Making Money

Post Office discouraged original thinking. The letters went in the slots, okay? There was no room for people who wanted to experiment with sticking them in their ear, up the chimney, or down the privy. It’d do them good to—
    He spotted the flimsy pink clacks among the other stuff and tugged it out quickly.
    It was from Spike!
    He read:

SUCCESS. RETURNING DAY AFTER TOMORROW.
ALL WILL BE REVEALED. S.

    Moist put it down carefully.
    Obviously she’d missed him terribly and was desperate to see him again, but she was stingy about spending Golem Trust money. Also, she’d probably run out of cigarettes.
    Moist drummed his fingers on the desk. A year ago he’d asked Adora Belle Dearheart to be his wife, and she’d explained that, in fact, he was going to be her husband.
    It was going to be…well, it was going to be sometime in the near future, when Mrs. Dearheart finally lost patience with her daughter’s busy schedule and arranged the wedding herself.
    But he was a nearly married man, however you looked at it. And nearly married men didn’t get mixed up with the Lavish family. A nearly married man was steadfast and dependable and always ready to hand his nearly wife an ashtray. He had to be there for his oneday children, and make sure they slept in a well-ventilated nursery.
    He smoothed out the message.
    And he would stop the night-climbing, too. Was it grownup? Was it sensible? Was he a tool of Vetinari? No!
    But a memory stirred. Moist got up and went over to his filing cabinet, which he normally avoided at all costs.
    Under “Stamps” he found the little report he’d had two months ago from Stanley Howler, the head of stamps. It noted in passing the continued high sales of one-and two-dollar stamps, which was higher than even Stanley had expected. Maybe “stamp money” was more prevalent than he’d thought. After all, the government backed it, right? It was even easy to carry. He’d have to check on exactly how much they—
    There was a dainty knock at the door, and Gladys entered. She bore with extreme care a plate of ham sandwiches, made very, very thin, as only Gladys could make them, which was to put one ham between two loaves and bring her shovel-sized hand down on it very hard.
    “I Anticipated That You Would Have Had No Lunch, Postmaster,” she rumbled.
    “Thank you, Gladys,” said Moist, mentally shaking himself.
    “And Lord Vetinari Is Downstairs,” Gladys went on. “He Says There Is No Rush.”
    The sandwich stopped an inch from Moist’s lips.
    “He’s in the building?”
    “Yes, Mr. Lipwig.”
    “Wandering about by himself?” said Moist, horror mounting.
    “Currently He Is In The Blind Letter Office, Mr. Lipwig.”
    “What is he doing there?”
    “Reading The Letters, Mr. Lipwig.”
    No rush, thought Moist grimly. Oh, yes. Well, I’m going to finish my sandwiches that the nice lady golem has made for me.
    “Thank you, Gladys,” he said.
    When she was gone, Moist took a pair of tweezers out of his desk drawer, opened the sandwich, and began to disembowel it of the bone fragments caused by Gladys’s drop-hammer technique.
    It was a little over three minutes later that the golem reappeared, and stood patiently in front of the desk.
    “Yes, Gladys?” said Moist.
    “His Lordship Desired Me To Inform You That There Is Still No Rush.”
    Moist ran downstairs and Lord Vetinari was indeed sitting in the Blind Letter Office with his boots on a desk, a sheaf of letters in his hand, and a smile on his face.
    “Ah, Lipwig,” he said, waving the grubby envelopes. “Wonderful stuff! Better than the crossword! I like this one: ‘Duzbuns Hopsit pfarmerrsc.’ I’ve put the correct address underneath.” He passed the letter over to Moist.
    He had written: “K. Whistler, Baker, 3 Pigsty Hill.”
    “There are three bakeries in the city that could be said to be opposite a pharmacy,” said Vetinari, “but Whistler does those rather good curly buns that regrettably look as though a dog has just done his business on your plate and somehow managed to add a blob of icing.”
    “Well done, sir,” said Moist weakly. At the other end of the room, Frank and Dave, who spent all their time deciphering the illegible, misspelled, misdirected, or simply insane mail that sleeted through the Blind Letter Office every day, were watching Vetinari in shock and awe. In the corner, Drumknott appeared to be brewing tea.
    “I think it is just a matter of getting into the mind of the writer,”