Going Postal

by Terry Pratchett

Page 44

 

  Thats not necessarily a good thing, said Moist. How do you know her?

  We used to work with her brother, said Mad Al. On the Mark 2 tower. Moist listened. It was a whole new world. Sane Alex and Mad Al were old men in the clacks business; theyd been in it for almost four years. Then the consortium had taken over, and theyd been fired from the Grand Trunk on the same day that Undecided Adrian had been fired from the Alchemists Guild chimney, in their case because theyd spoken their mind about the new management and in his case because he hadnt moved fast enough when the beaker started to bubble. Theyd all ended up working on the Second Trunk. Theyd even put money into it. So had others. It had all kinds of improvements, it would be cheaper to run, it was the bees knees, mutts nuts and various wonderful bits of half a dozen other creatures. And then John Dearheart, who always used a safety lanyard, landed in the cabbage field and that was the end of the Second Trunk. Since then, the trio had done the kinds of jobs available to new square pegs in a world of old round holes, but every night, high above, the clacks flashed its messages. It was so close, so inviting, so . . . accessible. Everyone knew, in some vague, half-understood way, that the Grand Trunk had been stolen in all but name. It belonged to the enemy.

  So theyd started an informal little company of their own, which used the Grand Trunk without the Grand Trunks knowing. It was a little like stealing. It was exactly like stealing. It was, in fact, stealing. But there was no law against it because no one knew the crime existed, so is it really stealing if whats stolen isnt missed? And is it stealing if youre stealing from thieves? Anyway, all property is theft, except mine. So now youre, what was it again . . . crackers? Moist said. Thats right, said Mad Al. Because we can crack the system.

  That sounds a bit over-dramatic when youre just doing it with lamps, doesnt it?

  Yes, but “flashers” was already taken, said Sane Alex. All right, but why “Smoking Gnu”? said Moist. Thats cracker slang for a very fast message sent throughout the system, said Sane Alex proudly. Moist pondered this. That makes sense, he said. If I was a team of three people, who all had a first name beginning with the same letter, thats just the kind of name Id choose. Theyd found a way into the semaphore system, and it was this: at night, all clacks towers were invisible. Only the lights showed. Unless you had a good sense of direction, the only way you could identify who the message was coming from was by its code. Engineers knew lots of codes. Ooh, lots. You can send messages free? said Moist. And nobody notices? There were three smug smiles. Its easy, said Mad Al, when you know how.

  How did you know that tower was going to break down?

  We broke it, said Sane Alex. Broke the differential drum. They take hours to sort out because the operators have to— Moist missed the rest of the sentence. Innocent words swirled in it like debris caught in a flood, occasionally bobbing to the surface and waving desperately before being pulled under again. He caught the several times before it drowned, and even disconnect and gear chain, but the roaring, technical polysyllables rose and engulfed them all. —and that takes at least half a day, Sane Alex finished. Moist looked helplessly at the other two. And that means what, exactly? he said. If you send the right kind of message you can bust the machinery, said Mad Al. The whole Trunk?

  In theory, said Mad Al, because an execute and terminate code— Moist relaxed as the tide came back in. He wasnt interested in machinery; he thought of a spanner as something which had another person holding it. It was best just to smile and wait. That was the thing about artificers: they loved explaining. You just had to wait until they reached your level of understanding, even if it meant that they had to lie down. —cant do that any more in any case, because weve heard theyre changing the— Moist stared at the pigeon for a while, until silence came back. Ah. Mad Al had finished, and by the looks of things it hadnt been on a high note. You cant do it, then, said Moist, his heart sinking. Not now. Old Mr Pony might be a bit of an old woman but he sits and niggles at problems. Hes been changing all the codes all day! Weve heard from one of our mates that every signaller will have to have a personal code now. Theyre being very careful. I know Miss Adora Belle thought we could help you, but that bastard Gilt has locked things up tight. Hes worried youre going to win.

  Hah! said Moist. “Well come up with some other way in a week or two, said Undecided Adrian. Cant you put

  it off until then?

  No, I dont think so.

  Sorry, said Undecided Adrian. He was playing idly with a small glass tube, full of red light. When he turned it over, it filled with yellow light. Whats that? Moist asked. A prototype, said Undecided Adrian. It could have made the Trunk almost three times faster at night. It uses perpendicular molecules. But the Trunks just not open to new ideas.

  Probably because they explode when dropped? said Sane Alex. Not always.

  I think I could do with some fresh air, said Moist. They stepped out into the night. In the middle distance the terminal tower still winked, and towers were alight here and there in other parts of the city. Whats that one? he said, like a man pointing to a constellation. Thieves Guild, said Undecided Adrian. General signals for the members. I cant read em.

  And that one? Isnt that the first tower on the way to Sto Lat?

  No, its the Watch station on the Hubwards Gate. General signals to Pseudopolis Yard.

  It looks a long way off.

  They use small shutter boxes, thats all. You cant see Tower 2 from here - the Universitys in the way. Moist stared, hypnotized, at the lights. I wondered why that old stone tower on the way to Sto Lat wasnt used when the Trunk was built? Its in the right place.

  The old wizard tower? Robert Dearheart used it for his first experiments, but its a bit too far and the walls arent safe and if you stay in there for more than a day at a time you go mad. Its all the old spells that got into the stones. There was silence and then they heard Moist say, in a slightly strangled voice: If you could get on to the Grand Trunk tomorrow, is there anything you could do to slow it down?

