In Murkstone-Snatchly, everything is always slightly, well… precarious. Precarious as in unsure, unpredictable, undependable, risky, dubious and just plain dodgy. Yes the streets bustle, the alleys hum, and the buildings lean suspiciously on one another as if they’re trying to overhear something scandalous. But rippling through it all is an unsettling feeling reminiscent of watching hippo’s pirouette on thin ice.

And somewhere, amid the horse dung, pickpockets, magic leaks, sausage vendors, and the general air of moral laissez-faire, trudged Sergeant Colon of the City Watch, looking like a man who had been sent out on an errand and forgotten what it was.

He was accompanied by Corporal Nobby Nobbs, a man whom evolution would have politely disavowed if pressed.

“So what are we actually doin’, Sarge?” said Nobby, scratching himself with a broken fork he’d lifted from the Watch-house kitchen table.

Colon squinted at the scrap of paper in his hand.

“It says here, ‘Respond immediately. Urgent magical disturbance. You are only a call away.’ Signed, The Patrician.’”

Nobby frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean? ‘Only a call away’? We don’t do calls. We do knocking. Loudly. With truncheons and other, less forgiving implements.”

Colon sighed. “Well, it’s official, Nobbs. Maybe it’s some kind of new ‘thing’. Like the Clacks, but without the clever bits. Come on. Number 12 Soggy Alley. Let’s get this over with before lunch.”

They turned a corner, navigated skilfully around a drunken beggar, a lost goat, and a philosophical argument about the nature of trouserings, as worn by the ‘Giant Nut People of Sideroon’, being conducted at stadium volume by two wizards from Unseen University. The door at Number 12 Soggy Alley stood open, which was not a good sign. An open door in Murkstone-Snatchly was either an invitation, a trap, or a sign the building was halfway through being stolen.

The interior was dim, smelled of cabbage, old urine, and featured a collection of magical detritus in the shape of a crystal ball, some pentagrams, a half-melted gnome, and a lump of soot.

“Right,” said Colon, poking at the soot with his foot. “Let’s find out who called us. Because I didn’t hear any yelling.”

“Maybe it was psychic yellin’,” said Nobby, looking around with interest at the shiny bits. “Could be that’s the call. Like when Mrs. Colon puts on that look. The one you feel in your soul but really wished you dodn’t.”

Before Colon could respond, the air above the crystal ball fizzed with static and a glowing spectral head materialised, hovering three feet above the carpet, radiating the faint smell of lavender and ozone.

It spoke.

“Hail, guardians of order! I call upon the mighty protectors of peace, the tireless warriors of… ”

“City Watch,” said Colon flatly. “Are you the one who called us?”

The head blinked. “Yes! I know you’re the City Watch. That’s the whole point. You see, I have developed a system of instant communication that allows one to summon assistance from anywhere in the city! With just a touch of this enchanted orb. I’ve called it ‘help is only a call away’!”

There was a pause.

“So basically, you’ve invented magical screaming,” said Nobby, verging on the slightly impressed.

“No, no, no!” said the head, flickering slightly. “It’s so much more sophisticated! You can send messages, requests, even food orders…”

“We don’t do takeout,” muttered Colon.

“…and anyone who has one of these orbs can contact anyone else! Think of the implications for city security, disaster response, long-distance gossip…”

Nobby was peering under the table. “Got any more of these orbs?”

“There’s a prototype under the tea cosy.”

Colon folded his arms. “You called us just to test this thing?”

“Well… yes, up to a point. But I also had a minor accident with my eyebrows. And possibly my legs.”

There was a faint clanking from upstairs, followed by a scream that sounded like it had changed its mind halfway through and decided on a quieter lifestyle.

“Right,” said Colon. “You stay there, Mr. Floating Head. Nobby, check upstairs for any active…. malarkey. Just go and have a look and see what’s happening.”

