‘Bats are mammals,’ said Sane Alex. Moist shook his head.
‘Lurking on rooftops, your own clacks… you’re the Smoking Gnu, aren’t you?’
‘Ah, with a mind like that I can see why you’re Mr Groat’s boss,’ said Sane Alex. ‘How about a cup of tea?’
Mad Al picked a pigeon feather out of his mug. The pigeon loft was full of the flat, choking smell of old guano.
‘You have to like birds to like it up here,’ he said, flicking the feather into Sane Alex’s beard.
‘Good job you do, eh?’ said Moist.
‘I didn’t say I did, did I? And we don’t live up here. It’s just that you’ve got a good rooftop.’
It was cramped in the pigeon loft, from which pigeons had, in fact, been barred. But there’s always one pigeon that can bite through wire netting. It watched them from the corner with mad little eyes, its genes remembering the time it had been a giant reptile that could have taken these sons of monkeys to the cleaners in one mouthful. Bits of dismantled mechanisms were everywhere.
‘Miss Dearheart told you about me, did she?’ said Moist.
‘She said you weren’t a complete arse,’ said Undecided Adrian.
‘Which is praise coming from her,’ said Sane Alex.
‘And she said you were so crooked you could walk through a corkscrew sideways,’ said Undecided Adrian. ‘She was smiling when she said it, though.’
‘That’s not necessarily a good thing,’ said Moist. ‘How do you know her?’
‘We used to work with her brother,’ said Mad Al. ‘On the Mark 2 tower.’
Moist listened. It was a whole new world.
Sane Alex and Mad Al were old men in the clacks business; they’d been in it for almost four years. Then the consortium had taken over, and they’d been fired from the Grand Trunk on the same day that Undecided Adrian had been fired from the Alchemists’ Guild chimney, in their case because they’d spoken their mind about the new management and in his case because he hadn’t moved fast enough when the beaker started to bubble.
They’d all ended up working on the Second Trunk. They’d even put money into it. So had others. It had all kinds of improvements, it would be cheaper to run, it was the bee’s knees, mutt’s nuts and various wonderful bits of half a dozen other creatures. And then John Dearheart, who always used a safety lanyard, landed in the cabbage field and that was the end of the Second Trunk.
Since then, the trio had done the kinds of jobs available to new square pegs in a world of old round holes, but every night, high above, the clacks flashed its messages. It was so close, so inviting, so…
So they’d started an informal little company of their own, which used the Grand Trunk without the Grand Trunk’s knowing.
It was a little like stealing. It was exactly like stealing. It was, in fact, stealing. But there was no law against it because no one knew the crime existed, so is it really stealing if what’s stolen isn’t missed? And is it stealing if you’re stealing from thieves? Anyway, all property is theft, except mine.
‘So now you’re, what was it again… crackers?’ Moist said.
‘That’s right,’ said Mad Al. ‘Because we can crack the system.’
‘That sounds a bit over-dramatic when you’re just doing it with lamps, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes, but “flashers” was already taken,’ said Sane Alex.
‘All right, but why “Smoking Gnu”?’ said Moist.
‘That’s cracker slang for a very fast message sent throughout the system,’ said Sane Alex proudly.
Moist pondered this. ‘That makes sense,’ he said. ‘If I was a team of three people, who all had a first name beginning with the same letter, that’s just the kind of name I’d choose.’
They’d found a way into the semaphore system, and it was this: at night, all clacks towers were invisible. Only the lights showed. Unless you had a good sense of direction, the only way you could identify
‘You can send messages
There were three smug smiles. ‘It’s easy,’ said Mad Al, ‘when you know how.’
‘How did you know that tower was going to break down?’
‘We broke it,’ said Sane Alex. ‘Broke the differential drum. They take hours to sort out because the operators have to—’
Moist missed the rest of the sentence. Innocent words swirled in it like debris caught in a flood, occasionally bobbing to the surface and waving desperately before being pulled under again. He caught ‘the’ several times before it drowned, and even ‘disconnect’ and ‘gear chain’, but the roaring, technical polysyllables rose and engulfed them all.
‘—and that takes at least half a day,’ Sane Alex finished.
Moist looked helplessly at the other two. ‘And that means what, exactly?’ he said.
‘If you send the right kind of message you can bust the machinery,’ said Mad Al.
‘
‘In theory,’ said Mad Al, ‘because an execute and terminate code—’
