Read Online Making Money by Terry Pratchett - Free Book Online Page A

In one swift movement Bent pulled a sheet of paper from the out tray of the nearest desk, scanned it briefly, and dropped it back again with a little grunt that signified either his approval that the clerk had got things right or his own disappointment that he had not found anything wrong.
    The sheet had been crammed with calculations, and surely no mortal could have followed them at a glance. But Moist would not have bet a penny that Bent hadn’t accounted for every line.
    “Here in this room we are at the heart of the bank,” said the chief cashier proudly.
    “The heart,” said Moist blankly.
    “Here we calculate interest and charges and mortgages and costs and—everything, in fact. And we do not make mistakes.”
    “What, never?”
    “Well, hardly ever. Oh, some individuals occasionally make an error,” Bent conceded with distaste. “Fortunately, I check every calculation. No errors get past me, you may depend upon it. An error, sir, is worse than a sin, the reason being that a sin is often a matter of opinion or viewpoint or even of timing but an error is a fact and it cries out for correction. I see you are not sneering, Mr. Lipwig.”
    “I’m not? I mean, no. I’m not!” said Moist. Damn. He’d forgotten the ancient wisdom: take care, when you are closely observing, that you are not closely observed.
    “But you are appalled, nevertheless,” said Bent. “You use words, and I’m told you do it well, but words are soft and can be pummeled into different meanings by a skilled tongue. Numbers are hard. Oh, you can cheat with them but you cannot change their nature. Three is three. You cannot persuade it to be four, even if you give it a great big kiss.” There was a very faint snigger from somewhere in the hall, but Mr. Bent apparently did not notice. “And they are not very forgiving. We work very hard here, at things that must be done,” he said. “And this is where I sit, at the very center…”
    They’d reached the big stepped dais in the center of the room. As they did so, a skinny woman in a white blouse and long black skirt edged respectfully past them and carefully placed a wad of paper in a tray that was already piled high. She glanced at Mr. Bent, who said, “Thank you, Miss Drapes.” He was too busy pointing out the marvels of the dais, on which a semicircular desk of complex design had been mounted, to notice the expression that passed across her pale little face. But Moist did, and read a thousand words, probably written in her diary and never ever shown to anyone.
    “Do you see?” said the chief cashier impatiently.
    “Hmm?” said Moist, watching the woman scurry away.
    “See here, you see?” said Bent, sitting down and pointing with what almost seemed like enthusiasm. “By means of these treadles I can move my desk to face anywhere in the room! It is the panopticon of my little world. Nothing is beyond my eye!” He pedaled furiously and the whole dais began to rumble around on its turntable. “And it can turn at two speeds, too, as you can see, because of this ingenious—”
    “I can see that almost nothing is beyond your eye,” said Moist, as Miss Drapes sat down. “But I’m sorry to interrupt your work.”
    Bent glanced at the in tray and gave a little shrug.
    “That pile? That will not take me long,” he said, setting the hand brake and standing up. “Besides, I think it important that you see what we are really about at this point, because I must now take you to meet Hubert.” He gave a little cough.
    “Hubert is not what you’re about?” Moist suggested, and then headed back to the main hall.
    “I’m sure he means well,” said Bent, leaving the words hanging in the air like a noose.

     

    O UT IN THE hall a dignified hush prevailed. A few people were at the counters, an old lady watched her little dog drink from the brass bowl inside the door, and any words that were uttered were spoken in a suitably hushed voice. Moist was all for money, it was one of