Making Money

shister,” said Cribbins.
    The woman’s anxious expression intensified. “Oh, I’m sorry, I hope it hasn’t gone on the—”
    Cribbins carefully put his hand over the cup. “I meant that I am more than shatisfied,” he said, and he was. It was a bloody miracle, that’s what it was. If Om was going to hand them out like this, he might even start believing in Him.
    And it got better the more you thought about it, Cribbins told himself, as the woman hurried away. How’d the kid done it? There must have been cronies. The hangman, for one, a couple of jailers…
    Reflectively, he removed his false teeth with a twang, swilled them gently in the tea, patted them dry with his handkerchief and wrestled them back into his mouth a few seconds before footsteps told him the woman was returning. She was positively vibrating with genteel courage.
    “Excuse me, Reverend, but can I ask a favor?” she said, going pink.
    “Og orsk…ugger! usht arg ogent—” Cribbins turned his back, and against a chorus of snaps and twoings dragged the wretched dentures around the right way. Damned things! Why he had ever bothered to lever them out of the old man’s mouth, he’d never know.
    “I do beg your pardon, shister, a little dental mishap there…” he murmured, turning back and dabbing at his mouth. “Pray continue.”
    “It’s funny you should say that, Reverend,” said the woman, her eyes bright with nervousness, “because I belong to a small group of ladies who run, well, a god-of-the-month club. Er…that is, we pick a god and believe in him…or her, obviously, or it, although we draw the line at the ones with teeth and too many legs, er, and foreign ones, of course, and then we pray to them for a month and then we sit down and discuss it. Well, there’s so many, aren’t there. Thousands! We’ve never really considered Om, though, but if you would care to give us a little talk next Tuesday I’m sure we’ll be happy to give him a jolly good try!”
    Springs pinged as Cribbins gave her a huge smile.
    “What is your name, shister?” he asked.
    “Berenice,” she said. “Berenice, er, Houser.”
    Ah, no longer using the bastard’s name, very wise, thought Cribbins. “What a wonderful idea, Berenish,” he said. “I would consider it a pleshure!”
    She beamed.
    “There wouldn’t be any biscuits, would there, Berenish?” Cribbins added.
    Ms. Houser blushed. “I believe I have some chocolate ones somewhere,” she volunteered, as if letting him in on a big secret.
    “May Anoia rattle your drawers, shister,” said Cribbins to her retreating back.
    Wonderful, he thought, as she bustled off, blushing and happy. He tucked his notebook into his jacket and sat back and listened to the ticking of the clock on the wall and the gentle snores of the beggars, who were the normal habitués of this office on a hot afternoon. All was peaceful, settled, organized, just like life ought to be.
    It was going to be the gravy boat for him from this day forward.
    If he was very, very careful.

    MOIST RAN DOWN the lengths of the vaults toward the brilliant light at the far end. There was a tableau of peacefulness. Hubert was standing in front of the Glooper, occasionally tapping a pipe. Igor was blowing some curious glass creation over his little forge, and Mr. Clamp, formerly known as Owlswick Jenkins, was sitting at his desk with a faraway look on his face.
    Moist sensed the doom ahead. Something was wrong. It might not be even a particular thing, it was just a sheer platonic wrongness—and he did not like Mr. Clamp’s expression at all.
    Nevertheless, the human brain, which survives by hoping from one second to another, will always endeavor to put off the moment of truth. Moist approached the desk, rubbing his hands together. “How’s it going then, Owl—I mean Mr. Clamp,” he said. “Finished it yet, have we?”
    “Oh, yes,” said Clamp, a strange, mirthless little smile on his face. “Here it is.”
    On the desk in front of him was the other side of the first proper dollar bill ever to be designed. Moist had seen pictures quite like it, but they had been when he was four years old, in nursery school. The face of what was presumably meant to be Lord Vetinari had two dots for eyes and a broad grin. The panorama of the vibrant city of Ankh-Morpork appeared to consist of a lot of square houses, with a window, all square, in each corner and a door in the middle.
    “I think it’s one of the best things I have