Making Money

fun.
    Drumknott, the Patrician’s secretary, was waiting by the door of the Oblong Office, and quickly ushered him into the seat in front of his lordship’s desk.
    After nine seconds of industrious writing, Lord Vetinari looked up from his paperwork.
    “Ah, Mr. Lipwig,” he said. “Not in your golden suit?”
    “It’s being cleaned, sir.”
    “I trust the day goes well with you? Up until now, that is?”
    Moist looked around, sorting hastily through the Post Office’s recent little problems. Apart from Drumknott, who was standing by his master with an attitude of deferential alertness, they were alone.
    “Look, I can explain,” he said.
    Lord Vetinari lifted an eyebrow with the care of one who, having found a piece of caterpillar in his salad, raises the rest of the lettuce.
    “Pray do,” he said, leaning back.
    “We got a bit carried away,” said Moist. “We were a bit too creative in our thinking. We encouraged mongooses to breed in the posting boxes to keep down the snakes…”
    Lord Vetinari said nothing.
    “Er…which, admittedly, we introduced into the letter boxes to reduce the numbers of toads…”
    Lord Vetinari repeated himself.
    “Er…which, it’s true, staff put in the posting boxes to keep down the snails…”
    Lord Vetinari remained unvocal.
    “Er…These, I must in fairness point out, got into the boxes of their own accord, in order to eat the glue on the stamps,” said Moist, aware that he was beginning to burble.
    “Well, at least you were saved the trouble of having to introduce them yourselves,” said Lord Vetinari cheerfully. “As you indicate, this may well have been a case where chilly logic should have been replaced by the common sense of, perhaps, the average chicken. But that is not the reason I asked you to come here today.”
    “If it’s about the cabbage-flavored stamp glue—” Moist began.
    Vetinari waved a hand. “An amusing incident,” he said, “and I believe nobody actually died.”
    “Er…the Second-Issue 50p Stamp?” Moist ventured.
    “The one they call ‘The Lovers’?” said Vetinari. “The League of Decency did complain to me, yes, but—”
    “Our artist didn’t realize what he was sketching! He doesn’t know much about agriculture! He thought the young couple were sowing seeds!”
    “Ahem,” said Vetinari. “But I understand that the offending affair can only be seen in any detail with quite a large magnifying glass, and so the offense, if such it be, is largely self-inflicted.” He gave one of his slightly frightening little smiles. “I understand the few copies in circulation among the stamp collectors are affixed to a plain brown envelope.” He looked at Moist’s blank face, and sighed.
    “Tell me, Mr. Lipwig, would you like to make some real money?”
    Moist gave this some thought and then said, very carefully: “What will happen to me if I say yes?”
    “You will start a new career of challenge and adventure, Mr. Lipwig.”
    Moist shifted uneasily. He didn’t need to look around to know that, by now, someone would be standing by the door. Someone heavily but not grotesquely built, in a cheap black suit, and with absolutely no sense of humor.
    “And, just for the sake of argument, what will happen if I say no?”
    “You may walk out of that door over there, and the matter will not be raised again.”
    It was a door in a different wall. He had not come in by it.
    “That door over there?” Moist stood up and pointed.
    “Indeed so, Mr. Lipwig.”
    Moist turned to Drumknott. “May I borrow your pencil, Mr. Drumknott? Thank you.”
    He walked over to the door and opened it. Then he cupped one hand to his ear, theatrically, and dropped the pencil.
    “Let’s see how dee—”
    Clik! The pencil bounced and rolled on some quite solid-looking floorboards. Moist picked it up and stared at it, and then walked slowly back to his chair.
    “Didn’t there used to be a deep pit full of spikes, down there?” he said.
    “I can’t imagine why you would think that,” said Lord Vetinari.
    “I’m sure there was,” Moist insisted.
    “Can you recall, Drumknott, why our Mr. Lipwig should think that there used to be a deep pit full of spikes behind that door?” said Vetinari.
    “I can’t imagine why he would think that, my lord,” Drumknott murmured.
    “I’m very happy at the Post Office, you know,” said Moist, and realized that he sounded defensive.
    “I’m sure you are. You make a superb postmaster general,” said