Chris Patterson - Going Postal

Poor Mr Horsefry... there had been rumours. In fact they were completely unsubstantiated rumours, because Mr Gryle had been excessively good at his job when pigeons weren't involved, had moved like a shadow with claws and, while he'd left a faint scent, it had been masked by the blood. In the nose of a werewolf, blood trumps everything. But rumour rose in the streets of Ankh-Morpork like mist from a midden.

And then it occurred to one or two of the board that the jovial ‘my friends' in the mouth of Reacher Gilt, so generous with his invitations, his little tips, his advice and his champagne, was beginning, in its harmonics and overtones, to sound just like the word ‘pal' in the mouth of a man in an alley who was offering cosmetic surgery with a broken bottle in exchange for not being given any money. On the other hand, they'd been safe so far; maybe it was worth following the tiger to the kill. Better to follow at the beast's heel than be its prey...

‘And now I realize that I am inexcusably keeping you from your beds,' said Gilt. ‘Good night to you, gentlemen. You may safely leave everything to me. Igor!'

‘Yeth, marthter,' said Igor, behind him.

‘Do see these gentlemen out, and ask Mr Pony to come in.'

Gilt watched them go with a smile of satisfaction, which became a bright and happy face when Pony was ushered in.

The interview with the engineer went like this:

‘Mr Pony,' said Gilt, ‘I am very pleased to tell you that the Board, impressed by your dedication and the hard work you have been putting in, have voted unanimously to increase your salary by five hundred dollars a year.'

Pony brightened up. ‘Thank you very much, sir. That will certainly come in—'

‘However, Mr Pony, as part of the management of the Grand Trunk Company - and we do think of you as part of the team - we must ask you to bear in mind our cash flow. We cannot authorize more than twenty-five thousand dollars for repairs this year.'

‘That's only about seventy dollars a tower, sir!' the engineer protested.

‘Teh, is it really? I told them you wouldn't accept that,' said Gilt. ‘Mr Pony is an engineer of integrity, I said. He won't accept a penny less than fifty thousand, I told them!'

Pony looked hunted. ‘Couldn't really do much of a job, sir, even for that. I could get some walking tower teams out there, yes, but most of the mountain towers are living on borrowed time as it is—'

‘We're counting on you, George,' said Gilt.

‘Well, I suppose... Could we have the Hour of the Dead back, Mr Gilt?'

‘I really wish you wouldn't use that fanciful term,' said Gilt. ‘It really does not present the right image.'

‘Sorry, sir,' said Pony. ‘But I still need it.'

Gilt drummed his fingers on the table. ‘You're asking a lot, George, you really are. That's revenue flow we're talking about. The Board won't be very pleased with me if I—'

‘I think I've got to insist, Mr Gilt,' said Pony, looking at his feet.

‘And what could you deliver?' said Gilt. ‘That's what the Board will want to know. They'll say to me: Reacher, we're giving good old George everything he asks for; what will we be getting in return?'

Forgetting for the moment that it was a quarter of what he'd asked for, good old George said: ‘Well, we could patch up all round and get some of the really shaky towers back into some sort of order, especially 99 and 201... Oh, there's just so much to do—'

‘Would it, for example, give us a year of reasonable service?'

Mr Pony struggled manfully with the engineer's permanent dread of having to commit himself to anything, and managed, ‘Well, if we don't lose too many staff, and the winter isn't too bad, but of course there's always—'

Gilt snapped his fingers. ‘By damn, George, you've talked me into it! I'll tell the Board that I'm backing you and to hell with them!'

‘Well, that's very kind of you, sir, of course,' said Pony, bewildered, but it's only papering over the cracks, really. If we don't have a major rebuild we're only laying up even more trouble for the future—'

‘In a year or so, George, you can lay any plans you like in front of us!' said Gilt jovially. ‘Your skill and ingenuity will be the saving of the company! Now I know you're a busy man and I mustn't keep you. Go and perform miracles of economy, Mr Pony!'

Mr Pony staggered out, proud and bemused and full of dread.

‘Silly old fool,' said Gilt, and reached down and opened the bottom drawer of his desk. He pulled out a beartrap, which he set, with some effort, and then stood in the middle of the floor with his back to it.

‘Igor!' he called.

‘Yeth, thur,' said Igor, behind him. There was a snap. ‘I think thith ith yourth, thur,' Igor added, handing Gilt the sprung trap. Gilt looked down. The man's legs appeared unscathed.

‘How did you—' he began.

‘Oh, we Igorth are no thtranger to marthterth of an enquiring mind, thur,' said Igor gloomily. ‘One of my gentlemen uthed to thtand with hith back to a pit lined with thpiketh, thur. Oh how we chuckled, thur.'

‘And what happened?'

‘One day he forgot and thtepped into it. Talk about laugh, thur.'

Gilt laughed, too, and went back to his desk. He liked that kind of joke.

‘Igor, would you say that I'm insane?' he said.

Igors are not supposed to lie to an employer. It's part of the Code of the Igors. Igor took refuge in strict linguistic honesty.

‘I wouldn't find mythelf able to thay that, thur,' he said.

‘I must be, Igor. Either that or everyone else is,' said Gilt. ‘I mean, I show them what I do, I show them how the cards are marked, I tell them what I am... and they nudge one another and grin and each one of them thinks himself no end of a fine fellow to be doing business with me. They throw good money after bad. They believe themselves to be sharp operators, and yet they offer themselves like little lambs. How I love to see their expressions when they think they're being astute .'

‘Indeed, thur,' said Igor. He was wondering if that job at the new hospital was still open. His cousin Igor was already working there and had told him it was wonderful. Sometimes you had to work all night! And you got a white coat, all the rubber gloves you could eat and, best of all, you got rethpect .

‘It's so... basic,' said Gilt. ‘You make money as it runs down, you make money building it up again, you might even make a little money running it, then you sell it to yourself when it collapses. The leases alone are worth a fortune. Give Alphonse his nuts, will you?'

‘ Twelve and a half per cent! Twelve and a half per cent !' said the cockatoo, sidling up and down the perch excitedly.

‘Thertainly, thur,' said Igor, taking a bag out of his pocket and advancing cautiously. Alphonse had a beak like a pair of shears.

Or maybe try veterinary work like my other cousin Igor, Igor thought. That was a good traditional area, certainly. Pity about all that publicity when the hamster smashed its way out of its treadmill and ate that man's leg before flying away, but that was Progrethth for you. The important thing was to get out before the mob arrived. And when your boss started telling thin air how good he was, that was the time.

‘Hope is the curse of humanity, Igor,' said Gilt, putting his hands behind his head.

‘Could be, thur,' said Igor, trying to avoid the horrible curved beak.

‘The tiger does not hope to catch its prey, nor does the gazelle hope to escape the claws. They run , Igor. Only the running matters. All they know is that they must run. And now I must run along to those nice people at the Times , to tell everyone about our bright new future. Get the coach out, will you?'

‘Thertainly, thur. If you will excuthe me, I will go and fetch another finger.'