Making Money

his bones back into the appropriate sockets, that he actually felt a lot better. Perhaps that was the idea. Perhaps the hideous white-hot pain was there to make you realize that there were worse things in the world than the occasional twinge.
    “I Am Very Sorry,” said Gladys. “I Did Not Know That Was Going To Happen. It Said In The Magazine That The Recipient Would Experience A Delightful Frisson.”
    “I don’t think that means you should be able to see your own eyeball,” said Moist, rubbing his neck. Gladys’s eyes dimmed so much that he was moved to add: “I feel much better now, though. It’s so nice to look down and not see my heels.”
    “Don’t you listen to him, it wasn’t that bad,” said Peggy, with sisterly fellow feeling. “Men always make a big fuss over a little pain.”
    “They Are Just Big Cuddly Babies, Really,” said Gladys. That caused a thoughtful pause.
    “Where did that come from?” said Moist.
    “The Information Was Imparted To Me By Glenda At The Stamp Counter.”
    “Well, from now on I don’t want you to—”
    The big doors swung open. They let in a hubbub from the floors below, and riding the noise, like some kind of aural surfer, was Mr. Bent, saturnine and far too shiny for this time of the morning.
    “Good morning, Master,” he said icily. “The street outside is full of people. And might I take this opportunity to congratulate you on disproving a theory currently much in vogue at Unseen University?”
    “Huh?” said Moist.
    “There are, some risible people like to suggest, an infinite number of universes, in order to allow everything that may happen a place to happen in. This is, of course, nonsense, which they entertain only because they believe words are the same as reality. Now, however, I can disprove the theory, since in such an infinity of worlds there would have to be one where I would applaud your recent actions and, let me assure you, sir, infinity is not that big!” Mr. Bent drew himself up. “People are hammering on the doors! They want to close their accounts! I told you banking was about trust and confidence!”
    “Oh dear,” said Moist.
    “They are asking for gold!”
    “I thought that’s what you prom—”
    “It is only a metaphorical promise! I told you, it is based on the understanding that no one will actually demand it!”
    “How many people want to withdraw their money?” said Moist.
    “Nearly twenty!”
    “Then they are making a lot of noise, aren’t they?”
    Mr. Bent looked uncomfortable.
    “Well, there are some others,” he said. “A few misguided people are seeking to open accounts, but—”
    “How many?”
    “About two or three hundred, but—”
    “Opening accounts, you say?” said Moist. Mr. Bent was squirming.
    “Only for trifling sums, a few dollars here and there,” he said dismissively. “It would appear that they think you have ‘something up your sleeve.’” The inverted commas shuddered, like a well-bred girl picking up a dead vole.
    Some of Moist recoiled. But part of him began to feel the wind on his face.
    “Well, let’s not disappoint them, shall we?” he said, picking up the gold top hat, which was still a bit sticky. Bent glared at it.
    “The other banks are furious, you know,” he said, high-stepping hurriedly after Moist as the master of the Royal Mint headed for the stairs.
    “Is that good or bad?” said Moist over his shoulder. “Listen, what’s the rule about bank-lending? I heard it once. It’s about interest.”
    “Do you mean ‘borrow at one-half, lend at two, go home at three’?” said Bent.
    “Right! I’ve been thinking about that. We could shave those numbers, couldn’t we?”
    “This is Ankh-Morpork! A bank has to be a fortress! That is expensive!”
    “But we could alter them a bit, couldn’t we? And we don’t pay interest on balances of less than a hundred dollars, correct?”
    “Yes, that is so.”
    “Well, from now on anyone can open an account with five dollars and we’ll start paying interest a lot earlier. That’ll smooth out the lumps in the mattresses, won’t it?”
    “Master, I protest! Banking is not a game!”
    “Dear Mr. Bent, it is a game. And it’s an old game, called ‘What can we get away with?’”
    A cheer went up. They had reached an open landing that overlooked the hall of the bank like a pulpit overlooks the sinners, and a field of faces stared up at Moist in silence for a moment. Then someone called out: “Are you going to