Going Postal полностью

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.’

I think I’ll head back to the mountains, he thought as he went down to the cellar. At least a monster there has the decency to look like one.

Flares around the ruins of the Post Office made the night brilliant. The golems didn’t need them, but the surveyors did. Moist had got a good deal there. The gods had spoken, after all. It’d do a firm no harm at all to be associated with this phoenix of a building.

In the bit that was still standing, shored up and tarpaulined, the Post Office - that is, the people who were the Post Office - worked through the night. In truth there wasn’t enough for everyone to do, but they turned up anyway, to do it. It was that kind of night. You had to be there, so that later you could say ‘. . . and I was there, that very night… ’

Moist knew he ought to get some sleep, but he had to be there too, alive and sparkling. It was… amazing. They listened to him, they did things for him, they scuttled around as if he was a real leader and not some cheat and fraud.

And there were the letters. Oh, the letters hurt. More and more were coming in, and they were addressed to him. The news had got round the city. It had been in the paper! The gods listened to this man!

… we will deliver to the gods themselves…

He was the man with the gold suit and the hat with wings. They’d made a crook the messenger of the gods, and piled on his charred desk the sum of all their hopes and fears… badly punctuated, true, and in smudged pencil or free Post Office ink, which had spluttered across the paper in the urgency of writing.

‘They think you’re an angel,’ said Miss Dearheart, who was sitting on the other side of his desk and helping him sort through the pathetic petitions. Every half-hour or so Mr Pump brought up some more.

‘Well, I’m not,’ snapped Moist.

‘You speak to the gods and the gods listen,’ said Miss Dearheart, grinning. ‘They told you where the treasure was. Now that’s what I call religion. Incidentally, how did you know the money was there?’

‘You don’t believe in any gods?’

‘No, of course not. Not while people like Reacher Gilt walk under the sky. All there is, is us. The money… ?’

‘I can’t tell you,’ said Moist.

‘Have you read some of these letters?’ said Miss Dearheart. ‘Sick children, dying wives—’

‘Some just want cash,’ said Moist hurriedly, as if that made it better.

‘Whose fault is that, Slick? You’re the man who can tap the gods for a wad of wonga!’

‘So what shall I do with all these… prayers?’ said Moist.

‘Deliver them, of course. You’ve got to. You are the messenger of the gods. And they’ve got stamps on. Some of them are covered in stamps! It’s your job . Take them to the temples. You promised to do that!’

‘I never promised to—’

‘You promised to when you sold them the stamps !’

Moist almost fell off his chair. She’d wielded the sentence like a fist.

‘And it’ll give them hope,’ she added, rather more quietly.

‘False hope,’ said Moist, struggling upright.

‘Maybe not this time,’ said Miss Dearheart. ‘That’s the point of hope.’ She picked up the battered remains of Anghammarad’s armband. ‘He was taking a message across the whole of Time. You think you’ve got it tough?’

‘Mr Lipwig?’

The voice floated up from the hall, and at the same time the background noise subsided like a bad souffle.

Moist walked over to where a wall had once been. Now, with the scorched floorboards creaking underfoot, he looked right down into the hall. A small part of him thought: we’ll have to put a big picture window here when we rebuild. This is just too impressive for words.

There was a buzz of whispering and a few gasps. There were a lot of customers, too, even in the early foggy hours. It’s never too late for a prayer.

‘Is everything all right, Mr Groat?’ he called down.

Something white was waved in the air.

‘Early copy of the Times , sir!’ Groat shouted. ‘Just in! Gilt’s all over the front page, sir! Where you ought to be, sir! You won’t like it, sir!’