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The whole place is full of undelivered mail? They were back in the locker room. Groat had topped up the black kettle from a pan of water, and it was steaming. At the far end of the room, sitting at his neat little table, Stanley was counting his pins. Pretty much, sir, except in the basement and the stables, said the old man, washing a couple of tin mugs in a bowl of not very clean water. You mean even the postm— my office is full of old mail but they never filled the basement? Wheres the sense in that?
Oh, you couldnt use the basement, sir, oh, not the basement, said Groat, looking shocked. Its far too damp down here. The lettersd be destroyed in no time.
Destroyed, said Moist flatly. Nothing like damp for destroying things, sir, said Groat, nodding sagely. Destroying mail from dead people to dead people, said Moist, in the same flat voice. We dont know that, sir, said the old man. I mean, weve got no actual proof.
Well, no. After all, some of those envelopes are only a hundred years old! said Moist. He had a headache from the dust and a sore throat from the dryness, and there was something about the old man that was grating on his raw nerves. He was keeping something back. Thats no time at all to some people. I bet the zombie and vampire population are still waiting by the letter box every day,
right?
No need to be like that, sir, said Groat levelly, no need to be like that. You cant destroy the letters. You just cant do it, sir. Thats Tampering with the Mail, sir. Thats not just a crime, sir. Thats, a, a—
Sin? said Moist. Oh, worsen a sin, said Groat, almost sneering. For sins youre only in trouble with a god, but in my day if you interfered with the mail youd be up against Chief Postal Inspector Rumbelow. Hah! And theres a big difference. Gods forgive. Moist sought for sanity in the wrinkled face opposite him. The unkempt beard was streaked with different colours, either of dirt, tea or random celestial pigment. Like some hermit, he thought. Only a hermit could wear a wig like that. Sorry? he said. And you mean that shoving someones letter under the floorboards for a hundred years isnt tampering with it? Groat suddenly looked wretched. The beard quivered. Then he started to cough, great hacking, wooden, crackling lumps of cough, that made the jars shake and caused a yellow mist to rise from his trouser bottoms, “scuse me a moment, sir, he wheezed, between hacks, and he fumbled in his pocket for a scratched and battered tin. You suck at all, sir? he said, tears rolling down his cheeks. He proffered the tin to Moist. Theyre Number Threes, sir. Very mild. I make em meself, sir. Natral remedies from natral ingredients, thats my style, sir. Got to keep the tubes clear, sir, otherwise they turn against you. Moist took a large, violet lozenge from the box and sniffed it. It smelled faintly of aniseed. Thank you, Mr Groat, he said, but in case this counted as an attempt at bribery, he added sternly: The mail, Mr Groat? Sticking undelivered mail wherever theres a space isnt tampering with it?
Thats more . . . delaying the mail, sir. Just, er . . . slowing it down. A bit. Its not like theres any intention of never delivering it, sir. Moist stared at Groats worried expression. He felt that sense of shifting ground you experience when you realize that youre dealing with someone whose world is connected with your own only by their fingertips. Not a hermit, he thought, more like a shipwrecked mariner, living in this dry desert island of a building while the world outside moves on and all sanity evaporates. Mr Groat, I dont want to, you know, upset you or anything, but theres thousands of letters out there under a thick layer of pigeon guano . . . he said slowly. Actually, on that score, sir, things arent as bad as they seem, Groat said, and paused to suck noisily on his natural cough lozenge. Its very dry stuff, pigeon doings, and forms quite a hard protective crust on the envelopes . . .
Why are they all here, Mr Groat? said Moist. People skills, he remembered. Youre not allowed to shake him. The Junior Postman avoided his gaze. Well, you know how it is . . . he tried. No, Mr Groat. I dont think I do.
Well . . . maybe a mans busy, got a full round, maybe its Hogswatch, lots of cards, see, and the inspector is after him about his timekeeping, and so maybe he just shoves half a bag of letters somewhere safe . . . but he will deliver em, right? I mean, its not his fault if they keeps pushing, sir, pushing him all the time. Then its tomorrow and hes got an even bigger bag, cos theyre pushing all the time, so he reckons, Ill just drop a few off today, too, cos its my day off on Thursday and I can catch up then, but you see by Thursday hes behind by moren a days work because they keeps on pushing, and hes tired anyway, tired as a dog, so he says to himself, got some leave coming up soon, but he gets his leave and by then - well, it all got very nasty towards the end. There was . . . unpleasantness. Wed gone too far, sir, thats what it was, wed tried too hard. Sometimes things smash so bad its better to leave it alone than try to pick up the pieces. I
mean, where would you start?
I think I get the picture, said Moist. Youre lying, Mr Groat. Youre lying by omission. Youre not telling me everything. And what youre not telling me is very important, isnt it? Ive turned lying into an art, Mr Groat, and youre just a talented amateur. Groats face, unaware of the internal monologue, managed a smile. But the trouble is - whats your first name, Mr Groat? Moist asked. Tolliver, sir.
Nice name . . . the thing is, Tolliver, that the picture I see in your description is what I might refer to for the purposes of the analogy as a cameo, whereas all this - Moist waved his hand to include the building and everything it contained - is a full-sized triptych showing scenes from history, the creation of the world and the disposition of the gods, with a matching chapel ceiling portraying the glorious firmament and a sketch of a lady with a weird smile thrown in for good measure! Tolliver, I think you are not being frank with me.
Sorry about that, sir, said Groat, eyeing him with a sort of nervous defiance. I could have you sacked, you know, said Moist, knowing that this was a stupid thing to say. You could, sir, you could try doin that, said Groat, quietly and slowly. But Im all you got, apart from the lad. And you dont know nuffin about the Post Office, sir. You dont know nuffin about the Regulations, neither. Im the only one that knows what needs doing round here. You wouldnt last five minutes without me, sir. You wouldnt even see that the inkwells get filled every day!
