Walking the Disc

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 could be instantly negotiable.” I can go on like this or 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 world is full of things worth more than gold. But we dig the damn stuff up and then bury it in a different hole. Where’s the sense in that? What are we, magpies? Is it all about the gleam? Good heavens, potatoes are worth more than gold!” “Surely not!” “If you were shipwrecked on a desert island, what would you prefer, a bag of potatoes or a bag of gold?” “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.”

“No dashing around on mad stallions? Nothing to make us cheer? No wild dreams?” said Sacharissa. “Well, I’m already tidying the foyer.” Sacharissa’s eyes narrowed. “Tidying the foyer? Who are you, and what have you done with the real Moist von Lipwig?” “No, I’m serious. We have to clean up ourselves before we can clean up the economy,” said Moist, and felt his brain shift seductively into a higher gear. “I intend to throw out what we don’t need. For example, we have a room full of useless metal in the vault. That’ll have to go.” Sacharissa frowned. “Are you talking about the gold?” Where had that come from? Well, don’t try to back away, or she’ll go for the throat. Tough it out! Besides, it’s good to see her looking astonished. “Yes,” he said. “You can’t be serious!” The notebook was instantly flipped open, and Moist’s tongue began to gallop. He couldn’t stop it. It would have been nice if it had talked to him first.

But, he had to admit, Sacharissa Cripslock was fun. “Sacharissa! This is a should-have-been-expected surprise!” he declared, as he stepped into the room. “Mr. Lipwig! Always a pleasure!” said the woman. “So you are a dog’s body now?” That kind of fun. A bit like juggling knives. You were instantly on your toes. It was as good as a workout.

FASTER THAN THE “SPEED OF LIGHT” “Old-fashioned” Mail Beats Clacks Amazing Scenes as Postmaster Delivers, Says: Snook Not Cocked Post Office

The headlines screamed at him as soon as he saw the paper. He almost screamed back. Of course, he’d said all that. But he’d said it to the innocent, smiling face of MIss Sacharissa Cripslock, not to the whole world! And then she’d written it down all truthfully, and suddenly... you got this.

“I did hear you correctly, did I? You are offering to carry clacks messages?” “Certainly. Ongoing messages can be put on the Trunk in Sto Lat. Helpfulness is our middle name.” “Are you sure it’s not ‘cheekiness’? said Sacharissa, to laughter from the crowd. “I don’t understand you, I’m sure,” said Moist. “Now, if you will--” “You’re cocking a snook at the clacks people again, aren’t you?” said the journalist. “Ah, that must be a journalistic term,” said Moist. “I’ve never owned a snook, and even if I did, I wouldn’t know how to cock it.”

“What is your first name, Miss Cripslock?” said Moist. For a moment, the woman colored. Then she said: “It’s Sacharissa.” “Thank you. I’m Moist. Please don’t laugh. The golems -- you’re laughing, aren’t you...” “It was just a cough, honestly,” said the reporter, raising a hand to her throat and coughing unconvincingly.

“I daresay the clacks is wonderful if you wish to know the prawn market figures from Genua. But can you write S.W.A.L.K. on a clacks? Can you seal it with a loving kiss? can you cry tears onto a clacks, can you smell it, can you enclose a pressed flower? A letter is more than just a message. And a clacks is so expensive in any case that the average man in the street can just about afford it in a time of crisis: GRANDADS DEAD FUNERAL TUES. A day’s wages to send a message as warm and human as a thrown knife? But a letter is real.” He stopped. Miss Cripslock was scribbling like mad, and it’s always worrying to see a journalist take a sudden interest in what you’re saying, especially when you half-suspect it was a load of pigeon guano. And it gets worse when they’re smiling.

“Aren’t you being rather ambitious, Mr. LIpwig?” she said. “I’m sorry, I don’t know any other way to be,” said Moist.

“Have you heard about the fracas in Weaver Street?” “I heard it was a rumpus.” “I’m afraid it’s got worse.”

