Going Postal (Discworld 33)

'Hah! Yes! Er . . . good motto, Mr Lipwig. Nice one,' said Mr Spools, grinning uncertainly. 'And I want the fivepennies and one dollars the day after, please.'

'You'll scorch your boots, Mr Lipwig!' said Spools. 'Got to move, Mr Spools, got to fly!' Moist hurried back to the Post Office as fast as decently possible, feeling slightly ashamed. He liked Teemer and Spools. He liked the kind of business where you could actually speak to the man whose name was over the door; it meant it probably wasn't run by crooks. And he liked the big, solid, unflappable workmen, recognizing in them all the things he knew he lacked, like steadfastness, solidarity and honesty. You couldn't lie to a lathe or fool a hammer. They were good people, and quite unlike him . . . One way in which they were quite unlike him was that none of them, right now, probably had wads of stolen paper stuffed into their jacket. He really shouldn't have done it, he really shouldn't. It was just that Mr Spools was a kind and enthusiastic man and the desk had been covered with examples of his wonderful work, and when the perforation press was being made people had been bustling around and not really paying Moist much attention and he'd . . . tidied up. He couldn't help himself. He was a crook. What did Vetinari expect? The postmen were arriving back as he walked into the building. Mr Groat was waiting for him with a worried smile on his face. 'How's it going, Postal Inspector?' said Moist cheerfully. 'Pretty well, sir, pretty well. There's good news, sir. People have been giving us letters to post, sir. Not many yet and some of them are a bit, er, jokey, but we got a penny off'f them every time. That's seven pence, sir,' he added proudly, proffering the coins. 'Oh boy, we eat tonight!” said Moist, taking the coins and pocketing the letters. 'Sorry, sir?'

'Oh, nothing, Mr Groat. Well done. Er . . . you said there was good news. Is there any of the other sort, perhaps . . . ?'

'Um . . . some people didn't like getting their mail, sir.'

'Things got posted through the wrong doors?' said Moist. 'Oh, no, sir. But old letters ain't always welcome. Not when they're, as it might be, a will. A will. As in Last Will and Testament, sir,' the old man added meaningfully. 'As in, it turns out the

wrong daughter got mum's jewellery twenty years ago. As it were.'

'Oh, dear,' said Moist. 'The Watch had to be called in, sir. There was what they call in the papers a “rumpus” in Weaver Street, sir. There's a lady waiting for you in your office, sir.'

'Oh gods, not one of the daughters?'

'No, sir. She's a writing lady from the Times. You can't trust 'em, sir, although they do a very reasonable crossword,' Groat added conspiratorially. 'What does she want me for?'

'Couldn't say, sir. I expect it's 'cos you're postmaster?'

'Go and . . . make her some tea or something, will you?' said Moist, patting his jacket. 'I'll just go and . . . pull myself together . . .' Two minutes later, with the stolen paper tucked safely away, Moist strode into his office. Mr Pump was standing by the door, fiery eyes banked, in the stance of a golem with no current task other than to exist, and a woman was sitting in the chair by Moist's desk. Moist weighed her up. Attractive, certainly, but dressing apparently to play down the fact while artfully enhancing it. Bustles were back in fashion in the city for some inexplicable reason, but her only concession there was a bum-roll, which achieved a certain perkiness in the rear without the need to wear twenty-seven pounds of dangerously spring-loaded underwear. She was blonde but wore her hair in a bag net, another careful touch, while a small and quietly fashionable hat perched on top of her head to no particular purpose. A large shoulder bag was by her chair, a notebook was on her knee, and she wore a wedding ring. 'Mr Lipwig?' she said brightly. 'I am Miss Cripslock. From the Times! Okay, wedding ring but nevertheless 'Miss', thought Moist. Handle with care. Probably has Views. Do not attempt to kiss hand. 'And how can I assist the Times?' he said, sitting down and giving her a non-condescending smile. 'Do you intend to deliver all the backlog of mail, Mr Lipwig?'

'If at all possible, yes,' said Moist. 'Why?'

'It's my job. Rain, snow, gloom of night, just as it says over the door.'

'Have you heard about the fracas in Weaver Street?'

'I heard it was a rumpus.'

'I'm afraid it's got worse. There was a house on fire when I left. Doesn't that worry you?' Miss Cripslock's pencil was suddenly poised. Moist's face remained expressionless as he thought furiously. 'Yes, it does, of course,' he said. 'People shouldn't set fire to houses. But I also know that Mr Parker of the Merchants' Guild is marrying his boyhood sweetheart on Saturday. Did you know that?' Miss Cripslock hadn't, but she scribbled industriously as Moist told her about the greengrocer's letter. 'That's very interesting,' she said. 'I will go and see him immediately. So you're saying that delivering the old mail is a good thing?'

