Making Money

his eyes to indicate the nervous Hubert.
    “My fault, I’m disturbing you good people,” said Moist, emptying the cup in one go. “Any minute now the dhdldlkp; kvyv vbdf[; jvjvf; llljvmmk; vvbvlm bnxgcgbnme—”
    Ah yes, Splot, thought Moist. It contained herbs and all natural ingredients. But belladonna was an herb, and arsenic was natural. There was no alcohol in it, people said, because alcohol couldn’t survive. But a cup of hot Splot got men out of bed and off to work when there was six feet of snow outside and the well was frozen. It left you clear-headed and quick-thinking. It was only a shame that the human tongue couldn’t keep up.
    Moist blinked once or twice and said, “Ughx…”
    He said his good-byes, even if they were his “gnyrxs,” and headed back up the length of the undercroft, the light from the Glooper pushing his shadow in front of him. Trolls watched him suspiciously as he climbed the steps, trying to keep his feet from flying away from him. His brain buzzed, but it had nothing to do. There was nothing to grab hold of, to worry a solution from. And in an hour or so, the country edition of the Times would be out and, very shortly after, so would he. There would be a run on the bank, which is a horrifying thing at best, and the other banks wouldn’t help him out, would they, because he wasn’t a chap. Disgrace and ignominy and Mr. Fusspot were staring him in the face, but only one of them was licking it.
    He’d made it to his office, then. Splot certainly took your mind off all your little problems by rolling them into the big one of keeping all of yourself on one planet. He accepted the little dog’s ritual slobbering kiss, got off his knees, and made it as far as the chair.
    Okay…sitting down, he could do that. But his mind raced.
    People would be here soon. There were too many unanswered questions. What to do, what to do? Pray? Moist wasn’t too keen on prayer, not because he thought the gods didn’t exist but because he was afraid they might. All right, Anoia had got a good deal out of him and he’d noticed her shiny new temple the other day, its frontage already hung with votive egg-slicers, fondant whisks, ladles, parsnip butterers, and many other useless appliances donated by grateful worshipers who had faced the prospect of a life with their drawers stuck. Anoia delivered, because she specialized. She didn’t even pretend to offer a paradise, eternal verities, or any kind of salvation. She just left you with a smooth pulling action and access to the forks. And practically no one had believed in her before he’d picked her, at random, as one of the gods to thank for the miraculous windfall. Would she remember?
    If he had some gold stuck in a drawer, then maybe. Turning dross into gold, probably not. Still, you turned to the gods when all you had left was a prayer.
    He wandered into the little kitchen and took a ladle off the hook. Then he went back to the office and rammed it into a desk drawer, where it stuck, this being the chief function of ladles in the world. Rattle your drawers, that was it. She was attracted to the noise, apparently.
    “Oh Anoia,” he said, tugging at the drawer handle. “This is me, Moist von Lipwig, penitent sinner. I don’t know if you remember? We are, all of us, mere utensils, stuck in drawers of our own making, and none more than I. If you could find time in your busy schedule to unstick me in my hour of need you will not find me wanting in gratitude, yea indeed, when we put statues of the gods on the roof of the new Post Office. I never liked the urns on the old one. Covered in gold leaf, too, by the way. Thanking you in anticipation, amen.”
    He gave the drawer one last tug. The ladle sprang out, twanging through the air like a leaping salmon, and smashed a vase in the corner.
    Moist decided to take that as a hopeful sign. You were supposed to smell cigarette smoke if Anoia was present, but since Adora Belle had spent more than ten minutes in this room, there was no point in sniffing.
    What next? Well, the gods helped those who helped themselves, and there was always one last Lipwig-friendly option. It floated up in his mind: wing it.

CHAPTER 10

    Doing it in style “The chairman goes woof” Harry King puts something by The screaming starts One kiss, no tongue Council of wars Moist takes charge A little magic, with stamps Arousing the professor’s interest A vision of paradise

    WING IT! There’s nothing left. Remember the