Making Money: (Discworld Novel 36) by Terry Pratchett

Author:Terry Pratchett [Pratchett, Terry]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, General, Fantasy, sf
ISBN: 9781407034010
Publisher: Random House
Published: 2008-10-30T09:29:20+00:00

Moist ran back to the bank, and straight to the little door under the stairs. He liked it down in the undercroft. It was cool and peaceful, apart from the gurgling of the Glooper and the screams. That last bit was wrong, wasn't it?

The pink poisons of involuntary insomnia slopped around in his head as he broke once more into a run.

The former Owlswick was sitting in a chair, apparently clean shaven except for a pointy little beard. Some kind of metal helmet had been attached to his head, and from it wires ran down into a glowing, clicking device that only an Igor would want to understand. The air smelled of thunderstorms.

'What are you doing to this poor man?' Moist yelled.

'Changing hith mind, thur,' said Igor, pulling a huge knife switch.

The helmet buzzed. Clamp blinked. 'It tickles,' he said. 'And for some reason it tastes of strawberries.'

'You're putting lightning right into his head!' said Moist. 'That's barbaric!'

'No, thur. Barbarianth don't have the capability,' said Igor smoothly. 'All I'm doing, thur, ith taking out all the bad memorieth and thtoring them' — here he pulled a cloth aside to reveal a big jar full of green liquid, in which was something rounded and studded with still more wires — 'in thith!'

'You're putting his brain into a… parsnip?'

'It'th a turnip,' said Igor.

'It's amazing what they can do, isn't it?' said a voice by Moist's elbow. He looked down.

Mr Clamp, now helmetless, beamed up at him. He looked shiny and alert, like a better class of shoe salesman. Igor had even managed a suit transplant.

'Are you all right?' said Moist.

'Fine!'

'What did… it feel like?'

'Hard to explain,' said Clamp. 'But it sounded like the smell of raspberries tastes.'

'Really? Oh. I suppose that's all right, then. And you really feel okay? In yourself?' said Moist, probing for the dreadful drawback. It had to be there. But Owls— Exorbit looked happy and full of confidence and vim, a man ready to take what life threw at him and knock it out of the court.

Igor was winding up his wiring with a very smug look on what, under all those scars, was probably his face.

Moist felt a pang of guilt. He was an Uberwald boy, he'd come down the Vilinus Pass like everyone else, trying to seek his fortune — correction, everybody else's fortune — and he had no right to pick up the fashionable lowland prejudice against the clan of Igors. After all, didn't they simply put into practice what so many priests professed to believe: that the body was just a rather heavy suit of cheap material clothing the invisible, everlasting soul, and therefore, swapping around bits and pieces like spare parts was surely no worse than running a shonky shop for used clothing? It was a constant source of hurt amazement to Igors that people couldn't see that this was both sensible and provident, at least up until the time when the axe slipped and people needed someone to lend a hand in a hurry.

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