Chris Patterson - Going Postal

Vetinari leaned back and placed his fingers together.

‘Let us consider a situation in which some keen and highly inventive men devise a remarkable system of communication,' he said. ‘What they have is a kind of passionate ingenuity, in large amounts. What they don't have is money. They are not used to money. So they meet some... people, who introduce them to other people, friendly people, who for, oh, a forty per cent stake in the enterprise give them the much-needed cash and, very important, much fatherly advice and an introduction to a really good firm of accountants. And so they proceed, and soon money is coming in and money is going out but somehow, they learn, they're not quite as financially stable as they think and really do need more money. Well, this is all fine because it's clear to all that the basic enterprise is going to be a money tree one day, and does it matter if they sign over another fifteen per cent? It's just money. It's not important in the way that shutter mechanisms are, is it? And then they find out that yes , it is. It is everything . Suddenly the world's turned upside down, suddenly those nice people aren't so friendly any more, suddenly it turns out that those bits of paper they signed in a hurry, were advised to sign by people who smiled all the time, mean that they don't actually own anything at all, not patents, not property, nothing. Not even the contents of their own heads, indeed. Even any ideas they have now don't belong to them, apparently. And somehow they're still in trouble about money. Well, some run and some hide and some try to fight, which is foolish in the extreme, because it turns out that everything is legal, it really is. Some accept low-level jobs in the enterprise, because one has to live and in any case the enterprise even owns their dreams at night. And yet actual illegality, it would appear, has not taken place. Business is business.'

Lord Vetinari opened his eyes. The men around the table were staring at him.

‘Just thinking aloud,' he said. ‘I am sure you will point out that this is not the business of the government. I know Mr Gilt will. However, since you acquired the Grand Trunk at a fraction of its value, I note that breakdowns are increasing, the speed of messages has slowed down and the cost to customers has risen. Last week the Grand Trunk was closed for almost three days. We could not even talk to Sto Lat! Hardly "As Fast as Light", gentlemen.'

‘That was for essential maintenance—' Mr Slant began.

‘No, it was for repairs,' snapped Vetinari. ‘Under the previous management the system shut down for an hour every day. That was for maintenance. Now the towers run until they break down. What do you think you are doing, gentlemen?'

‘That, my lord, and with respect, is none of your business.'

Lord Vetinari smiled. For the first time that morning, it was a smile of genuine pleasure.

‘Ah, Mr Reacher Gilt, I was wondering when we'd hear from you. You have been so uncharacteristically silent. I read your recent article in the Times with great interest. You are passionate about freedom, I gather. You used the word "tyranny" three times and the word "tyrant" once.'

‘Don't patronize me, my lord,' said Gilt. ‘We own the Trunk. It is our property . You understand that? Property is the foundation of freedom. Oh, customers complain about the service and the cost, but customers always complain about such things. We have no shortage of customers at whatever cost. Before the semaphore, news from Genua took months to get here, now it takes less than a day. It is affordable magic. We are answerable to our shareholders, my lord. Not, with respect, to you. It is not your business. It is our business, and we will run it according to the market. I hope there are no tyrannies here. This is, with respect, a free city.'

‘Such a lot of respect is gratifying,' said the Patrician. ‘But the only choice your customers have is between you and nothing.'

‘Exactly,' said Reacher Gilt calmly. ‘There is always a choice. They can ride a horse a few thousand miles, or they can wait patiently until we can send their message.'

Vetinari gave him a smile that lasted as long as a lightning flash.

‘Or fund and build another system,' he said. ‘Although I note that every other company that has lately tried to run a clacks system in opposition has failed quite quickly, sometimes in distressing circumstances. Falls from the tops of clacks towers, and so on.'

‘Accidents do happen. It is most unfortunate,' said Mr Slant stiffly.

‘Most unfortunate,' Vetinari echoed. He pulled the paper towards him once again, dislodging the files slightly, so that a few more names were visible, and wrote ‘Most unfortunate'.

‘Well, I believe that covers everything,' he said. ‘In fact, the purpose of this meeting was to tell you formally that I am, at last, reopening the Post Office as planned. This is just a courtesy announcement, but I felt I should tell you because you are, after all, in the same business. I believe the recent string of accidents is now at an en—'

Reacher Gilt chuckled. ‘Sorry, my lord? Did I understand you correctly? You really intend to continue with this folly, in the face of everything? The Post Office ? When we all know that it was a lumbering, smug, overstaffed, overweight monster of a place? It barely earned its keep! It was the very essence and exemplar of public enterprise!'

‘It never made much of a profit, it is true, but in the business areas of this city there were seven deliveries a day,' said Vetinari, cold as the depths of the sea.

‘Hah! Not at the end!' said Mr Horsefry. ‘It was bloody useless!'

‘Indeed. A classic example of a corroded government organization dragging on the public purse,' Gilt added.

‘Too true!' said Mr Horsefry. ‘They used to say that if you wanted to get rid of a dead body you should take it to the Post Office and it'd never be seen again!'

‘And was it?' said Lord Vetinari, raising an eyebrow.

‘Was what?'

‘Was it seen again?'

There was a sudden hunted look in Mr Horsefry's eyes. ‘What? How would I know?'

‘Oh, I see,' said Lord Vetinari. ‘It was a joke. Ah, well.' He shuffled the papers. ‘Unfortunately the Post Office came to be seen not as a system for moving the mail efficiently, to the benefit and profit of all, but as a money box. And so it collapsed, losing both mail and money. A lesson for us all, perhaps. Anyway, I have high hopes of Mr Lipwig, a young man full of fresh ideas. A good head for heights, too, although I imagine he will not be climbing any towers.'

‘I do hope this resurrection will not prove to be a drain on our taxes,' said Mr Slant.

‘I assure you, Mr Slant, that apart from the modest sum necessary to, as it were, prime the pump, the postal service will be self-supporting as, indeed, it used to be. We cannot have a drag on the public purse, can we? And now, gentlemen, I am conscious that I am keeping you from your very important business. I do trust that the Trunk will be back in commission very shortly'

As they stood up, Reacher Gilt leaned across the table and said: ‘May I congratulate you, my lord?'

‘I am delighted that you feel inclined to congratulate me on anything, Mr Gilt,' said Vetinari. ‘To what do we owe this unique occurrence?'

‘This, my lord,' said Gilt, gesturing to the little side table on which had been set the rough-hewn piece of stone. ‘Is this not an original Hnaflbaflsniflwhifltafl slab? Llamedos bluestone, isn't it? And the pieces look like basalt, which is the very devil to carve. A valuable antique, I think.'

‘It was a present to me from the Low King of the Dwarfs,' said Vetinari. ‘It is, indeed, very old.'