Going Postal (23 page)

“Well, you know what it’s like with Post Office people, sir,” said Groat. “We don’t like to—”

“Are you the postmaster?” said a withering voice behind him.

The voice went into his head, bored down through his memories, riffled through his fears, found the right levers, battened onto them, and pulled. In Moist’s case, it found Frau Shambers. In the second year at school, you were precipitated out of the warm, easygoing kindergarten of Frau Tissel, smelling of finger paint, playdough, and inadequate toilet training, and onto the cold benches governed by Frau Shambers, smelling of Education. It was as bad as being born, with the added disadvantage that your mother wasn’t there.

Moist automatically looked down. Yes, there they were, the sensible shoes, the thick black stockings that were slightly hairy, the baggy cardigan—oh, yes, arrgh, the cardigan; Frau Shambers used to stuff the sleeves with handkerchiefs, arrgh, arrgh—and the glasses and the expression like an early frost. And her hair was plaited and coiled up on either side of her head in those discs that back home in Uberwald had been called “snails,” but in Ankh-Morpork put people in mind of a woman with a curly iced bun clamped to each ear.

“Now look here, Miss Maccalariat,” he said firmly. “I am the postmaster here, and I am in charge, and I do not intend to be browbeaten by a member of the counter staff just because their ancestors worked here. I do not fear your clumpy shoes, Miss Maccalariat, I smile happily in the teeth of your icy stare. Fie on you! Now that I am a grown man, Frau Shambers, I will quake not at your sharp voice and will control my bladder perfectly however hard you look at me, oh yes indeed! For I am the postmaster and my word here is law!”

That was what his brain said. Unfortunately, the words got routed through his trembling backbone on the way to his mouth and issued from his lips as “Er, yes!” which came out as a squeak.

“
Mr.
Lipwig, I ask you: I have nothing against them, but are these golems you are employing in my post office gentlemen or ladies?” the terrible woman demanded.

This was sufficiently unexpected to jolt Moist back into something like reality. “What?” he said. “I don’t know! What’s the difference? A bit more clay…less clay? Why?”

Miss Maccalariat folded her arms, causing both Moist and Mr. Groat to shy backwards.

“I hope you’re not funning with me, Mr. Lipwig?” she demanded.

“What? Funning? I never fun!” Moist tried to pull himself together. Whatever happened next, he could not be made to stand in the corner. “I do not fun, Miss Maccalariat, and have no history of funning, and even if I was inclined to fun, Miss Maccalariat, I would not dream of funning with you. What is the problem?”

“One of them was in the ladies’…restroom, Mr. Moist,” said Miss Maccalariat.

“Doing what? I mean, they don’t eat, so—”

“Cleaning it,
apparently
,” said Miss Maccalariat, contriving to suggest that she had dark suspicions on this point. “But I have heard them referred to as ‘Mister.’”

“Well, they do odd jobs all the time, because they don’t like to stop working,” said Moist. “And we prefer to give them Mister as an honorific, because, er, ‘it’ seems wrong, and there are some people, yes, some people for whom the word ‘Miss’ is not appropriate, Miss Maccalariat.”

“It is the
principle
of the thing, Mr. Lipwig,” said the woman firmly. “Anyone called Mister is
not
allowed in the ladies’. That sort of thing can only lead to hanky-panky. I will not stand for it, Mr. Lipwig.”

Moist stared at her. Then he looked up at Mr. Pump, who was never far away.

“Mr. Pump, is there any reason why one of the golems can’t have a new name?” he asked. “In the interest of hanky-panky avoidance?”

“No, Mr. Lipvig,” the golem rumbled.

Moist turned back to Miss Maccalariat. “Would ‘Gladys’ do, Miss Maccalariat?”

“‘Gladys’ will be sufficient, Mr. Lipwig,” said Miss Maccalariat, more than a hint of triumph in her voice. “She must be properly clothed, of course.”

“Clothed?” said Moist weakly. “But a golem isn’t—it doesn’t—they don’t have…” He quailed under the glare, and gave up. “Yes, Miss Maccalariat. Something gingham, I think, Mr. Pump?”

“I Shall Arrange It, Postmaster,” said the golem.

“Will that be all right, Miss Maccalariat?” said Moist meekly.

