‘All right, what are the rules here?’ he demanded. ‘Are you going to follow me
‘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-granddaddy’s mail didn’t turn up?’
‘I Couldn’t Say, Sir.’
‘I need some fresh air. What happened in there? Why is it so… creepy? What
‘I Couldn’t Say, Sir,’ said Mr Pump placidly.
‘You don’t know? But it’s
‘No, Mr Lipvig,’ said the golem.
‘Well, why can’t—’ 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
‘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 who’d showed him up here; Groat was sulking somewhere. He’d been right, damn him. He needed Groat. Groat practically was the Post Office.
It had been a long day and Moist hadn’t slept well last night, what with being upside down over Mr Pump’s shoulder and occasionally kicked by the frantic horse.
He didn’t want to sleep here either, heavens knew, but he didn’t 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 he’d 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 wall’s thickness away. At least the heaps of letters were dry and warm and weren’t 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 couldn’t 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. He’d 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?’
‘Is there no way you can shut your eyes? I can’t sleep with two red glowing eyes watching me. It’s a… well, it’s a childhood thing.’
‘Sorry, Mr Lipvig. I Could Turn My Back.’
‘That won’t work. I’d still know they’re there. Anyway, the glow reflects off the wall. Look, where would I run to?’
The golem gave this some thought. ‘I Will Go And Stand In The Corridor, Mr Lipvig,’ he decided, and began to wade towards the door.
‘You do that,’ said Moist. ‘And in the morning I want you to find my bedroom, okay? Some of the offices still have space near the ceiling; you can move the letters into there.’
‘Mr Groat Does Not Like The Mail To Be Moved, Mr Lipvig,’ the golem rumbled.
‘Mr Groat is not the postmaster, Mr Pump. I am.’
Good gods, the madness is catching, Moist thought, as the golem’s glow disappeared into the darkness outside. I am not the postmaster, I’m some poor bastard who’s the victim of some stupid… experiment. What a place! What a situation! What kind of man would put a known criminal in charge of a major branch of government? Apart from, say, the average voter.
He tried to find the angle, the way out… but all the time a conversation kept bouncing off the insides of his brain.
Imagine a hole, a hundred feet deep and full of water.
Imagine the darkness. Imagine, at the bottom of the hole, a figure roughly of human shape, turning in that swirling darkness a massive handle once every eight seconds.
Pump… Pump… Pump…