'Delivering the mail is the only thing,' said Moist, and hesitated again. Just on the edge of hearing was a whispering. 'Is there a problem?' said Miss Cripslock. 'What? No! What was I— Yes, it's the right thing. History is not to be denied, Miss Cripslock. And we are a communicating species, Miss Cripslock!' Moist raised his voice to drown out the whispering. 'The mail must get through! It must be delivered!'

'Er . . . you needn't shout, Mr Lipwig,' said the reporter, leaning backwards. Moist tried to get a grip, and the whispering died down a little. 'I'm sorry,' he said, and cleared his throat. 'Yes, I intend to deliver all the mail. If people have moved, we will try to find them. If they have died, we'll try to deliver to their descendants. The post will be delivered. We are tasked to deliver it, and deliver it we will. What else should we do with it? Burn it? Throw it in the river? Open it to decide if it's important? No, the letters were entrusted to our care. Delivery is the only way.' The whispering had almost died away now, so he went on: 'Besides, we need the space. The Post Office is being reborn!' He pulled out the sheet of stamps. 'With these!' She peered at them, puzzled. 'Little pictures of Lord Vetinari?' she said. 'Stamps, Miss Cripslock. One of those stuck on a letter will ensure delivery anywhere within the city. These are early sheets, but tomorrow we will be selling them gummed and perforated for ease of use. I intend to make it easy to use the post. Obviously we are still finding our feet, but soon I intend that we should be capable of delivering a letter to anyone, anywhere in the world.' It was a stupid thing to say, but his tongue had taken over. 'Aren't you being rather ambitious, Mr Lipwig?' she said. 'I'm sorry, I don't know any other way to be,' said Moist. 'I was thinking that we do have the clacks now.'

'The clacks?' said Moist. 'I dare say the clacks is wonderful if you wish to know the prawn market figures from Genua. But can you write S.W.A.L.K. on a clacks? Can you seal it with a loving kiss? Can you cry tears on to a clacks, can you smell it, can you enclose a pressed flower? A letter is more than just a message. And a clacks is so expensive in any case that the average man in the street can just about afford it in a time of crisis: GRANDADS DEAD FUNERAL TUES. A day's wages to send a message as warm and human as a thrown knife? But a letter is real.' He stopped. Miss Cripslock was scribbling like mad, and it's always worrying to see a journalist take a sudden interest in what you're saying, especially when you half suspect it was a load of pigeon guano. And it's worse when they're smiling. 'People are complaining that the clacks is becoming expensive, slow and unreliable,' said Miss Cripslock. 'How do you feel about that?'

'All I can tell you is that today we've taken on a postman who is eighteen thousand years old,' said Moist. 'He doesn't break down very easily.'

'Ah, yes. The golems. Some people say—'

'What is your first name, Miss Cripslock?' said Moist. For a moment, the woman coloured. Then she said: 'It's Sacharissa.'

'Thank you. I'm Moist. Please don't laugh. The golems— You're laughing, aren't you . . .'

'It was just a cough, honestly,' said the reporter, raising a hand to her throat and coughing unconvincingly. 'Sorry. It sounded a bit like a laugh. Sacharissa, I need postmen, counter clerks, sorters - I need lots of people. The mail will move. I need people to help me move it. Any kind of people. Ah, thanks, Stanley.' The boy had come in with two mismatched mugs of tea. One had an appealing little kitten on it, except that erratic collisions in the washing-up bowl had scratched it so that its expression was that of a creature in the final stages of rabies. The other had once hilariously informed the world that clinical insanity wasn't necessary for employment, but most of the words had faded, leaving:

He put them down with care on Moist's desk; Stanley did everything carefully. 'Thank you,' Moist repeated. 'Er . . . you can go now, Stanley. Help with the sorting, eh?'

'There's a vampire in the hall, Mr Lipwig,' said Stanley. 'That will be Otto,' said Sacharissa quickly. 'You don't have a . . . a thing about vampires, do you?'

'Hey, if he's got a pair of hands and knows how to walk I'll give him a job!'

'He's already got one,' said Sacharissa, laughing. 'He's our chief iconographer. He's been taking pictures of your men at work. We'd very much like to have one of you. For the front page.'

'What? No!' said Moist. 'Please! No!'

'He's very good.'