Chris Patterson - Going Postal

They looked at the sail. They rushed to the edge of the tower. They looked down into darkness.

‘Adrian?' said Mad Al uncertainly.

A voice from below said: ‘Yes?'

‘What are you doing?'

‘Just, you know... hanging around? And an owl has just landed on my head.'

There was a small tearing noise beside Moist. Sane Alex had cut a hole in the canvas.

‘Here it comes!' he reported.

‘What?' said Moist.

‘The message! They're sending from Tower 2! Take a look,' Alex said, backing away.

Moist peered through the slit, back towards the city. In the distance, a tower was sparkling.

Mad Al strode over to the half-sized clacks array and grabbed the handles.

‘All right, Mr Lipwig, let's hear your plan,' he said. ‘Alex, give me a hand! Adrian, just... hang on, all right?'

‘It's trying to push a dead mouse in my ear,' said a reproachful voice from below.

Moist shut his eyes, lined up the thoughts that had been buzzing for hours, and began to speak.

Behind and above him, the huge expanse of canvas was just enough to block the line of sight between the two distant towers. In front of him, the Smoking Gnu's half-sized tower was just the right size to look, to the next tower in line, like a bigger tower a long way off. At night all you could see were the lights.

The clacks in front of him shook as the shutters rattled. And now a new message was dropping across the sky...

It was only a few hundred words. When Moist had finished, the clacks rattled out the last few letters and then fell silent.

After a while Moist said: ‘Will they pass it along?'

‘Oh, yes,' said Mad Al, in a flat voice. ‘They'll send it. You're sitting up in a tower in the mountains and you get a signal like that? You'll get it away and out of your tower as fast as you can.'

‘I don't know if we ought to shake your hand or throw you off the tower,' said Sane Alex sullenly. ‘That was evil.'

‘What sort of person could dream up something like that?' said Mad Al.

‘Me. Now let's pull Adrian up, shall we?' said Moist quickly. ‘And then I'd better get back to the city...'

An omniscope is one of the most powerful instruments known to magic, and therefore one of the most useless.

It can see everything, with ease. Getting it to see anything is where wonders have to be performed because there is so much Everything - which is to say, everything that can, will, has, should or might happen in all possible universes - that anything, any previously specified thing , is very hard to find. Before Hex had evolved the control thaumarhythms, completing in a day a task that would have taken five hundred wizards at least ten years, omniscopes were used purely as mirrors because of the wonderful blackness they showed. This, it turned out, is because ‘nothing to see' is what most of the universe consists of, and many a wizard has peacefully trimmed his beard while gazing into the dark heart of the cosmos.

There were very few steerable omniscopes. They took a long time to make and cost a great deal. And the wizards were not at all keen on making any more. Omniscopes were for them to look at the universe, not for the universe to look back at them.

Besides, the wizards did not believe in making life too easy for people. At least, for people who weren't wizards. An omniscope was a rare, treasured and delicate thing.

But today was a special occasion, and they had thrown open the doors to the richer, cleaner and more hygienic sections of Ankh-Morpork society. A long table had been set for Second Tea. Nothing too excessive - a few dozen roast fowls, a couple of cold salmon, one hundred linear feet of salad bar, a pile of loaves, one or two kegs of beer and, of course, the chutney, pickle and relish train, one trolley not being considered big enough. People had filled their plates and were standing around chatting and, above all, Being There. Moist slipped in unnoticed, for now, because people were watching the University's biggest omniscope.

Archchancellor Ridcully thumped the side of the thing with his hand, causing it to rock.

‘It's still not working , Mr Stibbons!' he bellowed. ‘Here's that damn enormous fiery eye again!'

‘I'm sure we have the right—' Ponder began, fiddling with the rear of the big disc.

‘It's me, sir, Devious Collabone, sir,' said a voice from the omniscope. The fiery eye pulled back and was replaced by an enormous fiery nose. ‘I'm here at the terminal tower in Genua, sir. Sorry about the redness, sir. I've picked up an allergy to seaweed, sir.'

‘Hello, Mr Collabone!' yelled Ridcully. ‘How are you? How's the—'

‘—shellfish research—' murmured Ponder Stibbons.

‘—shellfish research comin' along?'

‘Not very well, actually, sir. I've developed a nasty—'

‘Good, good! Lucky chap!' Ridcully yelled, cupping his hands to increase the volume. ‘I wouldn't mind bein' in Genua myself at this time of year! Sun, sea, surf and sand, eh?'

‘Actually it's the wet season, sir, and I'm a bit worried about this fungus that's growing on the omni—'

‘Wonderful!' shouted Ridcully. ‘Well, I can't stand here and chew your fat all day! Has anything arrived? We are agog!'

‘Could you just stand back a little bit further, please, Mr Collabone?' said Ponder. ‘And you don't really need to speak so... loudly, Archchancellor.'

‘Chap's a long way away, man!' said Ridcully.

‘Not as such, sir,' said Ponder, with well-honed patience. ‘Very well, Mr Collabone, you may proceed.'

The crowd behind the Archchancellor pressed forward. Mr Collabone backed away. This was all a bit too much for a man who spent his days with no one to talk to but bivalves.

‘Er, I've had a message by clacks, sir, but—' he began.

‘Nothin' from the Post Office?' said Ridcully.

‘No, sir. Nothing, sir.'

There were cheers and boos and general laughter from the crowd. From his shadowy corner, Moist saw Lord Vetinari, right by the Archchancellor. He scanned the rest of the crowd and spotted Readier Gilt, standing off to one side and, surprisingly, not smiling. And Gilt saw him.

One look was enough. The man wasn't certain. Not totally certain.

Welcome to fear , said Moist to himself. It's hope, turned inside out. You know it can't go wrong, you're sure it can't go wrong...

But it might.

I've got you.

Devious Collabone coughed. ‘Er, but I don't think this is the message Archchancellor Ridcully sent,' he said, his voice gone squeaky with nervousness.

‘What makes you think that, man?'

‘Because it says it isn't,' Collabone quavered. ‘It says it's from dead people...'

‘You mean it's an old message?' said Ridcully.

‘Er, no, sir. Er... I'd better read it, shall I? Do you want me to read it?'

‘That's the point , man!'

In the big disc of glass, Collabone cleared his throat.

‘ " Who will listen to the dead? We who died so that words could fly demand justice now. These are the crimes of the Board of the Grand Trunk: theft, embezzlement, breach of trust, corporate murder— " '

Deliverance

Lord Vetinari Requests Silence — Mr Lipwig Comes Down - Mr Pump

Moves On — Fooling No One But Yourself— The Bird — The Concludium

- Freedom of Choice

The Great Hall was in uproar. Most of the wizards took the opportunity to congregate at the buffet, which was now clear. If there's one thing a wizard hates, it's having to wait while the person in front of them is in two minds about coleslaw. It's a salad bar, they say, it's got the kind of stuff salad bars have, if it was surprising it wouldn't be a salad bar, you're not here to look at it. What do you expect to find? Rhino chunks? Pickled coelacanth?