Going Postal полностью

‘Last year the combined workshops (or “pinneries”) of Ankh-Morpork turned out twenty-seven million, eight hundred and eighty thousand, nine hundred and seventy-eight pins,’ said Stanley, staring into a pin-filled private universe. ‘That includes wax-headed, steels, brassers, silver-headed (and full silver), extra large, machine- and hand-made, reflexed and novelty, but not lapel pins which should not be grouped with the true pins at all since they are technically known as “sports” or “blazons”, sir—’

‘Ah, yes, I think I once saw a magazine, or something,’ said Moist desperately. ‘It was called, er… Pins Monthly ?’

‘Oh dear,’ said Groat, behind him. Stanley’s face contorted into something that looked like a cat’s bottom with a nose.

‘That’s for hobbyists,’ he hissed. ‘They’re not true “pinheads”! They don’t care about pins! Oh, they say so, but they have a whole page of needles every month now. Needles? Anyone could collect needles! They’re only pins with holes in! Anyway, what about Popular Needles ? But they just don’t want to know!’

‘Stanley is editor of Total Pins.’ Groat whispered, behind Moist.

‘I don’t think I saw that one—’ Moist began.

‘Stanley, go and help Mr Lipwig’s assistant find a shovel, will you?’ said Groat, raising his voice. ‘Then go and sort your pins again until you feel better. Mr Lipwig doesn’t want to see one of your Little Moments.’ He gave Moist a blank look.

‘. . . they had an article last month about pincushions .’ muttered Stanley, stamping out of the room. The golem followed him.

‘He’s a good lad,’ said Groat, when they’d gone. ‘Just a bit cup-and-plate in the head. Leave him alone with his pins and he’s no trouble at all. Gets a bit… intense at times, that’s all. Oh, and on that subject there’s the third member of our jolly little team, sir—’

A large black and white cat had walked into the room. It paid no attention to Moist, or Groat, but progressed slowly across the floor towards a battered and unravelling basket. Moist was in the way. The cat continued until its head butted gently against Moist’s leg, and stopped.

‘That’s Mr Tiddles, sir,’ said Groat.

‘Tiddles ? said Moist. ‘You mean that really is a cat’s name? I thought it was just a joke.’

‘Not so much a name, sir, more of a description,’ said Groat. ‘You’d better move, sir, otherwise he’ll just stand there all day. Twenty years old, he is, and a bit set in his ways.’

Moist stepped aside. Unperturbed, the cat continued to the basket, where it curled up.

‘Is he blind?’ said Moist.

‘No, sir. He has his routine and he sticks to it, sir, sticks to it to the very second. Very patient, for a cat. Doesn’t like the furniture being moved. You’ll get used to him.’

Not knowing what to say, but feeling that he should say something, Moist nodded towards the array of bottles on Groat’s bench.

‘You dabble in alchemy, Mr Groat?’ he said.

‘Nosir! I practise nat’ral medicine!’ said Groat proudly. ‘Don’t believe in doctors, sir! Never a day’s illness in my life, sir!’ He thumped his chest, making a thlap noise not normally associated with living tissue. ‘Flannelette, goose grease and hot bread puddin’, sir! Nothing like it for protecting your tubes against the noxious effluviences! I puts a fresh layer on every week, sir, and you won’t find a sneeze passing my nose, sir. Very healthful, very natural!’

‘Er… good,’ said Moist.

‘Worst of ‘em all is soap, sir,’ said Groat, lowering his voice. ‘Terrible stuff, sir, washes away the beneficent humours. Leave things be, I say! Keep the tubes running, put sulphur in your socks and pay attention to your chest protector and you can laugh at anything! Now, sir, I’m sure a young man like yourself will be worrying about the state of his—’

‘What’s this do?’ said Moist hurriedly, picking up a pot of greenish goo.

‘That, sir? Wart cure. Wonderful stuff. Very natural, not like the stuff a doctor’d give you.’

Moist sniffed at the pot. ‘What’s it made of?’

‘Arsenic, sir,’ said Groat calmly.

‘Arsenic ?’

‘Very natural, sir,’ said Groat. ‘And green.’

So, Moist thought, as he put the pot back with extreme care, inside the Post Office normality clearly does not have a one-to-one relationship with the outside world. I might miss the cues. He decided that the role of keen but bewildered manager was the one to play here. Besides, apart from the ‘keen’ aspect it didn’t need any effort.

‘Can you help me, Mr Groat?’ he said. ‘I don’t know anything about the post!’

‘Well, sir… what did you use to do?’