“Got it,” said Nobby, heading up with his usual approach to investigation: poke it with a strong stick and run.

Colon looked back at the head. “So, you think people’ll just have these things? Like they’ll carry them around? And people’ll talk into them?”

“Of course! Imagine: a world where help is always available, just a call away!”

“Sounds like a nightmare to me.” Colon scratched his nose. “But… if everyone starts callin’ each other all the time? People wouldn’t get anything done. In which case, how would you know when someone was tryin’ to get your attention?”

“Ah! That’s the best part. I’ve enchanted them to emit a chime when contacted!”

From under the tea cosy came a tinny voice: “Ding-a-ling! Ding-a-ling! You have a message from your mother: Eat something. You look pale.”

Colon stared. “Yeah. This’ll go down brilliantly, I can see it now… The sergeant frowned, then continued, warming to the idea in entirely the wrong way. “You realise what’ll happen, don’t you? People’ll stop shoutin’ across the street and start shoutin’ into little magic balls. They’ll forget how to talk to people in person. They’ll start bumpin’ into each other, starin’ at these things all the time. You’ll have gangs of wizards walkin’ into walls because they’re too busy arguing with their aunt about turnips. And then there’ll be arguments about whose orb is faster. And then people’ll want _smaller_ orbs, or ones with better _ringtones_. No good’ll come of it. Mark my words.”

At that moment, Nobby came back down, carrying a half-eaten, five day old cheese and pickle sandwich.

“It bit me,” he announced proudly. “But I bit back.”

The floating head beamed. “So you see, officers, the future is here! Communication, instant messaging, the potential collapse of traditional, face to face conversation… !”

Colon held up a hand. “Right. I’ll have to write this up. This sort of magical nonsense is supposed to be regulated. People’ll be sendin’ unsolicited love poems and/or goblin curses healed about like they’re going out of fashion in no time. I just know what’s going to happen, given the general unpleasantness of my fellow citizens.”

“But don’t you see? You’ll be able to summon the Watch with unprecedented speed!”

Nobby nodded. “Yeah. But then everyone would. All the time. For everything. We’d finish running from pillar to post, stickin’ plasters on every chemical or magic induced mess that crops up and actually gettin’ nowhere fast.”

There was a thoughtful silence.

“Sergeant,” said Colon finally, “take a note for the official report: ‘In the opinion of the Watch, while the orb-based long-distance communication device represents an interesting innovation, it will never catch on because people prefer to shout. Also, they don’t want to be interrupted on the toilet.’”

The floating head drooped slightly.

“But… but don’t you want to live in a world where you’re always reachable? Always connected?”

“No,” said Colon. “I want to live in a world where I can eat my breakfast without magical heads yellin’ at me over my toast and marmalade.”

He paused, then added, “So, just to be absolutely and totally clear, if you use that thing to send me another message, I’ll report you for public incantation.”

Nobby waved cheerfully as they left. “Let us know if you come up with anything that’s actually a good idea, we’d be most interested to investigate.”

~~~

Back at the Watch House, Colon sat heavily in a chair, kicked off his boots, and eyed suspicious-looking sausage sandwich, complete with ketchup, someone had left on the table.

“Imagine it, Nobby,” he said, picking up the sandwich. “People shoutin’ at you through invisible magic all day, expectin’ you to respond. Can’t think of anything worse.”

Nobby shrugged. “I dunno. Could be handy if you wanted to order more of something - say, I dunno… say it was a mealtime… and suddenly you found you’d run out of pickled eggs.”

Colon looked horrified. “Don’t even think about it. That’s how it starts.”

And somewhere, far across the city, in a tiny flat with soot on the ceiling and a second-hand tea cosy, a glowing orb chimed softly.

“Ding-a-ling! Ding-a-ling! You have a new message: Hello? Is anyone there? My cat has developed slightly worrying right-wing political opinions. Its face has also turned orange.”

The orb blinked. The world moved a little closer to madness.

~~~