Going Postal

Some of the staff were waiting inside. He realized the news hadn’t got around. Even Ankh-Morpork’s permanent rumour-mill hadn’t been able to beat him back from the University.

‘What’s happened, Postmaster?’ said Groat, his hands twisting together. ‘Have they won?’

‘No,’ said Moist, but they picked up the edge in his voice.

‘Have we won?’

‘The Archchancellor will have to decide that,’ said Moist. ‘I suppose we won’t know for weeks. The clacks has been shut down, though. I’m sorry, it’s all complicated… ’

He left them standing and staring as he trudged up to his office, where Mr Pump was standing in the corner.

‘Good Evening, Mr Lipvig,’ the golem boomed.

Moist sat down and put his head in his hands. This was victory, but it didn’t feel like it. It felt like a mess.

The bets? Well, if Leadpipe got to Genua you could make a case under the rules that he’d won, but Moist had a feeling that all bets were off now. That meant people would get their money back, at least.

He’d have to keep the Trunk going, gods knew how. He’d sort of promised the Gnu, hadn’t he? And it was amazing how people had come to rely on the clacks. He wouldn’t know how Leadpipe had fared for weeks, and even Moist had got used to daily news from Genua. It was like having a finger cut off. But the clacks was a big, cumbersome monster of a thing, too many towers, too many people, too much effort. There had to be a way of making it better and sleeker and cheaper… or maybe it was something so big that no one could run it at a profit. Maybe it was like the Post Office, maybe the profit turned up spread around the whole of society.

Tomorrow he’d have to take it all seriously. Proper mail runs. Many more staff. Hundreds of things to do, and hundreds of other things to do before you could do those things. It wasn’t going to be fun any more, cocking a snook, whatever a snook was, at the big slow giant. He’d won, so he’d have to pick up the pieces and make everything work. And come in here the next day and do it all again.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to end. You won, and you pocketed the cash and walked away. That was how the game was supposed to go, wasn’t it?

His eye fell on Anghammarad’s message box, on its twisted, corroded strap, and he wished he was at the bottom of the sea.

‘Mr Lipwig?’

He looked up. Drumknott the clerk was standing in the doorway, with another clerk behind him.

‘Yes?’

‘Sorry to disturb you, sir,’ said the clerk. ‘We’re here to see Mr Pump. Just a minor adjustment, if you don’t mind?’

‘What? Oh. Fine. Whatever. Go ahead.’ Moist waved a hand vaguely.

The two men walked over to the golem. There was some muted conversation, and then it knelt down and they unscrewed the top of its head.

Moist stared in horror. He knew it was done, of course, but it was shocking to see it happening. There was some rummaging around that he couldn’t make out, and then the cranium was replaced, with a little pottery noise.

‘Sorry to have disturbed you, sir,’ said Drumknott, and the clerks left.

Mr Pump stayed on his knees for a moment, and then rose slowly. The red eyes focused on Moist, and the golem stuck out his hand.

‘I Do Not Know What A Pleasure Is, But I Am Sure That If I Did, Then Working With You Would Have Been One,’ he said. ‘Now I Must Leave You. I Have Another Task.’

‘You’re not my, er, parole officer any more?’ said Moist, taken aback.

‘Correct.’

‘Hold on,’ said Moist, as light dawned, ‘is Vetinari sending you after Gilt?’

‘I Am Not At Liberty To Say.’

‘He is, isn’t he? You’re not following me any more?’

‘I Am Not Following You Any More.’

‘So I’m free to go?’

‘I Am Not At Liberty To Say. Good Night, Mr Lipvig.’ Mr Pump paused at the door. ‘I Am Not Certain What Happiness Is, Either, Mr Lipvig, But I Think - Yes, I Think I Am Happy To Have Met You.’

And, ducking to get through the doorway, the golem left.

That only leaves the werewolf, thought part of Moist’s mind, faster than light. And they’re not much good at boats and completely lost when it comes to oceans! It’s the middle of the night, the Watch are running around like madmen, everyone’s busy, I’ve got a bit of cash and I’ve still got the diamond ring and a deck of cards… who’d notice? Who’d care? Who’d worry?

He could go anywhere . But that wasn’t really him thinking that, was it… it was just a few old brain cells, running on automatic. There wasn’t anywhere to go, not any more.

He walked over to the big hole in the wall and looked down into the hall. Did anyone go home here? But now the news had got around, and if you wanted any hope of anything delivered anywhere tomorrow, you came to the Post Office. It was quite busy, even now.

‘Cup of tea, Mr Lipwig?’ said the voice of Stanley, behind him.

‘Thank you, Stanley,’ said Moist, without looking round. Down below, Miss Maccalariat was standing on a chair and nailing something to the wall.