Making Money

Someone should have told her that black was not her colour, that the expensive fur had looked better on its original owners, that if you are going to wear high heels then this week’s fashion tip is don’t wear sunglasses at the same time because when you walk out of the bright sunlight into the relative gloom of, say, a bank, you will 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 eyes. ‘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. Once again she waved what seemed to Moist to look very much like one of the experimental dollar bills. ‘This is just worthless paper! This is what he will be giving you!’

‘No, it’s the same as an open cheque 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 there was a buzz from the crowd.

‘An experimental banknote,’ said Moist, over the growing hubbub. ‘Just to try out the idea.’

‘How many of them are there, then?’ said the enquiring man.

‘About twelve,’ said Moist.

The man turned to Pucci. ‘I’ll give you five dollars for it, how about that?’

‘Five? It says it’s worth one!’ said Pucci, aghast.

‘Yeah, right. Five dollars, miss.’

‘Why? Are you insane?’

‘I’m as sane as the next man, thank you, young lady!’

‘Seven dollars here!’ said the next man, raising a hand.

‘This is madness!’ wailed Pucci.

‘Mad?’ said the next man. He pointed a finger at Moist. ‘If I’d bought a pocketful of the black penny stamps when that feller brought them out last year I’d be a rich man!’

‘Anyone remember the Triangular Blue?’ said another bidder. ‘Fifty pence, it cost. I put one on a letter to my aunt; by the time it got there it was worth fifty dollars! And the ol’ baggage wouldn’t give it back!’

‘It’s worth a hundred and sixty now,’ said someone behind him. ‘Auctioned at Dave’s Stamp and Pin Emporium last week. Ten dollars is my bid, miss!’

‘Fifteen here!’

Moist had a good view from the stairs. A small consortium had formed at the back of the hall, working on the basis that it was better to have small shares than none at all.

Stamp collecting! It had started on day one, and then ballooned like some huge … thing, running on strange, mad rules. Was there any other field where flaws made things worth more? Would you buy a suit just because one arm was shorter than the other? Or because a bit of spare cloth was still attached? Of course, when Moist had spotted this he’d put in flaws on purpose, as a matter of public entertainment, but he certainly hadn’t planned for Lord Vetinari’s head to appear upside down just once on every sheet of Blues. One of the printers had been about to destroy them when Moist brought him down with a flying tackle.

The whole business was unreal, and unreal was Moist’s world. Back when he’d been a naughty boy he’d sold dreams, and the big seller in that world was the one where you got very rich by a stroke of luck. He’d sold glass as diamond because greed clouded men’s eyes. Sensible, upright people, who worked hard every day, nevertheless believed, against all experience, in money for nothing. But the stamp collectors … they believed in small perfections. It was possible to get one small part of the world right. And even if you couldn’t get it right, you at least knew what bit was missing. It might be, f’r instance, the flawed 50p Triangular Blue, but there were still six of them out there, and who knew what piece of luck might attend the dedicated searcher?

Rather a large piece would be needed, Moist had to admit, because four of them were safely tucked away for a rainy day in a little lead box under the floorboards in Moist’s office. Even so, two were out there somewhere, perhaps destroyed, lost, eaten by snails or — and here hope lay thick as winter snow — still in some unregarded bundle of letters at the back of a drawer.

— and Miss Pucci simply didn’t know how to work a crowd. She stamped and demanded attention and bullied and insulted and it didn’t help that she’d called them ‘good people’, because no one likes an outright liar. And now she was losing her temper, because the bidding had reached thirty-four dollars. And now–

— she’d torn it up!

‘That’s what I think of this silly money!’ she announced, throwing the pieces in the air. Then she stood there panting and looking triumphant, as if she’d done something clever.