He forced himself to read the minutes, realizing that his eye was skipping whole paragraphs in self-defence.

Then he started on the District Offices' Weekly Reports. After that, the Accidents and Medical Committee sprawled its acres of words.

Occasionally Moist glanced at the mug.

At twenty-nine minutes past eleven the alarm on his desk clock went 'bing'. Moist got up, put his chair under the desk, walked to the door, counted to three, opened it, said 'Hello, Tiddles' as the Post Office's antique cat padded in, counted to nineteen as the cat did its circuit of the room, said 'Goodbye, Tiddles' as it plodded back into the corridor, shut the door and went back to his desk.

You just opened the door for an elderly cat who's lost hold of the concept of walking around things, he told himself, as he rewound the alarm. You do it every day. Do you think that's the action of a sane man? Okay, it's sad to see him standing for hours with his head up against a chair until someone moves it, but now you get up every day to move the chair for him. This is what honest work does to a person.

Yes, but dishonest work nearly got me hanged! he protested.

So? Hanging only lasts a couple of minutes. The Pension Fund Committee lasts a lifetime! It's all so boring! You're trapped in chains of gold-ish!

Moist had ended up near the window. The coachman was eating a biscuit. When he caught sight of Moist he gave him a friendly wave.

Moist almost jumped back from the window. He sat down hurriedly and countersigned FG/2 requisition forms for fifteen minutes straight. Then he went out into the corridor, which on its far side was open to the big hall, and looked down.

He'd promised to get the big chandeliers back, and now they both hung there glittering like private star systems. The big shiny counter gleamed in its polished splendour. There was the hum of purposeful and largely efficient activity.

He'd done it. It all worked. It was the Post Office. And it wasn't fun any more.

He went down into the sorting rooms, he dropped into the postmen's locker room to have a convivial cup of tar-like tea, he wandered around the coach yard and got in the way of people who were trying to do their jobs, and at last he plodded back to his office, bowed under the weight of the humdrum.

He just happened to glance out of the window, as anyone might. The coachman was eating his lunch! His damn lunch! He had a little folding chair on the pavement, with his meal on a little folding table! It was a large pork pie and a bottle of beer! There was even a white tablecloth!

Moist went down the main stairs like a maddened tapdancer and ran out through the big double doors. In one crowded moment, as he hurried towards the coach, the meal, table, cloth and chair were stowed in some unnoticeable compartment, and the man was standing by the invitingly open door.

'Look, what is this about?' Moist demanded, panting for breath. 'I don't have all—'

'All, Mr Lipwig,' said Lord Vetinari's voice from within, 'do step inside. Thank you, Houseman, Mrs Lavish will be waiting. Hurry up, Mr Lipwig, I am not going to eat you. I have just had an acceptable cheese sandwich.'

What harm can it do to find out? It's a question that has left bruises down the centuries, even more than 'It can't hurt if I only take one' and 'It's all right if you only do it standing up'.

Moist climbed into the shadows. The door clicked behind him, and he turned suddenly.

'Oh, really,' said Lord Vetinari. 'It's just shut, it isn't locked, Mr Lipwig. Do compose yourself!' Beside him, Drumknott sat primly with a large leather satchel on his lap.

'What is it you want?' said Moist.

Lord Vetinari raised an eyebrow. 'I? Nothing. What do you want?'

'What?'

'Well, you got into my coach, Mr Lipwig.'

'Yes, but I was told it was outside!'

'And if you had been told it was black, would you have found it necessary to do anything about it? There is the door, Mr Lipwig.'

'But you've been parked out here all morning!'

'It is a public street, sir,' said Lord Vetinari. 'Now sit down. Good.'

The coach jerked into motion.

'You are restless, Mr Lipwig,' said Vetinari. 'You are careless of your safety. Life has lost its flavour, has it not?'

Moist didn't reply.

'Let us talk about angels,' said Lord Vetinari.

'Oh yes, I know that one,' said Moist bitterly. 'I've heard that one. That's the one you got me with after I was hanged—'

Vetinari raised an eyebrow again. 'Only mostly hanged, I think you'll find. To within an inch of your life.'

'Whatever! I was hanged! And the worst part of that was finding out I only got two paragraphs in the Tanty Bugle![1] Two paragraphs, may I say, for a life of ingenious, inventive and strictly non-violent crime? I could have been an example to youngsters! Page one got hogged by the Dyslectic Alphabet Killer, and he only managed A and W!'

'I confess the editor does appear to believe that it is not a proper crime unless someone is found in three alleys at once, but that is the price of a free Press. And it suits us both, does it not, that Albert Spangler's passage from this world was… unmemorable?'

'Yes, but I wasn't expecting an afterlife like this! I have to do what I'm told for the rest of my life?'

'Correction, your new life. That is a crude summary, yes,' said Vetinari. 'Let me rephrase things, however. Ahead of you, Mr Lipwig, is a life of respectable quiet contentment, of civic dignity and, of course, in the fullness of time a pension. Not to mention the proud gold-ish chain.'

Moist winced at this. 'And if I don't do what you say?'

'Hmm? Oh, you misunderstand me, Mr Lipwig. That is what will happen to you if you decline my offer. If you accept it, you will survive on your wits against powerful and dangerous enemies, with every day presenting fresh challenges. Someone may even try to kill you.'

'What? Why?'

'You annoy people. A hat goes with the job, incidentally.'

'And this job makes real money?'

'Nothing but money, Mr Lipwig. It is in fact that of Master of the Royal Mint.'

'What? Banging out pennies all day?'

'In short, yes. But it is traditionally attached to a senior post at the Royal Bank of Ankh-Morpork, which will occupy most of your attention. You can make money, as it were, in your spare time.'

'A banker! Me?'

'Yes, Mr Lipwig.'

'But I don't know anything about running a bank!'

'Good. No preconceived ideas.'

'I've robbed banks!'

'Capital! Just reverse your thinking,' said Lord Vetinari, beaming. 'The money should be on the inside!

The coach slowed to a stop.

'What is this about?' said Moist. 'Actually about?'

'When you took over the Post Office, Mr Lipwig, it was a disgrace. Now it works quite efficiently. Efficiently enough to be boring, in fact. Why, a young man might find himself climbing by night, perhaps, or picking locks for the thrill of it, or even flirting with Extreme Sneezing. How are you finding the lockpicks, by the way?'

It had been a poky little shop in a poky alley, and there had been no one in there but the little old lady who'd sold him the picks. He still didn't know exactly why he'd bought them. They were only geographically illegal, but it gave him a little thrill to know they were in his jacket. It was sad, like those businessmen who come to work in serious clothes but wear colourful ties in a mad despairing attempt to show there is a free spirit in there somewhere.

Oh gods, I've become one of them. But at least he doesn't seem to know about the blackjack.

'I'm not too bad,' he said.

'And the blackjack? You, who have never struck another man? You clamber on rooftops and pick the locks on your own desks. You're like a caged animal, dreaming of the jungle! I'd like to give you what you long for. I'd like to throw you to the lions.'