Making Money

three, opened it, said “Hello, Tiddles” as the Post Office’s antique cat padded in, counted to nineteen as the cat did its circuit of the room, said “Good-bye, Tiddles” as it plodded back into the corridor, shut the door, and went back to his desk.
    You just opened the door for an elderly cat who’s lost hold of the concept of walking around things, he told himself, as he rewound the alarm. You do it every day. Do you think that’s the action of a sane man? Okay, it’s sad to see him standing for hours with his head up against a chair until someone moves it, but now you get up every day to move the chair for him. This is what honest work does to a person.
    Yes, but dishonest work nearly got me hanged! he protested.
    So? Hanging only lasts a couple of minutes. The Pension Fund Committee lasts a lifetime! It’s all so boring! You’re trapped in chains of goldish!
    Moist had ended up near the window. The coachman was eating a cookie. When he caught sight of Moist, he gave a friendly wave.
    Moist almost jumped back from the window. He sat down hurriedly and countersigned FG/2 requisition forms for fifteen minutes straight. Then he went out into the corridor, which on its far side opened to the big hall, and looked down.
    He’d promised to get the big chandeliers back, and now they both hung there, glittering like private star systems. The big, shiny counter gleamed in its polished splendor. There was the hum of purposeful and largely efficient activity.
    He’d done it. It all worked. It was the Post Office. And it wasn’t any fun anymore.
    He went down into the sorting rooms, he dropped into the postmen’s locker room to have a convivial cup of tar-like tea, he wandered around the coach yard and got in the way of people who were trying to do their jobs, and last he plodded back to his office, bowed under the weight of the humdrum.
    He just happened to glance out of the window, as anyone might.
    The coachman was eating his lunch! His damn lunch! He had a little folding chair on the pavement, with his meal on a little folding table! It was a large pork pie and a bottle of beer! There was even a white tablecloth!
    Moist went down the main stairs like a maddened tap dancer and ran out through the big double doors. In one crowded moment, as he hurried toward the coach, the meal, table, cloth, and chair were stowed in some unnoticeable compartment, and the man was standing by the invitingly open door.
    “Look, what is this about?” Moist demanded, panting for breath. “I don’t have all—”
    “Ah, Mr. Lipwig,” said Lord Vetinari’s voice from within, “do step inside. Thank you, Houseman, Mrs. Lavish will be waiting. Hurry up, Mr. Lipwig, I am not going to eat you. I have just had an acceptable cheese sandwich.”
    What harm can it do to find out? It’s a question that left bruises down the centuries, even more than “It can’t hurt if I only take one” and “It’s all right if you only do it standing up.”
    Moist climbed into the shadows. The door clicked behind him, and he turned suddenly.
    “Oh, really,” said Lord Vetinari. “It’s just shut, it isn’t locked, Mr. Lipwig. Do compose yourself!” Beside him, Drumknott sat primly with a large leather satchel on his lap.
    “What is it you want?” said Moist.
    Lord Vetinari raised that eyebrow. “I? Nothing. What do you want?”
    “What?”
    “Well, you got into my coach, Mr. Lipwig.”
    “Yes, but I was told it was outside!”
    “And if you had been told it was black, would you have found it necessary to do anything about it? There is the door, Mr. Lipwig.”
    “But you’ve been parked out here all morning!”
    “It is a public street, sir,” said Lord Vetinari. “Now sit down. Good.”
    The coach jerked into motion.
    “You are restless, Mr. Lipwig,” said Vetinari. “You are careless of your safety. Life has lost its flavor, has it not?”
    Moist didn’t reply.
    “Let us talk about angels,” said Lord Vetinari.
    “Oh yes, I know that one,” said Moist bitterly. “I’ve heard that one. That’s the one you got me with after I was hanged—”
    Vetinari raised an eyebrow. “Only mostly hanged, I think you’ll find. To within an inch of your life.”
    “Whatever! I was hanged! And the worst part of that was finding out I only got two paragraphs in the Tanty Bugle! Two paragraphs, may I say, for a life of ingenious, inventive, and strictly nonviolent crime? I could have been an example to youngsters! Page one got