Going Postal (Discworld 33)

'Push away, Stanley, push away,' said Moist cheerfully. Stanley pulled a small paper folder out of his pocket, opened it, and laid it reverentially in front of Moist. 'Mr Spools helped me with some of it,' he said. 'But I did a lot.' It was a stamp. It was a yellowy-green colour. It showed - Moist peered - a field of cabbages, with some buildings on the horizon. He sniffed. It smelled of cabbages. Oh, yes. 'Printed with cabbage ink and using gum made from broccoli, sir,' said Stanley, full of pride. 'A Salute to the Cabbage Industry of the Sto Plains, sir. I think it might do very well. Cabbages are so popular, sir. You can make so many things out of them!'

'Well, I can see that—'

'There's cabbage soup, cabbage beer, cabbage fudge, cabbage cake, cream of cabbage—'

'Yes, Stanley, I think you—'

'—pickled cabbage, cabbage jelly, cabbage salad, boiled cabbage, deep-fried cabbage—'

'Yes, but now can—'

'—fricassee of cabbage, cabbage chutney, Cabbage Surprise, sausages—'

'Sausages?'

'Filled with cabbage, sir. You can make practically anything with cabbage, sir. Then there's—'

'Cabbage stamps,' said Moist, terminally. 'At fifty pence, I note. You have hidden depths, Stanley.'

'I owe it all to you, Mr Lipwig!' Stanley burst out. 'I have put the childish playground of pins right behind me, sir! The world of stamps, which can teach a young man much about history and geography as well as being a healthy, enjoyable, engrossing and thoroughly worthwhile hobby that will give him an interest that will last a lifetime, has opened up before me and—'

'Yes, yes, thank you!' said Moist. '—and I'm putting thirty dollars into the pot, sir. All my savings. Just to show we support you.' Moist heard all the words, but had to wait for them to make sense. 'Pot?' he said at last. 'You mean like a bet?'

'Yes, sir. A big bet,' said Stanley happily. 'About you racing the clacks to Genua. People think that's funny. A lot of the bookmakers are offering odds, sir, so Mr Groat is organizing it, sir! He said the odds aren't good, though.'

'I shouldn't think they are,' said Moist weakly. 'No one in their right mind would—'

'He said we'd only win one dollar for every eight we bet, sir, but we reckoned—' Moist shot upright. 'Eight to one odds on?' he shouted. 'The bookies think I'm going to win? How much are you all betting?'

'Er . . . about one thousand two hundred dollars at the last count, sir. Is that—' Pigeons rose from the roof at the sound of Moist von Lipwig's scream. 'Fetch Mr Groat right now!' It was a terrible thing to see guile on the face of Mr Groat. The old man tapped the side of his nose. 'You're the man that got money out o' a bunch of gods, sir!' he said, grinning happily. 'Yes,' said Moist desperately. 'But supposing I - I just did that with a trick . . .'

'Damn good trick, sir,' the old man cackled. 'Damn good. A man who could trick money out of the gods'd be capable of anything, I should think!'

'Mr Groat, there is no way a coach can get to Genua faster than a clacks message. It's two thousand miles!'

'Yes, I realize you've got to say that, sir. Walls have ears, sir. Mum's the word. But we all had a talk, and we reckoned you've been very good to us, sir, you really believe in the Post Office, sir, so we thought: it's time to put our money in our mouth, sir!' said Groat, and now there was a touch of defiance. Moist gaped once or twice. 'You mean “where your mouth is”?'

'You're the man who knows a trick or three, sir! The way you just went into the newspaper office and said, we'll race you! Reacher Gilt walked right into your trap, sir!' Glass into diamond, thought Moist. He sighed. 'All right, Mr Groat. Thank you. Eight to one on, eh?'

'We were lucky to get it, sir. They went up to ten to one on, then they closed the books. All they're accepting now is bets on how you'll win, sir.' Moist perked up a little. 'Any good ideas?' he asked. 'I've got a one-dollar flutter on “by dropping fire from the sky”, sir. Er . . . you wouldn't like to give me a hint, p'raps?'

'Please go and get on with your work, Mr Groat,' said Moist severely. 'Yessir, of course, sir, sorry I asked, sir,' said Groat, and crabbed off.

Moist put his head in his hands. I wonder if it's like this for mountain climbers, he thought. You climb bigger and bigger mountains and you know that one day one of them is going to be just that bit too steep. But you go on doing it, because it's so-o good when you breathe the air up there. And you know you'll die falling. How could people be so stupid? They seemed to cling to ignorance because it smelled familiar. Reacher Gilt sighed. He had an office in the Tump Tower. He didn't like it much, because the whole place shook to the movement of the semaphore, but it was necessary for the look of the thing. It did have an unrivalled view of the city, though. And the site alone was worth what they'd paid for the Trunk. 'It takes the best part of two months to get to Genua by coach,' he said, staring across the rooftops to the Palace. 'He might be able to shave something off that, I suppose. The clacks takes a few hours. What is there about this that frightens you?'

'So what's his game?' said Greenyham. The rest of the board sat around the table, looking worried. 'I don't know,' said Gilt. 'I don't care.'

'But the gods are on his side, Readier,' said Nutmeg. 'Let's talk about that, shall we?' said Gilt. 'Does that claim strike anyone else as odd? The gods are not generally known for no-frills gifts, are they? Especially not ones that you can bite. No, these days they restrict themselves to things like grace, patience, fortitude and inner strength. Things you can't see. Things that have no value. Gods tend to be interested in prophets, not profits, haha.' There were some blank looks from his fellow directors. 'Didn't quite get that one, old chap,' said Stowley. 'Prophets, I said, not profits,' said Gilt. He waved a hand. 'Don't worry yourselves, it will look better written down. In short, Mr Lipwig's gift from above was a big chest of coins, some of them in what look remarkably like bank sacks and all in modern denominations. You don't find this strange?'

'Yes, but even the high priests say he—'

'Lipwig is a showman,' snapped Gilt. 'Do you think the gods will carry his mail coach for him? Do you? This is a stunt, do you understand? It got him on page one again, that's all. This is not hard to follow. He has no plan, other than to fail heroically. No one expects him actually to win, do they?'

'I heard that people are betting heavily on him.'

'People enjoy the experience of being fooled, if it promises a certain amount of entertainment,' said Gilt. 'Do you know a good bookmaker? I shall have a little flutter. Five thousand dollars, perhaps?' This got some nervous laughter, and he followed it up. 'Gentlemen, be sensible. No gods will come to the aid of our Postmaster. No wizard, either. They're not generous with magic and we'll soon find out if he uses any. No, he's looking for the publicity, that's all. Which is not to say,' he winked, 'that we shouldn't, how shall I put it, make certainty doubly sure.' They perked up still more. This sounded like the kind of thing they wanted to hear. 'After all, accidents can happen in the mountains,' said Greenyham. 'I believe that is the case,' said Gilt. 'However, I was referring to the Grand Trunk. Therefore I have asked Mr Pony to outline our procedure. Mr Pony?' The engineer shifted uneasily. He'd had a bad night. T want it recorded, sir, that I have urged a six-hour shutdown before the event,' he said. 'Indeed, and the minutes will show that I have said that is quite impossible,' said Gilt. 'Firstly because it would be an unpardonable loss of revenue, and secondly because sending no messages

would send quite the wrong message.'