Going Postal - Terry Pratchett [122]
“I think I’ve got to insist, Mr. Gilt,” said Pony, looking at his feet.
“And what could you deliver?” said Gilt. “That’s what the board will want to know. They’ll say to me: Reacher, we’re giving good old George everything he asks for, what will we be getting in return?”
Forgetting for the moment that it was a quarter of what he’d asked for, good old George said: “Well, we could patch up all round and get some of the really shaky towers back into some sort of order, especially 99 and 201…oh, there’s just so much to do—”
“Would it, for example, give us a year of reasonable service?”
Mr. Pony struggled manfully with the engineer’s permanent dread of having to commit himself to anything, and managed, “Well, if we don’t lose too many staff, and the winter isn’t too bad, but of course there’s always—”
Gilt snapped his fingers. “By damn, George, you’ve talked me into it! I’ll tell the board that I’m backing you and to hell with them!”
“Well, that’s very kind of you, sir, of course,” said Pony, bewildered, “but it’s only papering over the cracks, really. If we don’t have a major rebuild, we’re only laying up even more trouble for the future—”
“In a year or so, George, you can lay any plans you like in front of us!” said Gilt jovially. “Your skill and ingenuity will be the saving of the company! Now, I know you’re a busy man and I mustn’t keep you. Go and perform miracles of economy, Mr. Pony!” Mr. Pony staggered out, proud and bemused and full of dread.
“Silly old fool,” said Gilt, and reached down and opened the bottom drawer of his desk. He pulled out a bear trap, which he set with some effort, and then stood in the middle of the floor with his back to it.
“Igor!” he called.
“Yeth, thur,” said Igor, behind him. There was a snap. “I think thith ith yourth, thur,” Igor added, handing Gilt the sprung trap. Gilt looked down. The man’s legs appeared unscathed.
“How did you—” he began.
“Oh, we Igorth are no thrangerth to marthterth of an inquiring mind, thur,” said Igor gloomily. “One of my gentlemen uthed to thtand with hith back to a pit lined with thpiketh, thur. Oh how we chuckled, thur.”
“And what happened?”
“One day he forgot and thtepped into it. Talk about laugh, thur.”
Gilt laughed, too, and he went back to his desk. He liked that kind of joke.
“Igor, would you say that I’m insane?” he said.
Igors are not supposed to lie to an employer. It’s part of the Code of the Igors. He took refuge in strict linguistic honesty.
“I wouldn’t find mythelf able to thay that, thur,” he said.
“I must be, Igor. Either that or everyone else is,” said Gilt. “I mean, I show them what I do, I show them how the cards are marked, I tell them what I am…and they nudge one another and grin and each one of them thinks himself no end of a fine fellow to be doing business with me. They throw good money after bad. They believe themselves to be sharp operators, and yet they offer themselves like little lambs. How I love to see their expressions when they think they’re being astute.”
“Indeed, thur,” said Igor. He was wondering if that job at the new hospital was still open. His cousin Igor was already working there and had told him it was wonderful, sometimes you had to work all night! And you got a white coat, all the rubber gloves you could eat, and, best of all, you got rethpect.
“It’s so…basic,” said Gilt. “You make money as it runs down, you make money building it up again, you might even make a little money running it, then you sell it to yourself when it collapses. The leases alone are worth a fortune. Give Alphonse his nuts, will you?”
“Twelve and a half percent! Twelve and a half percent!” said the cockatoo, sidling up and down the perch excitedly.
“Certainly, thur,” said Igor, taking a bag out of his pocket and advancing cautiously. Alphonse had a beak like a pair of shears.
Or maybe try veterinary work like his other cousin Igor. That was a good, traditional area, certainly. Pity about all that publicity when the hamster smashed its way out of its treadmill