Going Postal (17 page)

“No, no, sir. Pie like in jommetry.”

“Oh, you mean pi, the number you get when—” Moist paused. He was erratically good at math, which is to say he could calculate odds and currency very, very fast. There had been a geometry section in his book at school, but he’d never seen the point. He tried, anyway.

“It’s all to do with…it’s the number you get when the radius of a circle…no, the length of the rim of a wheel is three and a bit times the…er…”

“Something like that, sir, probably, something like that,” said Groat. “Three and a bit, that’s the ticket. Only Bloody Stupid Johnson said that was untidy, so he designed a wheel where the pie was exactly three. And that’s it, in there.”

“But that’s impossible!” said Moist. “You can’t do that! Pi is like…built in! You can’t
change
it. You’d have to change the universe!”

“Yes, sir. They tell me that’s what happened,” said Groat calmly. “I’ll do the party trick now. Stand back, sir.”

Groat wandered out into the other cellars and came back with a length of wood.

“Stand further back, sir,” he suggested, and tossed the piece of wood on top of the machine.

The noise wasn’t loud. It was a sort of
clop
. It seemed to Moist that something
happened
to the wood when it went over the light. There was a suggestion of curvature—

Several pieces of timber clattered onto the floor, along with a shower of splinters.

“They had a wizard in to look at it,” said Groat. “He said the machine twists just a little bit of the universe so pie
could
be three, sir, but it plays hob with anything you put too near it. The bits that go missing get lost in the…space-time-continuememememem, sir. But it doesn’t happen to the letters, because of the way they travel through the machine, you see. That’s the long and short of it, sir. Some letters came out of that machine fifty years before they were posted!”

“Why didn’t you switch it off?”

“Couldn’t, sir. It kept on going like a siphon. Anyway, the wizard said if we did that, terrible things might happen! ’Cos of, er, quantum, I think.”

“Well, then, you could just stop feeding it mail, couldn’t you?”

“Ah, well, sir, there it is,” said Groat, snatching his beard. “You have positioned your digit right on the nub, or crux, sir. We should’ve done that, sir, we should’ve, but we tried to make it work for us, you see. Oh, the management had schemes, sir. How about delivering a letter in Dolly Sisters thirty seconds after it had been posted in the city center, eh? Of course, it wouldn’t be polite to deliver mail before we’d actually got it, sir, but it could be a close-run thing, eh? We were good, so we tried to be better…”

And, somehow, it was all familiar…

Moist listened glumly. Time travel was only a kind of magic, after all. That’s why it always went wrong.

That’s why there were postmen, with real feet. That’s why the clacks was a string of expensive towers. Come to that, it was why farmers grew crops and fishermen trawled nets. Oh, you
could
do it all by magic, you certainly could. You could wave a wand and get twinkly stars and a fresh-baked loaf. You could make fish jump out of the sea already cooked. And then, somewhere, somehow, magic would present its bill, which was always more than you could afford.

That’s why it was left to wizards, who knew how to handle it safely. Not doing any magic at all was the chief task of wizards—not “not doing magic” because they couldn’t do magic, but not doing magic when they could do and didn’t. Any ignorant fool can fail to turn someone else into a frog. You have to be clever to
refrain
from doing it when you knew how easy it was. There were places in the world commemorating those times when wizards hadn’t been quite as clever as that, and on many of them the grass would never grow again.

Anyway, there was a sense of inevitability about this whole business. People wanted to be fooled. They really believed that you found gold nuggets lying on the ground, that this time you could find the Lady, that just for once the glass ring might be real diamond.

Words spilled out of Mr. Groat like stashed mail from a crack in the wall. Sometimes the machine had produced a thousand copies of the same letter, or filled the room with letters from next Tuesday, next month, next year. Sometimes they were letters that hadn’t been written, or might have been written, or were meant to have been written, or letters that people had once sworn that they had written and hadn’t really, but which nevertheless had a shadowy existence in some strange, invisible letter world and were made real by the machine.

If, somewhere, any possible world can exist, then somewhere there is any letter that could possibly be written. Somewhere, all those checks really were in the mail.

