Making Money

called a puckish sense of humor, Mr. Lipwig.”
    And the dog owns a piece of the bank, thought Moist. What a jolly people the Lavishes are, indeed. “I can see that you might not find it very funny, Mr. Bent,” he said.
    “I am pleased to say I find nothing funny, sir,” Bent replied as they reached the bottom of the stairs. “I have no sense of humor whatsoever. None at all. It has been proven by phrenology. I have Nichtlachen-Keinwortz syndrome, which for some curious reason is considered a lamentable affliction. I, on the other hand, consider it a gift. I am happy to say that I regard the sight of a fat man slipping on a banana skin as nothing more than an unfortunate accident that highlights the need for care in the disposal of household waste.”
    “Have you tried—” Moist began, but Bent held up a hand. “Please! I repeat, I do not regard it as a burden! And may I say it annoys me when people assume it is such! Do not feel impelled to try to make me laugh, sir! If I had no legs, would you try to make me run? I am quite happy, thank you!”
    He paused by another pair of doors, calmed down a little, and gripped the handles.
    “And now, perhaps, I should take this opportunity to show you where the…may I say serious work is done, Mr. Lipwig. This used to be called the counting house, but I prefer to think of it as—” he pulled at the doors, which swung open majestically “—my world.”
    It was impressive. And the first impression it gave Moist was: this is Hell on the day they couldn’t find the matches.
    He stared at the rows of bent backs, scribbling frantically. No one looked up.
    “I will not have abacuses, Calculating Bones, or other inhuman devices under this roof, Mr. Lipwig,” said Bent, leading the way down the central aisle. “The human brain is capable of infallibility in the world of numbers. Since we invented them, how should it be otherwise? We are rigorous here, rigorous—” In one swift movement Bent pulled a sheet of paper from the out tray of the nearest desk, scanned it briefly, and dropped it back again with a little grunt that signified either his approval that the clerk had got things right or his own disappointment that he had not found anything wrong.
    The sheet had been crammed with calculations, and surely no mortal could have followed them at a glance. But Moist would not have bet a penny that Bent hadn’t accounted for every line.
    “Here in this room we are at the heart of the bank,” said the chief cashier proudly.
    “The heart,” said Moist blankly.
    “Here we calculate interest and charges and mortgages and costs and—everything, in fact. And we do not make mistakes.”
    “What, never?”
    “Well, hardly ever. Oh, some individuals occasionally make an error,” Bent conceded with distaste. “Fortunately, I check every calculation. No errors get past me, you may depend upon it. An error, sir, is worse than a sin, the reason being that a sin is often a matter of opinion or viewpoint or even of timing but an error is a fact and it cries out for correction. I see you are not sneering, Mr. Lipwig.”
    “I’m not? I mean, no. I’m not!” said Moist. Damn. He’d forgotten the ancient wisdom: take care, when you are closely observing, that you are not closely observed.
    “But you are appalled, nevertheless,” said Bent. “You use words, and I’m told you do it well, but words are soft and can be pummeled into different meanings by a skilled tongue. Numbers are hard. Oh, you can cheat with them but you cannot change their nature. Three is three. You cannot persuade it to be four, even if you give it a great big kiss.” There was a very faint snigger from somewhere in the hall, but Mr. Bent apparently did not notice. “And they are not very forgiving. We work very hard here, at things that must be done,” he said. “And this is where I sit, at the very center…”
    They’d reached the big stepped dais in the center of the room. As they did so, a skinny woman in a white blouse and long black skirt edged respectfully past them and carefully placed a wad of paper in a tray that was already piled high. She glanced at Mr. Bent, who said, “Thank you, Miss Drapes.” He was too busy pointing out the marvels of the dais, on which a semicircular desk of complex design had been mounted, to notice the expression that passed across her pale little face. But Moist did, and read a thousand words, probably written in her diary and never ever shown to