‘Mr Lipvig?’ said Mr Pump.
Moist looked up into the golem’s glowing eyes. There had to be a better way of waking up in the morning. Some people managed with a clock, for heavens’ sake.
He was lying on a bare mattress under a musty blanket in his newly excavated apartment, which smelled of ancient paper, and every bit of him ached.
In a clouded kind of way, he was aware of Pump saying: ‘The Postmen Are Waiting, Sir. Postal Inspector Groat Said That You Would Probably Wish To Send Them Out Properly On This Day.’
Moist blinked at the ceiling. ‘Postal Inspector? I promoted him all the way to Postal Inspector?’
‘Yes, Sir. You Were Very Ebullient.’
Memories of last night flocked treacherously to tap-dance their speciality acts on the famous stage of the Grand Old Embarrassing Recollection.
‘Postmen?’ he said.
‘The Brotherhood Of The Order Of The Post. They’re Old Men, Sir, But Wiry. They’re Pensioners Now, But They All Volunteered. They’ve Been Here For Hours, Sorting The Mail.’
I hired a bunch of men even older than Groat…
‘Did I do anything else?’
‘You Gave A Very Inspirational Speech, Sir. I Was Particularly Impressed When You Pointed Out That “Angel” Is Just A Word For Messenger. Not Many People Know That.’
On the bed, Moist slowly tried to cram his fist into his mouth.
‘Oh, And You Promised To Bring Back The Big Chandeliers And The Fine Polished Counter, Sir. They Were Very Impressed. No One Knows Where They Got To.’
Oh, gods , thought Moist.
‘And The Statue Of The God, Sir. That Impressed Them Even More, I Would Say, Because Apparently It Was Melted Down Many Years Ago.’
‘Did I do anything last night that suggested I was
‘I Am Sorry, Sir?’ said the golem.
But Moist remembered the light, and the whispering of the mail. It’d filled his mind with… knowledge, or memories that he didn’t remember ever acquiring.
‘Unfinished stories,’ he said.
‘Yes, Sir,’ said the golem calmly. ‘You Talked About Them At Length, Sir.’
‘I did?’
‘Yes, Sir. You Said—’
—that every undelivered message is a piece of space-time that lacks another end, a little bundle of effort and emotion floating freely. Pack millions of them together and they do what letters are meant to do. They communicate, and change the nature of events. When there’s enough of them, they distort the universe around them.
It had all made sense to Moist. Or, at least, as much sense as anything else.
‘And… did I actually rise up in the air, glowing gold?’ said Moist.
‘I Think I Must Have Missed That, Sir,’ said Mr Pump.
‘You mean I didn’t, then.’
‘In A Manner Of Speaking You Did, Sir,’ said the golem.
‘But in common, everyday reality I didn’t?’
‘You Were Lit, As It Were, By An Inner Fire, Sir. The Postmen Were Extremely Impressed.’
Moist’s eye lit on the winged hat, which had been thrown carelessly on the desk.
‘I’m never going to live up to all this, Mr Pump,’ he said. ‘They want a saint, not someone like me.’
‘Perhaps A Saint Is Not What They
Moist sat up, and the blanket dropped away. ‘What happened to my clothes?’ he said. ‘I’m sure I hung them neatly on the floor.’
‘I Did In Fact Try To Clean Your Suit With Spot Remover, Sir,’ said Mr Pump. ‘But Since It Was Effectively Just One Large Spot, It Removed The Whole Suit.’
‘I liked that suit! At least you could have saved it for dusters, or something.’
‘I’m Sorry, Sir, I’d Assumed That Dusters Had Been Saved For Your Suit. But In Any Case, I Obeyed Your Order, Sir.’
Moist paused. ‘What order?’ he said suspiciously.
‘Last Night You Asked Me To Obtain A Suit Fit For A Postmaster, Sir. You Gave Me Very Precise Instructions,’ said the golem. ‘Fortunately My Colleague Stitcher 22 Was Working At The Theatrical Costumiers. It Is Hanging On The Door.’
And the golem had even found a mirror. It wasn’t very big, but it was big enough to show Moist that if he were dressed any sharper he’d cut himself as he walked.
‘Wow,’ he breathed. ‘El Dorado or what?’
The suit was cloth of gold, or whatever actors used instead. Moist was about to protest, but second thoughts intervened quickly.
Good suits helped. A smooth tongue was not much use in rough trousers. And people would notice the suit, not him. He’d certainly be noticed in this suit; it’d light up the street. People would have to shade their eyes to look at him. And apparently he’d
‘It’s very… ’ He hesitated. The only word was ‘. . . fast. I mean, it looks as if it’s about to speed away at any moment!’
‘Yes, Sir. Stitcher 22 Has A Skill. Note Also The Gold Shirt And Tie. To Match The Hat, Sir.’
‘Er, you couldn’t get him to knock up something a little more sombre, could you?’ said Moist, covering his eyes to stop himself being blinded by his own lapels. ‘For me to wear when I don’t want to illuminate distant objects?’