Inkwells? Filling inkwells? said Moist. This is just an old building full of . . . of . . . of dead paper! We have no customers!
Got to keep the inkwells filled, sir. Post Office Regulations, said Groat in a steely voice. Got to follow Regulations, sir.
For what? It appears we dont accept any mail or deliver any mail! We just sit here!
No, sir, we dont just sit here, said Groat patiently. We follow the Post Office Regulations. Fill the inkwells, polish the brass—
You dont sweep up the pigeon shit!
Oddly enough, thats not in the Regulations, sir, said the old man. Truth is, sir, no one wants us any more. Its all the clacks now, the damn clacks, clack clack clack. Everyones got a clacks tower now, sir. Thats the fashion. Fast as the speed of light, they say. Ha! Its got no soul, sir, no heart. I hates em. But were ready, sir. If there was any mail, wed deal with it, sir. Wed spring into action, sir, spring into action. But there aint.
Of course there isnt! Its clearly sunk into this town long ago that you might as well throw your letters away as give them to the Post Office!
No, sir, wrong again. Theyre all kept, sir. Thats what we do, sir. We keep things as they are. We try not to disturb things, sir, said Groat quietly. We try not to disturb anything! The way he said it made Moist hesitate. What kind of anything? he said. Oh, nothing, sir. We just . . . go carefully. Moist looked around the room. Did it appear smaller? Did the shadows deepen and lengthen? Was there a sudden cold sensation in the air? No, there wasnt. But an opportunity had definitely been missed, Moist felt. The hairs on the back of his neck were rising. Moist had heard that this was because men had been made out of monkeys, and it meant that there was a tiger behind you. In fact Mr Pump was behind him, just standing there, eyes burning more brightly than any tiger had ever mana
ged. That was worse. Tigers couldnt follow you across the sea, and they had to
sleep. He gave up. Mr Groat was in some strange, musty little world of his own. Do you call this a life? he said. For the first time in this conversation, Mr Groat looked him squarely in the eye. Much better than a death, sir, he said. Mr Pump followed Moist across the main hall and out of the main doors, at which point Moist turned on him. All right, what are the rules here? he demanded. Are you going to follow me everywhere7. You know I cant run!
You Are Allowed Autonomous Movement Within The City And Environs, the golem rumbled. But Until You Are Settled In I Am Also Instructed To Accompany You For Your Own Protection.
Against who? Someone annoyed that their great-granddaddys mail didnt turn up?
I Couldnt Say, Sir.
I need some fresh air. What happened in there? Why is it so . . . creepy? What happened to the Post Office?
I Couldnt Say, Sir, said Mr Pump placidly. You dont know? But its your city, said Moist sarcastically. Have you been stuck at the bottom of a hole in the ground for the last hundred years?
No, Mr Lipvig, said the golem. Well, why cant— Moist began. It Was Two Hundred And Forty Years, Mr Lipvig, said the golem. What was?
The Time I Spent At The Bottom Of The Hole In The Ground, Mr Lipvig.
What are you talking about? said Moist. Why, The Time I Spent At The Bottom Of The Hole In The Ground, Mr Lipvig. Pump Is Not My Name, Mr Lipvig. It Is My Description. Pump. Pump 19, To Be Precise. I Stood At The Bottom Of A Hole A Hundred Feet Deep And Pumped Water. For Two Hundred And Forty Years, Mr Lipvig. But Now I Am Ambulating In The Sunlight. This Is Better, Mr Lipvig. This Is Better! That night, Moist lay staring at the ceiling. It was three feet from him. Hanging from it, a little distance away, was a candle in a safety lantern. Stanley had been insistent about that, and no wonder. This place would go up like a bomb. It was the boy whod showed him up here; Groat was sulking somewhere. Hed been right, damn him. He needed Groat. Groat practically was the Post Office. It had been a long day and Moist hadnt slept well last night, what with being upside down over Mr Pumps shoulder and occasionally kicked by the frantic horse. He didnt want to sleep here either, heavens knew, but he didnt have lodgings he could use any more, and they were at a premium in this hive of a city in any case. The locker room did not appeal, no, not at all. So hed simply scrambled on to the pile of dead letters in what was in theory his office. It was no great hardship. A man of affairs such as he had to learn to sleep in all kinds of situations, often while mobs were looking for him a walls thickness away. At least the heaps of letters were dry and warm and werent carrying edged weapons. Paper crackled underneath him as he tried to get comfortable. Idly, he picked up a letter at random; it was addressed to someone called Antimony Parker at 1 Lobbin Clout, and on the back, in capitals, was S. W. A. L. K. He eased it open with a fingernail; the paper inside all but crumbled at his touch.
My Very Dearest Timony, Yes! Why should a Woman, Sensible of the Great Honour that a Man is Doing Her, play the Coy Minx at such a time! I know you have spoken to Papa, and of course I consent to becoming the Wife of the Kindest, Most Wonderfu— Moist glanced at the date on the letter. It had been written forty-one years ago. He was not as a rule given to introspection, it being a major drawback in his line of work, but he couldnt help wondering if - he glanced back at the letter - Your loving Agnathea had ever married Antimony, or whether the romance had died right here in this graveyard of paper. He shivered, and tucked the envelope into his jacket. Hed have to ask Groat what S. W. A. L. K. meant. Mr Pump! he shouted. There was a faint rumble from the corner of the room where the golem stood, waist-deep in mail. Yes, Mr Lipvig?
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