Chris Patterson - Going Postal

‘Not a team player,' gasped Nutmeg.

‘Who?' said Stowley. ‘What is this place? Who are all these people?'

‘Left us totally in the dark most of the time—' said Greenyham.

‘I can't remember a thing—' said Stowley. ‘I'm not fit to testify, any doctor will tell you...'

‘I think I can say on behalf of all of us that we were suspicious of him all along—'

‘Mind's a total blank. Not a blessed thing... what's this thing with fingers on... who am I...'

Lord Vetinari stared at the Board for five seconds longer than was comfortable, while tapping his chin gently with the knob of his cane. He smiled faintly.

‘Quite,' he said. ‘Commander Vimes, I think it would be iniquitous to detain these gentlemen here any longer.' As the faces in front of him relaxed into smiles full of hope, that greatest of all gifts, he added: ‘To the cells with them, Commander. Separate cells, if you please. I shall see them in the morning. And if Mr Slant comes to see you on their behalf, do tell him I'd like a little chat, will you?'

That sounded... good. Moist strolled towards the door, while the hubbub rose, and had almost made it when Lord Vetinari's voice came out of the throng like a knife.

‘Leaving so soon, Mr Lipwig? Do wait a moment. I shall give you a lift back to your famous Post Office.'

For a moment, just a slice of a second, Moist contemplated running. He did not do so. What would be the point?

The crowd parted hurriedly as Lord Vetinari headed towards the door; behind him, the Watch closed in.

Ultimately, there is the freedom to take the consequences.

The Patrician leaned back in the leather upholstery as the coach drew away. ‘What a strange evening, Mr Lipwig,' he said. ‘Yes, indeed.'

Moist, like the suddenly bewildered Mr Stowley, considered that his future happiness lay in saying as little as possible.

‘Yes, sir,' he said.

‘I wonder if that engineer will find any evidence that the strange message was put on the clacks by human hands?' he wondered aloud.

‘I don't know, my lord.'

‘You don't?'

‘No, sir.'

‘Ah,' said Vetinari. ‘Well, the dead are known to speak, sometimes. Ouija boards and seances, and so on. Who can say they wouldn't use the medium of the clacks?'

‘Not me, sir.'

‘And you are clearly enjoying your new career, Mr Lipwig.'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘Good. On Monday your duties will include the administration of the Grand Trunk. It is being taken over by the city.'

Oh well, so much for future happiness...

‘No, my lord,' said Moist.

Vetinari raised an eyebrow. ‘There is an alternative, Mr Lipwig?'

‘It really is private property, sir. It belongs to the Dearhearts and the other people who built it.'

‘My, my, how the worm turns,' said Vetinari. ‘But the trouble is, you see, they weren't good at business, only at mechanisms. Otherwise they would have seen through Gilt. The freedom to succeed goes hand in hand with the freedom to fail.'

‘It was robbery by numbers,' said Moist. ‘It was Find The Lady done with ledgers. They didn't stand a chance.'

Vetinari sighed. ‘You drive a hard bargain, Mr Lipwig.' Moist, who wasn't aware he had tried to drive a bargain at all, said nothing. ‘Oh, very well. The question of ownership will remain in abeyance for now, until we have plumbed the sordid depths of this affair. But what I truly meant was that a great many people depend on the Trunk for their living. Out of sheer humanitarian considerations, we must do something. Sort things out, Postmaster.'

‘But I'm going to have my hands more than full with the Post Office!' Moist protested.

‘I hope you are. But in my experience, the best way to get something done is to give it to someone who is busy,' said Vetinari.

‘In that case, I'm going to keep the Grand Trunk running,' said Moist.

‘In honour of the dead, perhaps,' said Vetinari. ‘Yes. As you wish. Ah, here is your stop.'

As the coachman opened the door Lord Vetinari leaned towards Moist. ‘Oh, and before dawn I do suggest you go and check that everyone's left the old wizarding tower,' he said.

‘What do you mean, sir?' said Moist. He knew his face betrayed nothing.

Vetinari sat back. "Well done, Mr Lipwig.'

There was a crowd outside the Post Office, and a cheer went up as Moist made his way to the doors. It was raining now, a grey, sooty drizzle that was little more than fog with a slight weight problem.

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.'