  Yes, but we cant, said Undecided Adrian. Yes, but if you could?

  Well, theres something weve been thinking about, said Mad Al. Its very crude.

  Will it knock out a tower? said Moist. Should we be telling him about this? said Sane Alex. Have you ever met anyone else that Killer had a good word for? said Mad Al. In theory it could knock out every tower, Mr Lipwig.

  Are you insane as well as mad? said Sane Alex. Hes government!

  Every tower on the Trunk? said Moist. Yep. In one go, said Mad Al. Its pretty crude.

  Really every tower? said Moist again. Maybe not every tower, if they catch on, Mad Al admitted, as if less than wholesale destruction was something to be mildly ashamed of. But plenty. Even if they cheat and carry it to the next tower on horseback. We call it . . . the Woodpecker. The woodpecker?

  No, not like that. You need, sort of, more of a pause for effect, like . . . the Woodpecker! . . . the Woodpecker, said Moist, more slowly. Youve got it. But we cant get it on to the Trunk. Theyre on to us

  Supposing I could get it on to the Trunk? said Moist, staring at the lights. The towers themselves were quite invisible now. You? What do you know about clacks codes? said Undecided Adrian. I treasure my ignorance, said Moist. But I know about people. You think about being cunning with codes. I just think about what people see— They listened. They argued. They resorted to mathematics, while words sailed through the night above them. And Sane Alex said: All right, all right. Technically it could work, but the Trunk people would have to be stupid to let it happen.

  But theyll be thinking about codes, said Moist. And Im good at making people stupid. Its my job.

  I thought your job was postmaster, said Undecided Adrian. Oh, yes. Then its my vocation. The Smoking Gnu looked at one another. Its a totally mad idea, said Mad Al, grinning. Im glad you like it, said Moist. There are times when you just have to miss a nights sleep. But Ankh-Morpork never slept; the city never did more than doze, and would wa
ke up around 3 a. m. for a glass of water. You could buy anything in the middle of the night. Timber? No problem. Moist wondered whether there were vampire carpenters, quietly making vampire chairs. Canvas? There was bound to be someone in the city whod wake up in the wee small hours for a wee and think, What I could really do with right now is one thousand square yards of medium grade canvas! and, down by the docks, there were chandlers open to deal with the rush. There was a steady drizzle when they left for the tower. Moist drove the cart, with the others sitting on the load behind him and bickering over trigonometry. Moist tried not to listen; he got lost when maths started to get silly. Killing the Grand Trunk . . . Oh, the towers would be left standing, but it would take months to repair them all. Itd bring the company down. No one would get hurt, the Gnu said. They meant the men in the towers. The Trunk had become a monster, eating people. Bringing it down was a beguiling idea. The Gnu were full of ideas for what could replace it - faster, cheaper, easier, streamlined, using imps specially bred for the job . . . But something irked Moist. Gilt had been right, damn him. If you wanted to get a message five hundred miles very, very fast, the Trunk was the way to do it. If you wanted to wrap it in a ribbon, you needed the Post Office. He liked the Gnu. They thought in a refreshingly different way; whatever curse hung around the stones of the old tower surely couldnt affect minds like theirs, because they were inoculated against madness by being a little bit crazy all the time. The clacks signallers, all along the Trunk, were . . . a different kind of people. They didnt just do their job, they lived it. But Moist kept thinking of all the bad things that could happen without the semaphore. Oh, they used to happen before the semaphore, of course, but that wasnt the same thing at all. He left them sawing and hammering in the stone tower, and headed back to the city, deep in thought.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Edge of the Envelope In which we learn the Theory of Baize-Space — Devious Collabone - The Grand Trunk Burns — So Sharp Youll Cut Yourself— Finding Miss Dearheart - A Theory of Disguise - Igor Moveth On - Let This Moment Never End - A Brush with the Trunk - The big sail unfurls - The Message is Received Mustrum Ridcully, Archchancellor of Unseen University, levelled his cue and took careful aim. The white ball hit a red ball, which rolled gently into a pocket. This was harder than it looked because more than half of the snooker table served as the Archchancellors filing system,* and indeed to get to the hole the ball had to pass through several piles of paperwork, a tankard, a skull with a dribbly candle on it and a lot of pipe ash. It did so. * Ridcully practised the First Available Surface method of filing. Well done, Mr Stibbons, said Ridcully. I call it baize-space, said Ponder Stibbons proudly. Every organization needs at least one person who knows whats going on and why its happening and whos doing it, and at UU this role was filled by Stibbons, who often wished it wasnt. Right now he was present in his position as Head of Inadvisably Applied Magic, and his long-term purpose was to see that his departments budget went through on the nod. To this end, therefore, a bundle of thick pipes led from under the heavy old billiard table, out through a hole in the wall and across the lawn into the High Energy Magic building, where - he sighed - this little trick was taking up 40 per cent of the rune-time of Hex, the Universitys thinking engine. Good name, said Ridcully, lining up another shot. As in phase-space? said Ponder, hopefully. When a ball is just about to encounter an obstacle that is not another ball, you see, Hex moves it into a theoretical parallel dimension where there is unoccupied flat surface and maintains speed and drag until it can be brought back to this one. It really is a most difficult and intricate piece of unreal-time spell casting—