The Truth Read Free Page A

us,” said the dwarf. “Load slipped, too. Sorry about that.”
    “What happened to Mr. Dibbler?”
    The dwarf put his head on one side.
    “Was he the skinny man with the sausages?” he said.
    “That’s right. Was he hurt?”
    “I don’t think so,” said the dwarf carefully. “He sold young Thunderaxe a sausage in a bun, I do know that.”
    William thought about this. Ankh-Morpork had many traps for the unwary newcomer.
    “Well, then is Mr. Thunderaxe all right?” he said.
    “Probably. He shouted under the door just now that he was feeling a lot better but would stay where he was for the time being,” said the dwarf. He reached under a bench and solemnly handed William a rectangle wrapped in grubby paper.
    “Yours, I think.”
    William unwrapped his wooden block. It was split right across where a wheel of the cart had run over it, and the writing had been smudged. He sighed.
    “’Scuse me,” said the dwarf, “but what was it meant to be?”
    “It’s a block prepared for a woodcut,” said William. He wondered how he could possibly explain the idea to a dwarf from outside the city. “You know? Engraving? A…a sort of very nearly magical way of getting lots of copies of writing? I’m afraid I shall have to go and make another one now.”
    The dwarf gave him an odd look, and then took the block from him and turned it over and over in his hands.
    “You see,” said William, “the engraver cuts away bits of—”
    “Have you still got the original?” said the dwarf.
    “Pardon?”
    “The original,” said the dwarf patiently.
    “Oh, yes.” William reached inside his jacket and produced it.
    “Can I borrow it for a moment?”
    “Well, all right, but I shall need it again to—”
    The dwarf scanned the letter a while, and then turned and hit the nearest dwarf a resounding boing on the helmet.
    “Ten point across three,” he said. The struck dwarf nodded, and then its right hand moved quickly across the rack of little boxes, selecting things.
    “I ought to be getting back so I can—” William began.
    “This won’t take long,” said the head dwarf. “Just you step along this way, will you? This might be of interest to a man of letters such as yourself.”
    William followed him along the avenue of busy dwarfs to the machine, which had been thumping away steadily.
    “Oh. It’s an engraving press,” said William vaguely.
    “This one’s a bit different,” said the dwarf. “We’ve…modified it.” He took a large sheet of paper off a pile by the press and handed it to William, who read:

    “What do you think?” said the dwarf shyly.
    “Are you Gunilla Goodmountain?”
    “Yes. What do you think?”
    “We—ell…you’ve got the letters nice and regular, I must say,” said William. “But I can’t see what’s so new about it. And you’ve spelled hitherto’ wrong. There should be another H after the first T . You’ll have to cut it all out again unless you want people to laugh at you.”
    “Really?” said Goodmountain. He nudged one of his colleagues.
    “Just give me a ninety-six-point uppercase H, will you, Caslong? Thank you.” Goodmountain bent over the press, picked up a spanner, and busied himself somewhere in the mechanical gloom.
    “You must have a really steady hand to get the letters so neat,” said William. He felt a bit sorry that he’d pointed out the mistake. Probably no one would have noticed in any case. Ankh-Morpork people considered that spelling was a sort of optional extra. They believed in it in the same way they believed in punctuation; it didn’t matter where you put it, so long as it was there.
    The dwarf finished whatever arcane activity he had been engaged in, dabbed with an inked pad at something inside the press, and got down.
    “I’m sure it won’t”— thump —“matter about the spelling,” said William.
    Goodmountain opened the press again and wordlessly handed William a damp sheet of paper.
    William read it.
    The extra H was in