It was along afternoon. One barrel had rolled into a barber shop and exploded. Some of the brewer’s men turned up, and there was a fight with several of the barrels’ new owners, who claimed rights of salvage. One enterprising man tapped a barrel by the roadside and set up a temporary pub. Otto arrived. He took pictures of barrel rescuers. He took a picture of the fight. he took pictures of the Watch arriving to arrest everyone still standing. He took pictures of the white-haired old lady and the proud Captain Carrot and, in his excitement, of his thumb. It was a good story all round. And William was halfway through writing his part of it back at the Times when he remembered. He’d watched it happening. And he’d reached for his notebook. That was a worrying thought, he said. “So? said Sacharissa, from her side of the desk. “How many L’s in ‘gallant’?” “Two,” said William. “I mean, I didn’t try to do anything. I thought: This is a Story, and I have to tell it.” “Yep,” said Sacharissa, still bowed over her writing. “We’ve been press-ganged.”

They’d reached the junction of Treacle Mine Road and Elm Street when it caught up with them. There were cries further along the street. William swiveled his head, saw the four-horse brewer’s dray thundering out of control. He saw the people diving and scuttling out of the way. He saw the soup-plate hooves throw up mud and ice. He saw the brasses on the harness, the gleam, the steam.. His head swiveled the other way. he saw the old woman with two sticks, crossing the street, quite oblivious to the onrushing death. He saw the shawl, the white hair... A blur went past him. The man twisted in the air, landed on his shoulder in the center of the street, rolled upright, grabbed the woman, and leapt-- The wayward wagon went by in a rush of mud and ice crystals. The team tried to corner at the crossroads. The dray behind them did not. A melee of hooves and horses and wheels and sleet and screams whirled onwards and took the windows out of several shops before the cart rammed up against a stone pillar and stopped dead. In obedience to the laws of physics and the narrative of such things, its load did not. The barrels burst their bonds, crashed down onto the street, and rolled onwards. A few smashed, filling the gutter with suds. The others, thumping and banging into one another, became the focus of attention of every upright citizen who could recognize a hundred gallons of beer which suddenly didn’t belong to anyone anymore and was heading for freedom. William and Sacharissa looked at one another. “Okay -- I’ll get the story, you go and find Otto!” They said that at the same time, and then stared defiantly at each other. “All right, all right,” said William. “Find some kid, bribe him to get Otto, I’ll talk to that Plucky Watchman who grabbed the old lady in A Mercy Dash, you cover the Big Smash, okay?” “I’ll find the kid,” said Sacharissa, pulling out her own notebook, “but you cover the accident and the Beer Barrel Bonanza and I’ll talk to the White-Haired Granny. Human interest, right?”

At this point, Sacharissa pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. “I must’ve forgotten to put the pointy arrow bit in,” she said, as Carney fainted away. “What a silly girl I am. ‘Ing.’ I feel so much better for saying that, you know? ‘Ing.’ ‘Inginginginging.’ I wonder what it means?”

“Don’t be like that, William,” said Sacharissa. “It’s because of that, you see, Ronnie, that we’ve come to you.” “Really?” Carney smiled. “You have been a bit of a silly girl, haven’t you...” “Yes, er... well, all our money was...” Sacharissa sniffed. “The fact is... well, we’ve just got nothing now. We... worked so hard, so hard, and now it’s all gone...” She started to sob. Ronnie Carney leaned over the desk and patted her hand. “Is there anything I can do?” he said. “Well, I did hope... I wondered if... I mean, d’you think you could see your way clear to... letting us use one of your presses tonight?” Carney rocked back. “You what? Are you mad?” Sacharissa blew her nose. “Yes, I thought you’d probably say that,” she said sadly. Carney, slightly mollified, leaned forward and patted her hand again. “I know we used to play together when we were children--” he began. “I don’t think we actually played,” said Sacharissa, fishing in her handbag. “You used to chase me and I used to hit you over the head with a wooden cow. Ah, here it is...” She dropped the bag, stood up, and aimed one of the late Mr. Pin’s pistol bows straight at the editor. “Let us use your ‘ing’ presses or I’ll ‘ing’ shoot your ‘ing’ head ‘ing’ off!” she screamed. “I think that’s how you’re supposed to say it, isn’t it?”

“Who the --ing hell are you?” “Don’t you dare swear at me!” [Sacharissa] said. “How dare you swear in the presence of a lady!” This seemed to nonplus him. “I don’t --ing swear!”