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Mr. Bent, despite his protestation, did not look pleased at all.
    “Did you not listen to what I was saying?” said Vetinari. “Your stamps, Mr. Lipwig.”
    “A de facto currency,” said Bent, and light dawned on Moist. Well, it was true, he knew it. He’d meant stamps to be stuck to letters, but people had decided, in their untutored way, that a penny stamp was nothing more than a very light, government guaranteed penny and, moreover, one that you could put on an envelope. The advertising pages were full of businesses that had sprouted on the back of the beguilingly transferable postage stamps: “Learn The Uttermost Secrets Of The Cosmos! Send 8 penny stamps for booklet!” A lot of stamps wore out as currency without ever seeing the inside of a posting box.
    Something in Bent’s smile annoyed Moist, though. It was not quite as kind when seen close.
    “What do you mean by ‘unsecured’?” he said.
    “How do you validate its claim to be worth a penny?”
    “Er, if you stick it on a letter you get a penny’s worth of travel?” said Moist. “I don’t see what you’re getting at—”
    “Mr. Bent is one of those who believe in the preeminence of gold, Mr. Lipwig,” said Vetinari. “I’m sure you’ll get along exactly like a house on fire. I shall leave you now, and await your decision with, ah, compound interest. Come, Drumknott. Perhaps you will drop in to see me tomorrow, Mr. Lipwig?”
    Moist and Bent watched them go. Then Bent glared at Moist. “I suppose I must show you around…sir,” he said.
    “I have a feeling that we haven’t quite hit it off, Mr. Bent,” said Moist.
    Bent shrugged, an impressive maneuver on that gaunt frame. It was like watching an ironing board threatening to unfold.
    “I know nothing to your discredit, Mr. Lipwig. But I believe the chairman and Lord Vetinari have a dangerous scheme in mind, and you are their cat’s-paw, Mr. Lipwig, you are their implement.”
    “This would be the new chairman?”
    “That is correct.”
    “I don’t particularly want or intend to be an implement,” said Moist.
    “Good for you, sir. But events are eventuating—”
    There was a crash of broken glass from below, and a faint, muffled voice shouted: “Damn! There goes the balance of payments!”
    “Let’s have that tour, shall we?” said Moist brightly. “Starting with what that was?”
    “That abomination?” Bent gave a little shudder. “I think we should leave that until Hubert has cleaned up. Oh, will you look at that? It really is terrible…”
    Mr. Bent strode across the floor until he was under the big, solemn clock. He glared at it as if it had mortally offended him, and snapped his fingers, but a junior clerk was already hurrying across the floor with a small stepladder. Mr. Bent mounted the steps, opened the clock, and moved the second hand forward by two seconds. The clock was slammed shut, the steps dismounted, and the accountant returned to Moist, adjusting his cuffs.
    He looked Moist up and down. “It loses almost a minute a week. Am I the only person who finds this offensive? It would appear so, alas. Let’s start with the gold, shall we?”
    “Ooo, yes,” said Moist. “Let’s!”

 
CHAPTER 2
     
    The promise of gold
The Men of the Sheds

The cost of a penny and the usefulness of widows

Overheads underfoot
Security, the importance thereof

A fascination with transactions
A son of many fathers

Alleged untrustworthiness in a case of flaming underwear

The panopticon of the world and the blindness of Mr. Bent
An arch comment
     

     
    “SOMEHOW I WAS expecting something…bigger,” said Moist, looking through the steel bars into the little room that held the gold. The metal, in open bags and boxes, gleamed dully in the torchlight.
    “That is almost ten tons of gold,” said Bent reproachfully. “It does not have to look big.”
    “But all the ingots and bags put together aren’t much bigger than the desks out there!”
    “It is very heavy, Mr.