The World of Poo (Discworld 39.50)

The boat turned towards a landing quay where the oarsmen helped Geoffrey, who was carrying Widdler under his arm, to disembark.

‘Now hold my hand, lad,’ said Sir Harry. ‘There’s a lot going on; you need to keep your wits about you.’

A maze of moving belts criss-crossed the vast yard and carts were being loaded and unloaded from various bins and heaps of rubbish. Above Geoffrey’s head pulleys with rows of buckets rattled along on heavy chains. The whole world around him seemed to be moving and, from the stink, Geoffrey guessed it was mainly poo on the move. There were two golems working on giant treadmills and more golems and trolls and humans and goblins working at the moving belts. Every now and then one of them would reach out, pick something off the belt and put it into one of several bins alongside them. Gnolls, with brushes and buckets and wearing muzzles over their mouths to stop them eating everything in sight – including the brush – were clearing anything that fell from the great creaking edifice.

Geoffrey and Sir Harry climbed some steep stairs to Sir Harry’s office, which was like a crow’s nest with windows all around, designed so that he could see everything that was going on in every corner of his empire.

‘I’ve a couple of jobs I need to attend to,’ said Sir Harry, ‘so I’ll get my foreman to give you a guided tour and I’ll join you later.’

Sir Harry opened one of the windows and, looking down, shouted, ‘Barker? Come on up here if you please, I’ve a job for you.’ He then held out a pair of stout waders. ‘Right, you better put these boots on, Geoffrey, and it’s probably best if you leave little Widdler in my office. I’ve got dogs down there that would have him for lunch.’

A short man with a broad grin but unsmiling, steely eyes came up the steps to the office. He was wearing a flat cap, a much-patched tweedy jacket, a big leather apron tied up with string and long boots. He looked at Geoffrey as if calculating how much he’d be worth in his component parts.

‘Would you show my young friend around the works for me, Barker? He’s a keen student of the world of waste. Make sure he comes to no harm and keep him well away from the thaumic dump,’ warned Sir Harry as he picked up his overcoat and disappeared down the stairs.

‘What’s the thaumic dump, Mister Barker?’ asked Geoffrey, as they descended into the maelstrom of the busy yard.

‘That’s where we store waste from the University. We have to keep it in a lead-lined pit or it gets out and crawls all over the place. Sir Harry doesn’t mind having it here because it generates so much heat, so it’s never cold down here, even in winter. Admittedly things walk around on their own, but I suppose that’s progress, that is.’

‘Where exactly is it?’ asked Geoffrey, looking around keenly.

‘More than my job’s worth to take you there,’ said Barker, shaking his head. ‘We’ll start at goods inwards, shall we? You stay close beside me, don’t talk to anyone and don’t pick up anything. And I mean anything, right?’ They made their way, through large gates guarded by trolls and big fierce dogs, to the riverside, where men were shovelling the cargo from the barges into the backs of carts.

‘Right, as you see, most solid waste comes in b

y river these days and it’s all taken by cart to the moving belts for sorting.’

Geoffrey’s eyes were everywhere. ‘How do you know where it’s all come from?’ he asked.

‘Barge-master’s got a docket, but we can usually tell by the colour and smell. After you’ve worked here a few years you get to know if it’s from the privies in the Shades or down The Soake or from the Park Lane cesspits. It’s all down to diet in the end: what goes in must come out. This barge is from the Cable Street area, that’s mostly dwarfs, very concentrated and compact, needs to stand a bit before we can use it. The other problem is that some of the deep-downers use fine chain-mail for the paperwork and if a few links drop in and aren’t picked out it causes merry hell with the grinding machine.’

They walked back into the yard and Barker pointed to a covered area where several people with clipboards were walking up and down a long trestle table making notes and occasionally sniffing the contents of long-handled, saucer-like containers. ‘Over there are the nosers,’ he said. ‘They can tell, almost to the street, where the stuff comes from and what’s in it, then they can blend the right mix to go to the tanners or the dyers or perfume makers or whatever. Clever blokes. And you see that big heap of fish bones? That’s come from the Temple of Offler; it’s been a big feast day up there. And over here is the remains of last year’s beetroot festival that the folks from Uberwald staged. The tanners had a real problem with pink leather until we separated it out for them.’

‘What happens to the stuff from the Menagerie?’ asked Geoffrey.

‘We keep that separate too, that comes under exotics, along with the stuff from the College of Heralds. Good thing is the elephant poo is bagged up and sold for compost as soon as it comes in, otherwise it’d take over the place.’

As Geoffrey and Barker walked along by one of the moving belts, Sir Harry joined them again. He’d taken off his hat and overcoat and was wearing a brown cotton smock with a row of cigars in the top pocket, a flat cap and leather boots. ‘I hope you’re impressed by what you’ve seen, lad?’ he asked.

Before Geoffrey could answer, a dwarf climbed up to a platform in the centre of the yard and blew an enormous horn. ‘That’s old Helmhammerhand sounding the shift change,’ said Sir Harry, looking at his watch. ‘It must be time for a spot of lunch. Right, young lad, let’s go and see what we have to eat today. On your way up to my office use the facilities. Here’s the key, make sure you lock it after you.’

In this lavatory, Geoffrey was interested to see there was a large wad of old newspaper hanging on a hook; but the soap was scented and the towel was clean. He smiled and thought: Sir Harry King doesn’t waste anything.

The moment Geoffrey arrived back in the office Sir Harry lifted a large wicker hamper on to his desk, pulled out a packet of sandwiches and two slices of cake, and passed them across.

‘And here’s a bottle of lemonade and a glass, Geoffrey,’ said Sir Harry.

‘Are you going to have some?’ asked Geoffrey politely.

‘No, lad, I’m having a bottle of beer. As for food, I have to tell you, young man, that what I like most is leftovers. I love leftovers and my good lady wife, who has Cook send lunch up every day, has trained her in the art of creating leftovers without the necessity of the posh meal beforehand. I’ve got cold mutton chops with Merkle and Stingbat’s very fine brown sauce. Lovely! Tuck in, lad, and then I’ll get you taken home.’

‘Thank you very much indeed, Sir Harry,’ said Geoffrey, finishing every drop of his lemonade so that there would be no leftover. ‘It’s been a really interesting day and I think I must have seen more poo than any other boy in the world!’

‘Well, then, here’s a present for you,’ said Sir Harry. ‘I owe you a dollar for the poo-sticks race, and no doubt young Widdler has been leaving me a few presents around the place, so this here paperweight is a very special item indeed. They call them Pearls of the Pavement; I got young Derek Proust to do me a one-off.’ He handed Geoffrey a perfect replica of a small white dog turd in which a large gold dollar was embedded. ‘Put this in your museum, lad, it’s the only one of its kind and worth a bob or two. I’ve enjoyed our time together, Geoffrey, and if you ever want to come and work for me I’d take you like a shot. You’d have to start at the bottom, though,’ he said with a wink.

He escorted Geoffrey to where his coach was waiting. ‘Take the boy home now,’ he ordered the coachman. ‘And make sure you see him in the door.’ Geoffrey thanked Sir Harry again and waved from the coach until he was out of sight.

As they passed the River Gate guard-house on their way back into the city, Geoffrey was pleased to see one of Harry King’s carts parked outside.