They poured out—letters from the present day, which turned out not to be from
this
present day, but ones that might have happened if only some small detail had been changed. It didn’t matter that the machine had been switched off, the wizards said. It existed in plenty of other presents, and so worked here owing to…a lengthy sentence, which the postmen didn’t understand but which had the words like “portal,” “multidimensional,” and “quantum” in it, “quantum” being in it twice. They didn’t understand, but they had to
do
something. No one could deliver all that mail. And so the rooms began to fill up…

The wizards from Unseen University had been jolly interested in the problem, like doctors being really fascinated by some new, virulent disease; the patient appreciates all the interest but would very much prefer it if they either came up with a cure or stopped prodding.

The machine couldn’t be stopped and certainly shouldn’t be destroyed, the wizard said. Destroying the machine might well cause this universe to stop existing, instantly.

On the other hand, the Post Office
was
filling up, so one day Chief Postal Inspector Rumbelow had gone into the room with a crowbar, had ordered all the wizards out, and belted the machine until things stopped whirring.

The letters ceased, at least. This came as a huge relief, but nevertheless, the Post Office had its Regulations, and so the chief postal inspector was brought before Postmaster Cowerby and asked why he had decided to risk destroying the whole universe in one go.

According to Post Office legend, Mr. Rumbelow had replied: “Firstly, sir, I reasoned that if I destroyed the universe all in one go, no one would know; secondly, when I walloped the thing the first time, the wizards ran away, so I surmised that unless they has another universe to run to they weren’t really certain; and lastly, sir, the bloody thing was getting on my nerves. Never could stand machinery, sir.”

“And that was the end of it, sir,” said Mr. Groat as they left the room. “Actually, I heard where the wizards were saying that the universe
was
destroyed all in one go but instantly came back in one go. They said they could tell by lookin’, sir. So that was okay and it let old Rumbelow off’ve the hook, on account it’s hard to discipline a man under Post Office Regulations for destroying the universe all in one go. Mind you, hah, there’ve been postmasters that would have given it a try. But it knocked the stuffing out of us, sir. It was all downhill after that. The men had lost heart. It broke us, to tell you the truth.”

“Look,” said Moist, “the letters we’ve just given the lads, they’re not from some other dimension or—”

“Don’t worry, I checked ’em last night,” said Groat. “They’re just old. Mostly you can tell by the stamp. I’m good at telling which ones are propl’y ours, sir. Had years to learn. It’s a skill, sir.”

“Could you teach other people?”

“I daresay, yes,” said Groat.

“Mr. Groat, the letters have spoken to me,” Moist burst out.

To his surprise, the old man grabbed his hand and shook it. “Well done, sir!” he said, tears rising in his eyes. “I said it’s a skill, didn’t I? Listen to the whispers, that’s half the trick! They’re alive, sir,
alive
. Not like people, but like…ships are alive, sir. I’ll swear, all them letters pressed together in here, all the…the
passion
of ’em, sir, why, I do think this place has got something like a soul, sir, indeed I do…”

The tears coursed down Groat’s cheeks.
It’s madness, of course
, thought Moist.
But now I’ve got it, too
.

“Ah, I can see it in your eyes, sir, yes I can!” said Groat, grinning wetly. “The Post Office has found you! It’s enfolded you, sir, yes it has. You’ll never leave it, sir. There’s families that’ve worked here for hundreds and hundreds of years, sir. Once the postal service puts its stamp on you, sir, there’s no turning back…”

Moist disentangled his hand as tactfully as he could.

“Yes,” he said. “Do tell me about stamps.”

T
HUMP
.

Moist looked down at the piece of paper. Smudgy red letters, chipped and worn, spelled out
ANKH-MORPORK POST OFFICE
.

“That’s right, sir,” said Groat, waving the heavy metal-and-wood stamper in the air. “I bang the stamp on the ink pad here, then bang it, sir,
bang
it on the letter. There! See? Done it again. Same every time. Stamped.”

“And this is worth a penny?” said Moist. “Good grief, man, a kid could forge this with half a potato!”

“That was always a bit of a problem, sir, yes,” said Groat.

“Why does a postman have to stamp the letters, anyway?” said Moist. “Why don’t we just sell people a stamp?”

“But they’d pay a penny and then go on stamping forever, sir,” said Groat reasonably.

In the machinery of the universe, the wheels of inevitability clicked into position…

“Well, then,” said Moist, staring thoughtfully at the paper, “how about…how about a stamp you can use only…once?”

