Making Money - Terry Pratchett [41]
“Yes, but a desert island isn’t Ankh-Morpork!”
“And that proves gold is only valuable because we agree it is, right? It’s just a dream. But a potato is always worth a potato, anywhere. Add a knob of butter and a pinch of salt and you’ve got a meal, anywhere. Bury gold in the ground and you’ll be worrying about thieves forever. Bury a potato and in due season you could be looking at a dividend of a thousand percent.”
“Can I assume for a moment that you don’t intend to put us on the potato standard?” said Sacharissa sharply.
Moist smiled. “No, it won’t be that. But in a few days I shall be giving away money. It doesn’t like to stand still, you know. It likes to get out and make new friends.” The bit of Moist’s brain that was trying to keep up with his mouth thought: I wish I could make notes about this; I’m not sure I can remember it all. But the conversations of the last day were banging together in his memory and making a kind of music. He wasn’t sure he had all the notes yet, but there were bits he could hum. He just had to listen to himself for long enough to find out what he was talking about.
“By giving away you mean—” said Sacharissa.
“Hand over. Make a gift of. Seriously.”
“How? Why?”
“All in good time!”
“You are smirking at me, Moist!”
No, I’ve frozen because I’ve just heard what my mouth said, Moist thought. I don’t have a clue, I’ve just got some random thoughts. It’s…
“It’s about desert islands,” he said. “And why this city isn’t one.”
“And that’s it?”
Moist rubbed his forehead. “Miss Cripslock, Miss Cripslock…this morning I got up with nothing in mind but to seriously make headway with the paperwork and maybe lick the problem of that special 25p Cabbage Green stamp. You know, the one that’ll grow into a cabbage if you plant it? How can you expect me to come up with a new fiscal initiative by teatime?”
“All right, but—”
“It’ll take me at least until breakfast.”
He saw her write that down. Then she tucked the notebook in her handbag.
“This is going to be fun, isn’t it,” she said, and Moist thought: Never trust her when she’s put her notebook away, either. She’s got a good memory.
“Seriously, I think this is an opportunity for me to do something big and important for my adopted city,” said Moist, in his sincere voice.
“That’s your sincere voice,” she said.
“Well, I’m being sincere,” said Moist.
“But since you raise the subject, Moist, what were you doing with your life before the citizens of Ankh-Morpork greeted you with open palms?”
“Surviving,” said Moist. “In Überwald the old empire was breaking up. It was not unusual for a government to change twice over lunch. I worked at anything I could to make a living. By the way, I think you meant ‘arms’ back there,” he added.
“And when you got here you impressed the gods so much that they led you to a treasure trove so that you could rebuild our post office.”
“I’m very humble about that,” said Moist, trying to look it.
“Ye-ess. And the gods-given gold was all in used coinage from the plains cities…”
“You know what, I’ve often lain awake wondering about that myself,” said Moist, “and I reached the conclusion that the gods, in their wisdom, decided that the gift should be instantly negotiable.” I can go on like this for as long as you like, he thought, and you’re trying to play poker with no cards. You can suspect all you like, but I gave that money back! Okay, I stole it in the first place, but giving it back counts for something, doesn’t it? The slate is clean, isn’t it? Well, acceptably grubby, yes?
The door opened slowly, and a young and nervous woman crept in, holding a plate of cold, boned chicken. Mr. Fusspot brightened up as she placed it in front of him.
“Sorry, can we get you a coffee or something?” said Moist, as the girl headed back toward the door.
Sacharissa stood up. “Thank you, but no. I’m on a deadline, Mr. Lipwig. I’m sure we’ll be talking again very soon.”
“I’m certain of it, Miss Cripslock,” said Moist.
She took a step toward him and lowered her voice.
“Do you know who that girl was?