Going Postal полностью

‘Mr Aggy said the Post Office won’t ever be rebuilt! He says Lord Vetinari will never release the money! Oh, Mr Lipwig! I dreamed all my life of working on the counter here! My grandmother taught me everything, she even made me practise sucking lemons to get the expression right! I’ve passed it all on to my daughter, too. She’s got a voice that’d take the skin off paint! Oh, Mr Lipwig!’

Moist searched wildly for somewhere to pat the woman that wasn’t soaked or out of bounds. He settled for her shoulder. He really, really needed Mr Groat. Mr Groat knew how to deal with things like this.

‘It’s all going to be all right, Miss Maccalariat,’ he said soothingly.

‘And poor Mr Groat!’ the woman sobbed.

‘I understand he’s going to be fine, Miss Maccalariat. You know what they say about the Lady Sybil: some people come out alive.’ I really, really hope he does, he added to himself. I’m lost without him.

‘It’s all so dreadful, Mr Lipwig!’ said Miss Maccalariat, determined to drain the bitter cup of despair to the very dregs. ‘We’re all going to be walking the streets!’

Moist held her by her arms and pushed her gently away, while fighting against a mental picture of Miss Maccalariat walking the streets. ‘Now you listen to me, Miss Mac— What is your first name, by the way?’

‘It’s Iodine, Mr Lipwig,’ said Miss Maccalariat, snuffling into a handkerchief. ‘My father liked the sound.’

‘Well… Iodine, I firmly believe that I will have the money to rebuild by the end of the day,’ said Moist. She’s blown her nose on it and, yes, yes, aargh, she’s going to put it back up the sleeve of her cardigan, oh, gods…

‘Yes, Mr Aggy said that, and there’s talk, sir. They say you sent the gods letters asking for money! Oh, sir! It’s not my place to say so, sir, but gods don’t send you money!’

‘I have faith, Miss Maccalariat,’ said Moist, drawing himself up.

‘My family have been Anoians for five generations, sir,’ said Miss Maccalariat. ‘We rattle the drawers every day, and we’ve never got anything solid , as you might say, excepting my granny who got an egg beater she didn’t remember putting there and we’re sure that was an accident—’

‘Mr Lipwig! Mr Lipwig!’ someone yelled. ‘They say the clacks— Oh, I’m so sorry… ’ The sentence ended in syrup.

Moist sighed, and turned to the grinning newcomer in the charcoal-rimmed doorway. ‘Yes , Mr Aggy?’

‘We’ve heard the clacks has gone down again, sir! To Pseudopolis!’ said Aggy.

‘How unfortunate,’ said Moist. ‘Come, Miss Maccalariat, come, Mr Aggy - let’s move the mail!’

There was a crowd in what remained of the hall. As Moist had remarked, the citizens had an enthusiasm for new things. The post was an old thing, of course, but it was so old that it had magically become new again.

A cheer greeted Moist when he came down the steps. Give them a show, always give them a show. Ankh-Morpork would applaud a show.

Moist commandeered a chair, stood on it and cupped his hands.

‘Special today, ladies and gentlemen!’ he shouted above the din. ‘Mail to Pseudopolis, reduced to three pence only. Three pence! Coach goes at ten! And if anyone has clacks messages lodged with our unfortunate colleagues in the Grand Trunk Company, and would care to get them back, we will deliver them for free !’

This caused an additional stir, and a number of people peeled away from the crowd and hurried off.

‘The Post Office, ladies and gentlemen!’ yelled Moist. ‘We deliver!’ There was a cheer.

‘Do you want to know something really interesting, Mr Lipwig?’ said Stanley, hurrying up.

‘And what’s that, Stanley?’ said Moist, climbing down off the chair.

‘We’re selling lots of the new one-dollar stamps this morning! And do you know what? People are sending letters to themselves!’

‘What?’ said Moist, mystified.

‘Just so the stamps have been through the post, sir. That makes them real, you see! It proves they’ve been used. They’re collecting , them, sir! And it gets better, sir!’

‘How could it get better than that, Stanley?’ said Moist. He looked down. Yes, the boy had a new shirt, showing a picture of the penny stamp and bearing the legend: Ask Me About Stamps.

‘Sto Lat want Teemer and Spools to do them their own set! And the other cities are asking about it, too!’

Moist made a mental note: we’ll change the stamps often. And offer stamp designs to every city and country we can think of. Everyone will want to have their own stamps rather than ‘lick Vetinari’s back side’ and we’ll honour them, too, if they’ll deliver our mail, and Mr Spools will express his gratitude to us in very definite ways, I’ll see to it.

‘Sorry about your pins, Stanley.’

‘Pins?’ said the boy. ‘Oh, pins . Pins are just pointy metal things, sir. Pins are dead !

And so we progress, thought Moist. Aways keep moving. There may be something behind you.

All we need now is for the gods to smile on us.

Hmm. I think they’ll smile a little broader outside.