Going Postal полностью

‘Not as such, sir. I wouldn’t say anything against Lord Vetinari, sir, or Ankh-Morpork’ - said a man living within twenty miles of a proud and touchy citizenry - ‘but, er, it doesn’t seem right, licking… well, licking Ankh-Morpork stamps. Couldn’t you print up a few for us? We’ve got a Queen, nice girl. She’d look good on a stamp. We’re an important city, you know!’

‘I’ll see what I can do, Mr Camels. Got a picture of her, by any chance?’

They’ll all want one, he thought, as he got dressed. Having your own stamps could be like having your own flag, your own crest. It could be big! And I bet I could do a deal with my friend Mr Spools, oh yes. Doesn’t matter if you haven’t got your own post office, you’ve got to have your own stamp…

An enthusiastic crowd saw him off on a horse which, while no Boris, did his best and seemed to know what reins were for. Moist gratefully accepted the cushion on the saddle, too. That added more glitter to the glass: he’d ridden so hard he needed a cushion !

He set off with a full mailbag. Amazingly, once again, people had bought stamps just to own them. The Times had got around. Here was something new, so people wanted to be part of it.

Once he was cantering over the fields, though, he felt the fizz die away. He was employing Stanley, a bunch of game but creaky old men, and some golems. He couldn’t keep this up.

But the thing was, you added sparkle. You told people what you intended to do and they believed you could do it. Anyone could have done this ride. No one had. They kept waiting for the clacks to be repaired.

He took things gently along the road, speeding up as he passed the clacks tower that had been under repair. It was still under repair, in fact, but he could see more men around it and high up on the tower. There was a definite suggestion that repair work was suddenly going a lot faster.

As he watched, he was sure he saw someone fall off. It probably wouldn’t be a good idea to go over there and see if he could help, though, not if he wanted to continue to go through life with his own teeth. Besides, it was a long, long drop all the way down to the cabbage fields, handily combining death and burial at the same time.

He speeded up again when he reached the city. Somehow trotting up to the Post Office steps was not an option. The queue - still a queue - cheered when he cantered up.

Mr Groat came running out, insofar as a crab can run.

‘Can you make another delivery to Sto Lat, sir?’ he shouted. ‘Got a full bag already! And everyone’s asking when you’ll be taking ‘em to Pseudopolis and Quirm! Got one here for Lancre, too!’

“What? That’s five hundred damn miles, man!’ Moist dismounted, although the state of his legs turned the action into more of a drop.

‘It’s all got a bit busy since you were away,’ said Groat, steadying him. ‘Oh, yes indeed! Ain’t got enough people! But there’s people wanting jobs, too, sir, since the paper came out! People from the old postal families, just like me! Even some more workers out of retirement! I took the liberty of taking them on pro tern for the time being, seeing as I’m Acting Postmaster. I hope that’s all right with you, sir? And Mr Spools is running off more stamps! I’ve twice had to send Stanley up for more. I hear we’ll have the early fivepennies and the dollars out tonight! Great times, eh, sir?’

‘Er… yes,’ said Moist. Suddenly the whole world had turned into a kind of Boris - moving fast, inclined to bite and impossible to steer. The only way not to be ground down was to stay on top.

Inside the hall extra makeshift tables had been set up. They were crowded with people.

‘We’re selling them the envelopes and paper,’ said Groat. ‘The ink is free gratis.’

‘Did you think that up yourself?’ said Moist.

‘No, it’s what we used to do,’ said Groat. ‘Miss Maccalariat got a load of cheap paper from Spools.’

‘Miss Maccalariat?’ said Moist. ‘Who is Miss Maccalariat?’

‘Very old Post Office family, sir,’ said Groat. ‘She’s decided to work for you.’ He looked a little nervous.

‘Sorry?’ said Moist. ‘She has decided to work for me ?’

‘Well, you know what it’s like with Post Office people, sir,’ said Groat. ‘We don’t like to—’

‘Are you the postmaster?’ said a withering voice behind Moist.

The voice went into his head, bored down through his memories, riffled through his fears, found the right levers, battened on to them and pulled. In Moist’s case, it found Frau Shambers. In the second year at school you were precipitated out of the warm, easy-going kindergarten of Frau Tissel, smelling of finger paint, salt dough and inadequate toilet training, and on to the cold benches governed by Frau Shambers, smelling of Education. It was as bad as being born, with the added disadvantage that your mother wasn’t there.