“For the present,” said Miss Maccalariat, as if she regretted that there were currently no further things to complain of. “Mr. Groat knows my particulars, Postmaster. I will now return to the proper execution of my duties, otherwise people will try to steal the pens again. You have to watch them like hawks, you know.”

“A good woman, that,” said Groat, as she strode away. “Fifth generation of Miss Maccalariats. Maiden name kept for professional purposes, o’course.”

“They get
married
?” From the mob around the makeshift counter came the ringing command: “Put that pen back this minute! Do you think I’m made of pens?”

“Yessir,” said Groat.

“Do they bite their husbands’ heads off on their wedding night?” said Moist.

“I wouldn’t know about that sort of thing, sir,” said Groat, blushing.

“But she’s even got a bit of a mustache!”

“Yessir. There’s someone for everyone in this wonderful world, sir.”

“And we’ve got other people looking for work, you say?”

Groat beamed. “That’s right, sir. ’Cos of the bit in the paper, sir.”

“You mean this morning?”

“I expect that helped, sir,” said Groat. “But I reckon it was the lunchtime edition that did it.”

“
What lunchtime edition?
”

“We’re all over the front page!” said Groat proudly. “I put a copy on your desk upstairs—”

Moist pushed the Sto Lat mailbag into the man’s arms. “Get this…sorted,” he said. “If there’s enough mail for another delivery to go, find some kid who’s mad for a job and put him on a horse and get him to take it. Doesn’t have to be fast, we’ll call it the overnight delivery. Tell him to see the mayor and come back in the morning with any fresh mail.”

“Right you are, sir,” said Groat. “We could do an overnight to Quirm and Pseudopolis, too, sir, if we could change horses like the mail coaches do—”

“Hang on…why
can’t
the mail coaches take it?” said Moist. “Hell, they’re still
called
mail coaches, right? We know they take stuff from anyone, on the quiet. Well, the Post Office is back in business. They take out mail. Go and find whoever runs it and tell him so!”

“Yessir,” said Groat, beaming. “Thought about how we’re going to send post to the moon yet, sir?”

“One thing at a time, Mr. Groat!”

“That’s not like you, sir,” said Groat cheerfully. “All at once is more your style, sir!”

I wish it wasn’t
, Moist thought, as he eased his way upstairs. But you had to move fast. He always moved fast. His whole life had been movement. Move fast, because you never know what’s trying to catch you up—

He paused on the stairs.

Not Mr. Pump!

The golem hadn’t left the Post Office! He hadn’t tried to catch him up! Was it that he’d been on postal business? How
long
could he be away on postal business? Could he fake his death, maybe? The old pile-of-clothes-on-the-seashore trick? Worth remembering. All he needed was a long enough start. How did a golem’s mind actually work? He’d have to ask Miss—

Miss Dearheart! He’d been flying so high that he’d asked her out! That might be a problem now, because most of the lower part of his body was on fire, not especially for Miss Dearheart.
Oh, well
, he thought, as he entered the office, perhaps he could find a restaurant with really soft seats—

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.

Moist had never much bothered with newspapers. He was an artist. He wasn’t interested in big schemes. You swindled the man in front of you, looking him sincerely in the eyes.

The picture was good, though, he had to admit. The rearing horse, the wingéd hat, and, above all, the slight blurring with speed. It was impressive.

He relaxed a little. The place was
operating
, after all. Mail was being posted. Mail was being delivered. Okay, so a major part of it all was that the clacks wasn’t working properly, but maybe in time people would see that a letter to your sister in Sto Lat didn’t need to cost thirty pence to
maybe
get there in an hour but might as well cost a mere five pence to be there in the morning.

Stanley knocked at the door and then pushed it open.

“Cup of tea, Mr. Lipwig?” he said. “And a bun, sir.”

“You’re an angel in heavy disguise, Stanley,” said Moist, sitting back with care, and wincing.

“Yes, thank you, sir,” said Stanley solemnly. “Got some messages for you, sir.”

“Thank you, Stanley,” said Moist. There was a lengthy pause until he remembered that this was Stanley he was talking to, and added: “Please tell me what they are, Stanley.”

