Making Money

make us all rich, Mr. Lipwig?”
    Oh damn, thought Moist, why are they all here?
    “Well, I’m going to do my best to get my hands on your money!” he promised.
    This got a cheer. Moist wasn’t surprised. Tell someone you were going to rob them and all that happened was that you got a reputation as a truthful man.
    The waiting ears sucked at his tongue, and his common sense went and hid. It heard his mouth add: “And so I can get more of it, I think—that is to say, the chairman thinks—that we should be looking at one percent interest on all accounts that have five dollars in them for a whole year.”
    There was a choking sound from the chief cashier, but no great stir from the crowd, most of whom were of the Sock Under The Mattress persuasion. In fact, the news did not appear to please. Then someone raised his hand and said: “That’s a lot to pay just to have you stick our money in your cellar, isn’t it?”
    “No, it’s what I’ll pay you to let me stick your money in my cellar for a year,” said Moist.
    “You will?”
    “Certainly. Trust me.”
    The inquirer’s face twisted into the familiar mask of a slow thinker trying to speed up.
    “So where’s the catch?” he managed.
    Everywhere, thought Moist. For one thing, I won’t be storing it in my cellar, I’ll be storing it in someone else’s pocket. But you really don’t need to know that right now.
    “No catch,” he said. “If you put a hundred dollars on deposit, then after a year it’ll be worth one hundred and one dollars.”
    “That’s all very well for you to say, but where would the likes of me get a hundred dollars?”
    “Right here, if you invest just one dollar and wait for—how long, Mr. Bent?”
    The chief cashier snorted. “Four hundred and sixty-one years!”
    “Okay, it’s a bit of a wait, but your great-great-great-etc.-grandchildren will be proud of you,” said Moist, above the laughter. “But I’ll tell you what I’ll do; if you open an account here today for, oh, five dollars, we’ll give you a free dollar on Monday. A free dollar to take away, ladies and gentlemen, and where are you going to get a better deal than—”
    “A real dollar, pray, or one of these fakes?”
    There was a commotion near the door, and Pucci Lavish swept in. Or, at least, tried to sweep. But a good sweep needs planning, and probably a rehearsal. You shouldn’t just go for it and hope. All you get is a lot of shoving.
    The two heavies, there to clear a path through the press of people, got defeated by sheer numbers, which meant that the rather slimmer young men leading her exquisitely bred blond hounds got stuck behind them. Pucci had to shoulder her way through.
    It could have been so good, Moist felt. It had all the right ingredients, the black-clad bruisers so menacing, the dogs so sleek and blond. But Pucci herself had been blessed with beady, suspicious little eyes and a generous upper lip which combined to the long neck to put the honest observer in mind of a duck who’d just been offended by a passing trout.
    Someone should have told her that black was not her color, that the expensive fur could have looked better on its original owners, that if you were going to wear high heels then this week’s fashion tip was “Don’t Wear Sunglasses At The Same Time,” because when you walked out of the bright sunlight into the relative gloom of, say, a bank, you would lose all sense of direction and impale the foot of one of your own bodyguards. Someone should have told her, in fact, that true style comes from innate cunning and mendacity. You can’t buy it.
    “Miss Pucci Lavish, ladies and gentlemen!” said Moist, starting to clap as Pucci whipped her sunglasses off and advanced on the counter with murder in her eye. “One of the directors who will join us all in making money.”
    There was some clapping from the crowd, most of whom had never seen Pucci before but wanted the free show.
    “I say! Listen to me! Everyone listen to me,” she commanded. She waved what seemed to Moist to look very much like his experimental dollar bills. “This is just worthless paper! This is what he will be giving you!”
    “No, it’s the same as an open check or a banker’s draft,” said Moist.
    “Really? We shall see! I say! Good people of Ankh-Morpork! Do any of you think this piece of paper could be worth a dollar? Would anyone give me a dollar for it?” Pucci waved the paper dismissively.
    “Dunno. What is it?” said someone, and