Going Postal полностью

‘And how can I assist the Times ?’ he said, sitting down and giving her a non-condescending smile.

‘Do you intend to deliver all the backlog of mail, Mr Lipwig?’

‘If at all possible, yes,’ said Moist.

‘Why?’

‘It’s my job. Rain, snow, gloom of night, just as it says over the door.’

‘Have you heard about the fracas in Weaver Street?’

‘I heard it was a rumpus.’

‘I’m afraid it’s got worse. There was a house on fire when I left. Doesn’t that worry you?’ Miss Cripslock’s pencil was suddenly poised.

Moist’s face remained expressionless as he thought furiously. ‘Yes, it does, of course,’ he said. ‘People shouldn’t set fire to houses. But I also know that Mr Parker of the Merchants’ Guild is marrying his boyhood sweetheart on Saturday. Did you know that?’

Miss Cripslock hadn’t, but she scribbled industriously as Moist told her about the greengrocer’s letter.

‘That’s very interesting,’ she said. ‘I will go and see him immediately. So you’re saying that delivering the old mail is a good thing?’

‘Delivering the mail is the only thing,’ said Moist, and hesitated again. Just on the edge of hearing was a whispering.

‘Is there a problem?’ said Miss Cripslock.

‘What? No! What was I— Yes, it’s the right thing. History is not to be denied, Miss Cripslock. And we are a communicating species, Miss Cripslock!’ Moist raised his voice to drown out the whispering. ‘The mail must get through! It must be delivered!’

‘Er… you needn’t shout, Mr Lipwig,’ said the reporter, leaning backwards.

Moist tried to get a grip, and the whispering died down a little.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, and cleared his throat. ‘Yes, I intend to deliver all the mail. If people have moved, we will try to find them. If they have died, we’ll try to deliver to their descendants. The post will be delivered. We are tasked to deliver it, and deliver it we will. What else should we do with it? Burn it? Throw it in the river? Open it to decide if it’s important? No, the letters were entrusted to our care. Delivery is the only way.’

The whispering had almost died away now, so he went on: ‘Besides, we need the space. The Post Office is being reborn!’ He pulled out the sheet of stamps. ‘With these!’

She peered at them, puzzled. ‘Little pictures of Lord Vetinari?’ she said.

‘Stamps , Miss Cripslock. One of those stuck on a letter will ensure delivery anywhere within the city. These are early sheets, but tomorrow we will be selling them gummed and perforated for ease of use. I intend to make it easy to use the post. Obviously we are still finding our feet, but soon I intend that we should be capable of delivering a letter to anyone, anywhere in the world.’

It was a stupid thing to say, but his tongue had taken over.

‘Aren’t you being rather ambitious, Mr Lipwig?’ she said.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t know any other way to be,’ said Moist.

‘I was thinking that we do have the clacks now.’

‘The clacks?’ said Moist. ‘I dare say the clacks is wonderful if you wish to know the prawn market figures from Genua. But can you write S.W.A.L.K. on a clacks? Can you seal it with a loving kiss? Can you cry tears on to a clacks, can you smell it, can you enclose a pressed flower? A letter is more than just a message. And a clacks is so expensive in any case that the average man in the street can just about afford it in a time of crisis: GRANDADS DEAD FUNERAL TUES. A day’s wages to send a message as warm and human as a thrown knife? But a letter is real .’

He stopped. Miss Cripslock was scribbling like mad, and it’s always worrying to see a journalist take a sudden interest in what you’re saying, especially when you half suspect it was a load of pigeon guano. And it’s worse when they’re smiling.

‘People are complaining that the clacks is becoming expensive, slow and unreliable,’ said Miss Cripslock. ‘How do you feel about that?’

‘All I can tell you is that today we’ve taken on a postman who is eighteen thousand years old,’ said Moist. ‘He doesn’t break down very easily.’

‘Ah, yes. The golems. Some people say—’

‘What is your first name, Miss Cripslock?’ said Moist.

For a moment, the woman coloured. Then she said: ‘It’s Sacharissa.’

‘Thank you. I’m Moist. Please don’t laugh. The golems— You’re laughing, aren’t you… ’

‘It was just a cough, honestly,’ said the reporter, raising a hand to her throat and coughing unconvincingly.

‘Sorry. It sounded a bit like a laugh. Sacharissa, I need postmen, counter clerks, sorters - I need lots of people. The mail will move. I need people to help me move it. Any kind of people. Ah, thanks, Stanley.’

The boy had come in with two mismatched mugs of tea. One had an appealing little kitten on it, except that erratic collisions in the washing-up bowl had scratched it so that its expression was that of a creature in the final stages of rabies. The other had once hilariously informed the world that clinical insanity wasn’t necessary for employment, but most of the words had faded, leaving:

He put them down with care on Moist’s desk; Stanley did everything carefully.