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among those prepared to back an outside chance. Shed hung a banner over the door. It read: It Could Be YOU. It couldnt happen. It shouldnt happen. But, you never knew . . . this time it might. Moist recognized that hope. It was how hed made his living. You knew that the man running the Find The Lady game was going to win, you knew that people in distress didnt sell diamond rings for a fraction of their value, you knew that life generally handed you the sticky end of the stick, and you knew that the gods didnt pick some everyday undeserving tit out of the population and hand them a fortune. Except that, this time, you might be wrong, right? It might just happen, yes? And this was known as that greatest of treasures, which is Hope. It was a good way of getting poorer really very quickly, and staying poor. It could be you. But it wouldnt be. Now Moist von Lipwig headed along Attic Bee Street, towards the Lady Sybil Free Hospital. Heads turned as he went past. Hed never been off the front page for days, after all. He just had to hope that the winged hat and golden suit were the ultimate in furniture; people saw the gold, not the face. The hospital was still being built, as all hospitals are, but it had its own queue at the entrance. Moist dealt with that by ignoring it, and going straight in. There were, in the main hallway, people who looked like the kind of people whose job it is to say oi, you! when other people just wander in, but Moist generated his personal Im too important to be stopped field and they never quite managed to frame the words. And, of course, once you got past the doorway demons of any organization people just assumed you had a right to be there, and gave you directions. Mr Groat was in a room by himself; a sign on the door said Do Not Enter, but Moist seldom bothered about that sort of thing. The old man was sitting up in bed, looking gloomy, but he beamed as soon as he saw Moist. Mr Lipwig! Youre a sight for sore eyes, sir! Can you find out where theyve hid my trousers? I told them I was fit as a flea, sir, but they went and hid my trousers! Help me out of here before they carry me away to another bath, sir. A bath, sir!
They have to carry you? said Moist. Cant you walk, Tolliver?
Yessir, but I fights em, fights em, sir. A bath, sir? From wimmin? Oggling at my trumpet-and- skittles? I call that shameless! Everyone knows soap kills the natural effulgences, sir! Oh, sir! Theyre holdin me prisner, sir! They gived me a trouserectomy, sir!
Please calm down, Mr Groat, said Moist urgently. The old man had gone quite red in the face. Youre all right, then?
Just a scratch, sir, look . . . Groat unfastened the buttons of his nightshirt. See? he said triumphantly. Moist nearly fainted. The banshee had tried to make a noughts-and-crosses board out of the mans chest. Someone else had stitched it neatly. Nice job of work, Ill give them that, Groat said grudgingly. But Ive got to be up and doing, sir, up and doing!
Are you sure youre all right? said Moist, staring at the mess of scabs. Right as rain, sir. I told em, sir, if a banshee cant get at me through my chest protector, none of their damn invisible little biting demons are going to manage it. I bet its all going wrong, sir, with Aggy bossing people around? I bet it is! I bet you really need me, right, sir?
Urn, yes, said Moist. Are they giving you medicine?
Hah, they call it medicine, sir. They gave me a lot of ol mumbo-pocus about it being wonderful stuff, but its got neither taste nor smell, if you want my opinion. They say itll do me good but I told em its hard work that does me good, sir, not sitting in soapy water with young wimmin
lookin at my rattle-and-flute. And they took my hair away! They called it unhygienic, sir! What a nerve! All right, it moves about a bit of its own accord, but thats only natural. Ive had my hair a long time, sir. Im used to its funny little ways!
Hwhat is going on here? said a voice full of offended ownership. Moist turned. If one of the rules that should be passed on to a young man is dont get mixed up with crazy girls who smoke like a bellows, another one should be run away from any woman who pronounces “what” with two Hs. This woman might have been two women. She certainly had the cubic capacity and, since she was dressed entirely in white, looked rather like an iceberg. But chillier. And with sails. And with a headdress starched to a cutting edge. Two smaller women stood behind and on either side of her, in definite danger of being crushed if she stepped backwards. Ive come to see Mr Groat, said Moist weakly, while Groat gibbered and pulled the bedclothes over his head. Quite impossible! I am the matron here, young man, and I must insist that you leave at once! Mr Groat is in an extremely unstable condition.
He seems fine to me, said Moist. He had to admire the look the matron gave him. It suggested that Moist had just been found adhering to the sole of her shoe. He returned it with a chilly one of his own. Young man, his condition is extremely critical! she snapped. I refuse to release him!
Madam, illness is not a crime! said Moist. People are not released from hospital, they are discharged! The matron drew herself up and out, and gave Moist a smile of triumph. That, young man, is hwhat we are afraid of! Moist was sure doctors kept skeletons around to cow patients. Nyer, nyer, we know what you look like underneath . . . He quite approved, though. He had a certain fellow feeling. Places like the Lady Sybil were very rare these days, but Moist felt certain he could make a profitable career out of wearing a white robe, using long learned names for ailments like runny nose and looking solemnly at things in bottles. On the other side of the desk, a Dr Lawn - he had his name on a plate on his desk, because doctors are very busy and cant remember everything - looked up from his notes on Tolliver Groat. It was quite interesting, Mr Lipwig. It was the first time Ive ever had to operate to remove the patients clothing, he said. You dont happen to know what the poultice was made of, do you? He wouldnt tell us.
