Making Money - Terry Pratchett [23]
“Really?” said Moist, looking around nervously. “Er…do you have to come down here at some special time?”
“Well, during banking hours usually, but we let groups in by appointment.”
“You know,” said Moist, “I think this conversation has somehow got away from me…”
Bent waved vaguely at the ceiling.
“I refer to the wonderful vaulting,” he said. “The word derives from fornix, meaning ‘arch.’”
“Ah! Yes? Right!” said Moist. “You know, I wouldn’t be surprised if not many people knew that.”
And then Moist saw the Glooper, glowing among the arches.
CHAPTER 3
The Glooper A proper Hubert
One very big mattress Some observations on tourism
Gladys makes a sandwich The Blind Letter Office
Mrs. Lavish’s posterity An ominous note Flight planning
An even more ominous note, and certainly
more ominous than the first note
Mr. Lipwig boards the wrong coach
MOIST HAD SEEN glass being bent and blown, and marveled at the skill of the people who did it, marveled as only a man can marvel whose skill is only in bending words. Some of those geniuses had probably worked on this. But so had their counterparts from the hypothetical Other Side, glassblowers who had sold their souls to some molten god for the skill to blow glass into spirals and intersecting bottles and shapes that seemed to be quite close but some distance away at the same time. Water gurgled, sloshed, and, yes, glooped along glass tubing. There was a smell of salt.
Bent nudged Moist, pointed to an improbable wooden hat-stand, and wordlessly handed him a long yellow oilskin coat and a matching rain hat. He had already donned a similar outfit, and had magically procured an umbrella from somewhere.
“It’s the Balance of Payments,” he said, as Moist struggled into the coat. “He never gets it right.” There was a crash from somewhere, and water droplets rained down on them. “See?” Bent added.
“What’s it doing?” said Moist.
Bent rolled his eyes. “Hell knows, Heaven suspects,” he said. He raised his voice. “Hubert? We have a visitor!”
A distant splashing grew louder and a figure appeared around the edge of the glassware.
Rightly or wrongly, Hubert is one of those names you put a shape to. There may well be tall, slim Huberts, Moist would be the first to agree, but this Hubert was shaped like a proper Hubert, which is to say, stubby and plump. He had red hair—unusual, in Moist’s experience, in the standard-model Hubert. It grew thickly, straight up from his head, like the bristles of a brush; about five inches up, someone had apparently cut it short with the aid of shears and a spirit level. You could have stood a cup and saucer on it.
“A visitor?” said Hubert nervously. “Wonderful! We don’t get many down here!”
“Really?” said Moist. Hubert wore a long, white coat, with a breast pocket full of pencils.
“Hubert, this is Mr. Lipwig,” said Bent. “He is here to…learn about us.”
“I am Moist,” said Moist, stepping forward with his best smile and an extended hand.
“Oh, I’m sorry. We should have hung the raincoats nearer the door,” said Hubert. He looked at Moist’s hand as if it was some interesting device, and then shook it carefully.
“You’re not seeing us at our best, Mr. Lipwick,” he said.
“Really?” said Moist, still smiling. How does the hair stay up like that, he wondered. Does he use glue, or what?
“Mr. Lipwig is the postmaster general, Hubert,” said Bent.
“Is he? Oh. I don’t get out of the cellar very much these days,” said Hubert.
“Really,” said Moist, his smile now a bit glassy.
“No, we’re so close to perfection, you see,” said Hubert. “I really think we’re nearly there…”
“Mister Hubert believes that this…device is a sort of crystal ball for showing the future,” said Bent, and rolled his eyes.
“Possible futures. Would Mr. Lipstick like to see it in operation?” said Hubert, vibrating with enthusiasm and eagerness. Only a man with a heart of stone would have said no, so Moist made a wonderful attempt at indicating that all his dreams were coming true.
“I’d love to,” he said, “but what does it