys were stolen, Knobby? It's not like they come with serial numbers or anything. Some igor gives me a good deal on some fresh kidneys, and I'm supposed to say no?" He added a sprig of rosemary to the sauce.

"Yeah, but they wasn't no beef kidneys now was they? Your kind can be pretty touchy 'bout stuff like that." Knobby pulled the last feather from one bird, put it aside, and started in on the next one.

"What am I, a biologist?" asked Dobler. Knobby's face started to take on the look of an orc who hadn't realized that there would be a quiz, so Catsmeat quickly continued. "One kidney looks pretty much like another to me. So I made pies outta them. People like steak and kidney pie. Even the Captain liked 'em. He had two. I was actually having a profitable day for once. Next thing I know, Harrass is confiscating my inventory and hauling me down here for questioning. Freakin' scared me half to death."

"'e can be nasty when 'e's riled, that's sure. You know that 'bad cop - really bad cop' routine we use for interviewin' miscreants? 'arrass always plays the really, really bad cop."

"He's very good at it. I nearly wet my shorts. Then I get dragged in front of the magistrate, and he says he's giving me a choice of sentence, like he's being all reasonable and stuff. Says I can either do five hundred hours community service as an orderly at the old wizards' home, or I can join the Watch. I knew a guy who worked out at the home once. Hadn't been there (continued...)

( continues...) a week before some old geezer turned him into a toad in a fit of pique."

"That's unnatural, that is," said Knobby. "I don't like toads."

"Neither does he. A wizard on staff managed to change him back, but he's never been the same since."

"'ow's that?"

"Now he spends most of his time eating bugs." Dobler shivered, then surveyed his surroundings. "So here I am. Freakin' impressment is what it is."

"The captain calls it an affirmative 'iring policy, 'e does. Says the Watch needs to be more di-verse." Knobby shrugged. "Beats eatin' bugs," he added helpfully. Catsmeat him a nasty look, and as he was holding a large kitchen knife, Knobby thought it best to change the subject. "Right. So, what's all this we're makin'?"

Catsmeat hadn't come up with a name for the dish yet. One good thing about this gig was that the orcs were pretty easy to cook for, so it was pretty easy to wing it with whatever was handy. They liked meat and weren't particular about the species, as long as it was barely above body temperature. And if it was blackened and crispy on the outside, so much the better. He thought for a moment, trying to come up with an orc-themed, yet suitably exotic name. Then it came to him.

"I call it Loon à la Barad-Dûr. Fresh loon quarters lightly singed over an open flame, glazed with a pig's blood and rosemary reduction."

Knobby licked his lips. "Never tried loon before. Don't 'ave 'em in the old country. 'at's what I like about this town. Always a new culinary experience. You should write a cookbook, you should."

As he lit the flame on the propane torch, Catsmeat began to ponder what Knobby had said. He could write a cookbook. He could write about his experience with both orkish tastes and the use of, er, novel ingredients to satisfy those tastes. Maybe... Yeah, bet nobody's written a book like that before. Orkish Fusion Cuisine... Yeah, that's the ticket... And Constable Catsmeat Dobler began formulating another idea.

::claps hands in delight. waits patiently for developments::