I believe its layers of flannel, goose grease and bread pudding, said Moist, staring around at the office. Bread pudding? Really bread pudding?
Apparently so, said Moist. Not something alive, then? It seemed leathery to us, said the doctor, leafing through the notes. Ah, yes, here we are. Yes, his trousers were the subject of a controlled detonation after one of his socks exploded. Were not sure why.
He fills them with sulphur and charcoal to keep his feet fresh, and he soaks his trousers in saltpetre to prevent Gnats, said Moist. Hes a great believer in natural medicine, you see. He doesnt trust doctors.
Really? said Dr Lawn. He retains some vestige of sanity, then. Incidentally, its wisest not to
argue with the nursing staff. I find the wisest course of action is to throw some chocolates in one direction and hurry off in the other while their attention is distracted. Mr Groat thinks that every man is his own physician, I gather?
He makes his own medicines, Moist explained. He starts every day with a quarter of a pint of gin mixed with spirits of nitre, flour of sulphur, juniper and the juice of an onion. He says it clears the tubes.
Good heavens, Im sure it does. Does he smoke at all? Moist considered this. No-o. It looks more like steam, he said. And his background in basic alchemy is . . . ?
Non-existent, as far as I know, said Moist. He makes some interesting cough sweets, though. After youve sucked them for two minutes you can feel the wax running out of your ears. He paints his knees with some sort of compound of iodine and—
Enough! said the doctor. Mr Lipwig, there are times when we humble practitioners of the craft of medicine have to stand aside in astonishment. Quite a long way aside, in the case of Mr Groat, and preferably behind a tree. Take him away, please. I have to say that against all the odds I found him amazingly healthy. I can quite see why an attack by a banshee would be so easily shrugged off. In fact Mr Groat is probably unkillable by any normal means, although I advise you not to let him take up tap dancing. Oh, and do take his wig, will you? We tried putting it in a cupboard, but it got out. Well send the bill to the Post Office, shall we?
I thought this said “Free Hospital” on the sign, said Moist. Broadly, yes, broadly, said Dr Lawn. But those on whom the gods have bestowed so many favours - one hundred and fifty thousand of them, I heard - probably have
had all the charity they require, hmm? And its all sitting in the Watchs cells, thought Moist. He reached into his jacket and produced a crumpled wad of green Ankh-Morpork one-dollar stamps. Will you take these? he said. The picture of Tiddles being carried out of the Post Office by Moist von Lipwig was, since it concerned an animal, considered to be full of human interest by the Times and was thus displayed prominently on the front page. Reacher Gilt looked at it without displaying so much as a flicker of emotion. Then he reread the story next to it, under the headlines: MAN SAVES CAT Well Rebuild Bigger! Vow as Post Office Blazes $150,000 Gift From Gods Wave of stuck drawers hits city It occurs to me that the editor of the Times must sometimes regret that he has only one front page, he observed drily. There was a sound from the men sitting round the big table in Gilts office. It was the kind of sound you get when people are not really laughing. Do you think he has got gods on his side? said Greenyham. I hardly imagine so, said Gilt. He must have known where the money was.
You think so? If I knew where that much money was I wouldnt leave it in the ground.
No, you wouldnt, said Gilt quietly, in such a way that Greenyham felt slightly uneasy.
Twelve and a half per cent! Twelve and a half per cent! screamed Alphonse, bouncing up and down on his perch. Were made to look fools, Reacher! said Stowley. He knew the line would go down yesterday! He might as well have divine guidance! Were losing the local traffic already. Every time we have a shutdown you can bet hell run a coach out of sheer devilment. Theres nothing that damn man wont stoop to. Hes turned the Post Office into a . . . a show!
Sooner or later all circuses leave town, said Gilt. But hes laughing at us! Stowley persisted. If the Trunk breaks down again I wouldnt put it past him to run a coach to Genua!
That would take weeks, said Gilt. Yes, but its cheaper and it gets there. Thats what hell say. And hell say it loudly, too. Weve got to do something, Reacher.
And what do you suggest?
Why dont we just spend some money and get some proper maintenance done?
You cant, said a new voice. You dont have the men. All heads turned to the man at the far end of the table. He had a jacket on over his overalls and a very battered top hat on the table beside him. His name was Mr Pony, and he was the Trunks chief engineer. Hed come with the company, and had hung on because at the age of fifty-eight, with twinges in your knuckles, a sick wife and a bad back, you think twice about grand gestures such as storming out. He hadnt seen a clacks until three years ago, when the first company was founded, but he was methodical and engineering was engineering. Currently his greatest friend in the world was his collection of pink flimsies. Hed done his best, but he wasnt going to carry the can when this lot finally fell over and his pink flimsies would see to it that he didnt. White memo paper to the chairman, yellow flimsy to the file, pink flimsy you kept. No one could say he hadnt warned them. A two-inch stack of the latest flimsies was attached to his clipboard. Now, feeling like an elder god leaning down through the clouds of some Armageddon and booming: Didnt I tell you? Didnt I warn you? Did you listen? Too late to listen now!, he put on a voice of strained patience. Ive got six maintnance teams. I had eight last week. I sent you a memo about that, got the flimsies right here. We ought to have eighteen teams. Half the lads are needin to be taught as we go, and we aint got time for teachin. In the oP days wed set up walkin towers to take the load an we aint got men even to do that now—