“You mean, like, not much ink?” said Groat. His brow wrinkled, causing his toupee to slip sideways.

“I mean…if you stamped the stamper lots of times on paper, then cut out all the stampings…” Moist stared at an inner vision, if only to avoid the sight of the toupee slowly crawling back. “The rate for delivery anywhere in the city is a penny, isn’t it?”

“Except for the Shades, sir, that’s five pence ’cos of the armed guard,” said Groat.

“Right. O-kay. I think I might have something here…” Moist looked up at Mr. Pump, who was smoldering in the corner of the office. “Mr. Pump, would you be so good as to go along to The Goat and Spirit Level over at Hen and Chickens and ask the publican for ‘Mr. Robinson’s box,’ please? He may want a dollar. And while you’re over there, there’s a printing shop over that way, Teemer and Spools. Leave a message to say that the postmaster general wishes to discuss a very large order.”

“Teemer and Spools? They’re very expensive, sir,” said Groat. “They do all the posh printing for the banks.”

“They’re the very devil to forge, I know that,” said Moist. “Or so I’ve been told,” he added quickly. “Watermarks, special weaves in the paper, all kinds of tricks. Ahem. So…a penny stamping, and a five-penny stamping…what about post to the other cities?”

“Five pence to Sto Lat,” said Groat. “Ten or fifteen to the others. Hah, three dollars for all the way to Genua. We used to have to write those out.”

“We’ll need a one-dollar stamp, then.” Moist started to scribble on the scrap of paper.

“A dollar stamp! Who’d buy one of those?” said Groat.

“Anyone who wants to send a letter to Genua,” said Moist. “They’ll buy three, eventually. But for now I’m dropping the price to one dollar.”

“One dollar! That’s thousands of miles, sir!” Groat protested.

“Yep. Sounds like a bargain, right?”

Groat looked torn between exultation and despair. “But we’ve only got a bunch of old men, sir! They’re pretty spry, I’ll grant you, but…well, you’ve got to learn to walk before you try to run, sir!”

“No!” Moist’s fist thumped the table. “Never say that, Tolliver! Never! Run before you walk! Fly before you crawl! Keep moving forward! You think we should try to get a decent mail service in the city.
I
think we should try to send letters anywhere in the world! Because if we fail, I’d rather fail really hugely. All or nothing, Mr. Groat!”

“Wow, sir!” said Groat.

Moist grinned his bright, sunny smile. It very nearly reflected off his suit.

“Let’s get busy. We’re going to need more staff, Postal Inspector Groat. A lot more staff. Smarten up, man. The Post Office is back!”

“Yessir!” said Groat, drunk on enthusiasm. “We’ll…we’ll do things that are quite new, in interestin’ ways!”

“You’re getting the hang of it already,” said Moist, rolling his eyes.

T
EN MINUTES LATER
, the Post Office received its first delivery.

It was Senior Postman Bates, blood streaming down his face. He was helped into the office by two Watch officers, carrying a makeshift stretcher.

“Found him wandering in the street, sir,” said one of them. “Sergeant Colon, sir, at your service.”

“What happened to him?” said Moist, horrified.

Bates opened his eyes. “Sorry, sir,” he murmured, “I held on tight, but they belted me over the bonce with a big thing!”

“Coupla toughs jumped him,” said Sergeant Colon. “They threw his bag in the river, too.”

“Does that normally happen to postmen?” said Moist. “I thought—oh, no…”

The new, painfully slow arrival was Senior Postman Aggy, dragging one leg because it had a bulldog attached to it.

“Sorry about this, sir,” he said, limping forward, “I think my official trousers is torn. I stunned the bugger with my bag, sir, but they’re a devil to get to let go.” The bulldog’s eyes were shut; it appeared to be thinking of something else.

“Good job you’ve got your armor, eh?” said Moist.

“Wrong leg, sir. But not to worry. I’m nat’rally impervious around the calfy regions. It’s all the scar tissue, sir, you could strike matches on it. Jimmy Tropes is in trouble, though. He’s up a tree in Hide Park.”

M
OIST VON
L
IPWIG
strode up Market Street, face set with grim purpose. The boards were still up on The Golem Trust, but they had attracted another layer of graffiti. The paint on the door was burned and bubbled, too.