Making Money (Discworld 36)

The corporal in charge looked as if this did not meet with his approval. 'We've got to guard it,' he pointed out, eyeing the black robes and the shimmering Professor Flead.

'That's fine, we can work around you,' said Moist. 'Do please stay. I'm sure there's not much risk.'

'Risk?' said the corporal.

'Although perhaps it might be better if you fanned out to keep the public away,' Moist went on. 'We would not want anything to happen to members of the public. If, perhaps, you could push them back a hundred yards or so?'

'Told to stay here,' said the corporal, looking Moist up and down. He lowered his voice. 'Er, aren't you the Postmaster General?'

Moist recognized the look and the tone. Here we go... 'Yes, indeed,' he said.

The watchman lowered his voice still further. 'So, er, do you by any chance have any of the Blue - '

'Can't help you there,' said Moist quickly, reaching into his pocket, 'but I do just happen to have here a very rare 20p Cabbage Green stamp with the highly amusing "misprint" that caused a bit of a stir last year, you may remember. This is the only one left. Very collectable.'

A small envelope appeared in his hand. Just as quickly, it vanished into the corporal's pocket.

'We can't let anything happen to members of the public,' he said, 'so I suggest we'd better keep them back a hundred yards or so.'

'Good thinking,' said Moist.

A few minutes later Moist had the square to himself, the watchmen having worked out quite quickly that the further back from danger they pushed the public the further from said danger they too would be.

And now, Moist thought, for the Moment of Truth. If possible, though, it would become the Moment of Plausible Lies, since most people were happier with them.

The Umnian golems were bigger and heavier than the ones commonly seen around the city, but they were beautiful. Of course they were  -  they had probably been made by golems. And their builders had given them what looked like muscles, and calm, sad faces. In the last hour or so, in defiance of the watchmen, the lovable kids of the city had managed to scrawl a black moustache on this one.

O-kay. Now for the professor...

'Tell me, professor, do you enjoy being dead?' he said.

'Enjoy? How can anyone enjoy it, you fool?' said Flead.

'Not much fun?'

'Young man, the word "fun" is not applicable to existence beyond the grave,' said Flead.

'And is that why you hang around the department?'

'Yes! It maybe run by amateurs these days, but there's always something going on.'

'Certainly,' said Moist. 'However, I'm wondering if someone of your... interests would not find them better served somewhere where there is always something coming off.'

'I do not understand your meaning.'

'Tell me, professor, have you heard of the Pink PussyCat Club?'

'No, I have not. Cats are not normally pink in these times, are they?'

'Really? Well, let me tell you about the Pink PussyCat Club,' said Moist. 'Excuse us, Dr Hicks.' He waved away Hicks, who winked and led his students back to the crowd. Moist put his arm around the ghostly shoulders. It was uncomfortable to hold it there with no actual shoulder to take the weight, but style was everything in these matters.

Some urgent whispering passed to and fro, and then Flead said: 'You mean it's... smutty?'

Smut, thought Moist. He really is old.

'Oh, yes. Even, I might go so far as to say, suggestive.'

'Do they show their... ankles?' said Flead, his eyes gleaming.