'Two hundred times more than the stamp?'
'That's how it's going sir,' said Stanley, his eyes sparkling. 'People post letters to themselves just to get the stamp, er, stamped, sir. So they've been used.'
'Er . . . I've got a couple of rather crusty handkerchiefs in my pocket,' said Moist, mystified. 'Do you think people might want to buy them at two hundred times what they cost?'
'No, sir!' said Stanley. 'Then why should—'
'There's a lot of interest, sir. I thought we could do a whole set of stamps for the big guilds, sir. All the collectors would want them. What do you think?'
'That's a very clever idea, Stanley,' said Moist. 'We'll do that. The one for the Seamstresses' Guild might have to go inside a plain brown envelope, eh? Haha!' This time it was Stanley who looked perplexed. 'Sorry, sir?' Moist coughed. 'Oh, nothing. Well, I can see you're learning fast, Stanley.' Some things, anyway. 'Er . . . yes, sir. Er . . . I don't want to push myself forward, sir—'
'Push away, Stanley, push away,' said Moist cheerfully. Stanley pulled a small paper folder out of his pocket, opened it, and laid it reverentially in front of Moist. 'Mr Spools helped me with some of it,' he said. 'But I did a lot.' It was a stamp. It was a yellowy-green colour. It showed - Moist peered - a field of cabbages, with some buildings on the horizon. He sniffed. It smelled of cabbages. Oh, yes. 'Printed with cabbage ink and using gum made from broccoli, sir,' said Stanley, full of pride. 'A Salute to the Cabbage Industry of the Sto Plains, sir. I think it might do very well. Cabbages are so popular, sir. You can make so many things out of them!'
'Well, I can see that—'
'There's cabbage soup, cabbage beer, cabbage fudge, cabbage cake, cream of cabbage—'
'Yes, Stanley, I think you—'
'—pickled cabbage, cabbage jelly, cabbage salad, boiled cabbage, deep-fried cabbage—'
'Yes, but now can—'
'—fricassee of cabbage, cabbage chutney, Cabbage Surprise, sausages—'
'Sausages?'
'Filled with cabbage, sir. You can make practically anything with cabbage, sir. Then there's—'
'Cabbage stamps,' said Moist, terminally. 'At fifty pence, I note. You have hidden depths, Stanley.'
'I owe it all to you, Mr Lipwig!' Stanley burst out. 'I have put the childish playground of pins right behind me, sir! The world of stamps, which can teach a young man much about history and geography as well as being a healthy, enjoyable, engrossing and thoroughly worthwhile hobby that will give him an interest that will last a lifetime, has opened up before me and—'
'Yes, yes, thank you!' said Moist. '—and I'm putting thirty dollars into the pot, sir. All my savings. Just to show we support you.' Moist heard all the words, but had to wait for them to make sense. 'Pot?' he said at last. 'You mean like a bet?'
uo;Murdering conniving bastard of a weasel” was acceptable, however.'
'I shall remember that, Miss Maccalariat.'
'Very good, Postmaster.' Miss Maccalariat turned on her heel and went back to haranguing someone for not using blotting paper. Moist handed the paper to Miss Dearheart. 'He's going to walk away with it,' he said. 'He's just throwing words around. The Trunk's too big to fail. Too many investors. He'll get more money, keep the system going just this side of disaster, then let it collapse. Buy it up then via another company, maybe, at a knock-down price.'
'I'd suspect him of anything,' said Miss Dearheart. 'But you sound very certain.'
'That's what I'd do,' said Moist, 'er . . . if I was that kind of person. It's the oldest trick in the book. You get the punt— you get others so deeply involved that they don't dare fold. It's the dream, you see? They think if they stay in it'll all work out. They daren't think it's all a dream. You use big words to tell them it's going to be jam tomorrow and they hope. But they'll never win. Part of them knows that, but the rest of them never listens to it. The house always wins.'
'Why do people like Gilt get away with it?'
'I just told you. It's because people hope. They'll believe that someone will sell them a real diamond for a dollar. Sorry.'
'Do you know how I came to work for the Trust?' said Miss Dearheart. Because clay people are easier to deal with? Moist thought. They don't cough when you talk to them? 'No,' he said. 'I used to work in a bank in Sto Lat. The Cabbage Growers' Co-operative—'
'Oh, the one on the town square? With the carved cabbage over the door?' said Moist, before he could stop himself. 'You know it?' she said. 'Well, yes. I went past it, once . . .' Oh no, he thought, as his mind ran ahead of the conversation, oh, please, no . . . 'It wasn't a bad job,' said Miss Dearheart. 'In our office we had to inspect drafts and cheques. Looking for forgeries, you know? And one day I let four through. Four fakes! It cost the bank two thousand dollars. They were cash drafts, and the signatures were perfect. I got sacked for that. They said they had to do something, otherwise the customers would lose confidence. It's not fun, having people think you might be a crook. And that's what happens to people like us. People like Gilt always get away with it. Are you all right?'
'Hmm?' said Moist. 'You look a bit . . . off colour.' That had been a good day, Moist thought. At least, up until now it had been a good day. He'd been quite pleased with it at the time. You weren't supposed ever to meet the people afterwards. Gods damn Mr Pump and his actuarial concept of murder! He sighed. Oh well, it had come to this. He'd known it would. Him and Gilt, arm-wrestling to see who was the biggest bastard. 'This is the country edition of the Times,' he said. 'They don't go to press with the city edition for another ninety minutes, in case of late-breaking news. I think I can wipe the smile off his face, at least.'
'What are you going to do?' said Miss Dearheart. Moist adjusted the winged hat. 'Attempt the impossible,' he said.
Chapter Twelve