“Er…the golem lady came in and said…” Stanley closed his eyes. “‘Tell the Streak of Lightning he’ll have another eight golems in the morning and if he’s not too busy working miracles I’ll accept his invitation to dine at eight at Le Foie Heureux, meet at The Mended Drum at seven.’”

“The Happy Liver? Are you sure?” But of course it would be correct. This was Stanley. “Ha, even the damn soup there is fifteen dollars!” said Moist. “And you have to wait three weeks for an appointment to be considered for a booking! They weigh your wallet! How does she think I—”

His eye rested on “Mr. Robinson’s box,” sitting innocently in the corner of the office. He
liked
Miss Dearheart. Most people were…accessible. Sooner or later you could find the springs that worked them; even Miss Maccalariat would have a lever somewhere, although it was a horrible thought. But Adora Belle fought back, and to make sure fought back even before she was attacked. She was a challenge, and therefore fascinating. She was so cynical, so defensive, so
spikey
. And he had a feeling she could read him much, much better than he read her. All in all, she was intriguing. And looked good in a severely plain dress, don’t forget that bit.

“Okay. Thank you, Stanley,” he said. “Anything else?”

The boy put a sheet of slightly damp, greeny-gray stamps on the desk.

“The first dollar stamps, sir!” he announced.

“My word, Mr. Spools has done a good job here!” said Moist, staring at the hundreds of little green pictures of the university’s Tower of Art. “It even
looks
worth a dollar!”

“Yes, sir. You hardly notice the little man jumping from the top,” said Stanley.

Moist snatched the sheet from the boy’s hand. “Where? Where?”

“You need a magnifying glass, sir. And it’s only on a few of them. In some of them he’s in the water. Mr. Spools is very sorry, sir, he says it may be some kind of induced magic. You know, sir? Like, even a picture of a wizards’ tower might be a bit magical itself? There’s a few faults on some of the others, too. The printing went wrong on some of the black penny ones, and Lord Vetinari’s got gray hair, sir. Some haven’t got gum on, but they’re all right, because some people have asked for them that way.”

“Why?”

“They say they’re as good as real pennies and a whole lot lighter, sir.”

“Do you like stamps, Stanley?” said Moist kindly. He was feeling a lot better in a seat that didn’t go up and down.

Stanley’s face lit up. “Oh,
yes
, sir. Really, sir. They’re wonderful, sir! Amazing, sir!”

Moist raised his eyebrows. “As good as that, eh?”

“It’s like…well, it’s like being there when they invented the first pin, sir!” Stanley’s face glowed.

“
Really?
The first pin, eh?” said Moist. “Outstanding! Well, in that case, Stanley, you are head of stamps. The whole department. Which is, in fact, you. How do you like that? I imagine you already know more about them than anyone else.”

“Oh, I do, sir! For example, on the very first run of the penny stamps they used a different type of—”

“Good!” said Moist hurriedly. “Well done! Can I keep this first sheet? As a souvenir?”

“Of course, sir,” said Stanley. “Head of stamps, sir? Wow! Er…is there a hat?”

“If you like,” said Moist generously, folding up the sheet of stamps and putting them in his inside pocket. So much more convenient than dollars. Wow, indeed. “Or perhaps a shirt?” he added. “You know…‘Ask Me About Stamps’?”

“Good idea, sir! Can I go and tell Mr. Groat, sir? He’d be so proud of me!”

“Off you go, Stanley,” said Moist. “But come back in ten minutes, will you? I’ll have a letter for you to deliver—personally.”

Stanley ran off.

Moist opened the wooden box, which fanned out its trays obediently, and flexed his fingers.

Hmm. It seemed that anyone who was, well, anyone in the city had their paper printed by Teemer and Spools. Moist thumbed through his recently acquired paper samples, and spotted:

The Grand Trunk Company
“
As Fast as Light
”
From the Office of the Chairman

It was tempting. Very tempting. They were rich, very rich. Even with the current trouble, they were still very big. And Moist had never met a head waiter who hated money.

He found a copy of yesterday’s
Times
. There’d been a picture…yes, here. There was a picture of Reacher Guilt, Chairman of the Grand Trunk, at some function. He looked like a better class of pirate, a buccaneer maybe, but one who took the time to polish his plank.

That flowing black hair, that beard, that eyepatch, and, oh gods, that cockatoo…that was a Look, wasn’t it?