Going Postal полностью

Four dead men, Moist thought, looking up at the roof. I wonder if the Watch would talk to me? Do they know about me? Do they think I’m dead? Do I want to speak to policemen? No! Damn! The only way I can get out of this is by running forward, not going back. Bloody, bloody Vetinari. But there’s a way to win.

He could make money!

He was part of the government, wasn’t he? Governments took money off people. That’s what they were for .

He had people skills, hadn’t he? He could persuade people that brass was gold that had got a bit tarnished, that glass was diamond, that tomorrow there was going to be free beer.

He’d outfox them all! He wouldn’t try to escape, not yet! If a golem could buy its freedom, then so could he! He’d buckle down and bustle and look busy and he’d send all the bills to Vetinari, because this was government work ! How could the man object?

And if Moist von Lipwig couldn’t cream a little somethi— a big something off the top, and the bottom, and maybe a little off the sides, then he didn’t deserve to! And then, when it was all going well and the cash was rolling in… well, then there’d be time to make plans for the big one. Enough money bought a lot of men with sledgehammers.

The workmen pulled themselves back on to the flat roof. There was another ragged cheer from a crowd that reckoned it hadn’t been bad entertainment even if no one had fallen off.

‘What do you think, Mr Groat?’ he said.

‘Looks nice, sir, looks nice,’ said Groat, as the crowd dispersed and they walked back to the Post Office building.

‘Not disturbing anything, then?’ said Moist.

Groat patted the surprised Moist on the arm. ‘I don’t know why his lordship sent you, sir, really I don’t,’ he whispered. ‘You mean well, I can see. But take my advice, sir, and get out of here.’

Moist glanced towards the building’s doors. Mr Pump was standing beside them. Just standing, with his arms hanging down. The fire in his eyes was a banked glow.

‘I can’t do that,’ he said.

‘Nice of you to say so, sir, but this place isn’t for a young man with a future,’ said Groat. ‘Now, Stanley, he’s all right if he’s got his pins, but you, sir, you could go far.’

‘No-o, I don’t think I can,’ said Moist. ‘Honestly. My place, Mr Groat, is here.’

‘Gods bless you for saying that, sir, gods bless you,’ said Groat. Tears were beginning to roll down his face. ‘We used to be heroes,’ he said. ‘People wanted us. Everyone watched out for us. Everyone knew us. This was a great place, once. Once, we were postmen !

‘Mister!’

Moist turned. Three people were hurrying towards him, and he had to quell an automatic urge to turn and run, especially when one of them shouted, ‘Yes, that’s him!’

He recognized the greengrocer from this morning. An elderly couple were trailing behind him. The older man, who had the determined face and upright bearing of a man who subdued cabbages daily, stopped an inch in front of Moist and bellowed: ‘Are you the po’stman, young man?’

‘Yes, sir, I suppose I am,’ said Moist. ‘How can I—’

‘You delivered me this letter from Aggie here! I’m Tim Parker!’ the man roared. ‘Now, there’s s’ome people’d say it wa’s a little bit on the late side!’

‘Oh,’ said Moist. ‘Well, I—’

‘That took a bit of nerve, young man!’

‘I’m very sorry that—’ Moist began. People skills weren’t much good in the face of Mr Parker. He was one of the impervious people, whose grasp of volume control was about as good as his understanding of personal space.

‘S’orry?’ Parker shouted. ‘What’ve you got to be s’orry about? Not your fault, lad. You weren’t even born! More fool me for thinking she didn’t care, eh? Hah, I wa’s so downhearted, lad, I went right out and joined the… ’ His red face wrinkled. ‘You know… camel’s, funny hat’s, sand, where you go to forget… ’

‘The Klatchian Foreign Legion?’ said Moist.

‘That wa’s it! And when I came back I met Sadie, and Aggie had met her Frederick, and we both got s’ettled and forgot the other one was alive and then blow me down if this letter didn’t arrive from Aggie! Me and my lad have s’pent half the morning tracking her down! And to cut a long s’tory short, lad, we’re getting married Sat’day! ‘co’s of you, boy!’

Mr Parker was one of those men who turn into teak with age. When he slapped Moist on the back it was like being hit with a chair.

‘Won’t Frederick and Aggie object—’ Moist wheezed.