Going Postal

And it was just possible that somewhere in all this was a profit. Well, it could happen. He was good at seeing opportunities where other people saw barren ground. So there was no harm in playing it straight for a few days, yes? It’d give his foot a chance to get better, he could spy out the situation, he could make plans . He might even find out how indestructible golems were. After all, they were made of pottery, weren’t they? Things could get broken, maybe.
    Moist von Lipwig raised his eyes and examined his future.
    The Ankh-Morpork Central Post Office had a gaunt frontage. It was a building designed for a purpose. It was, therefore, more or less, a big box to employ people in, with two wings at the rear, which enclosed the big stable yard. Some cheap pillars had been sliced in half and stuck on the outside, some niches had been carved for some miscellaneous stone nymphs, some stone urns had been ranged along the parapet, and thus Architecture had been created.
    In appreciation of the thought that had gone into this, the good citizens, or more probably their kids, had covered the walls to a height of six feet with graffiti in many exciting colors.
    In a band all along the top of the frontage, staining the stone in greens and browns, some words had been set in letters of bronze:
    “‘NEITHER RAIN NOR SNOW NOR GLO M OF NI T CAN STAY THESE MES ENGERS ABO T THEIR DUTY,’” Moist read aloud. “What the hell does that mean?”
    “The Post Office Was Once A Proud Institution,” said Mr. Pump.
    “And that stuff?” Moist pointed. On a board much further down the building, in peeling paint, were the less heroic words:
DONT ARSK US ABOUT: rocks troll’s with sticks All sorts of dragons Mrs. Cake Huje green things with teeth Any kinds of black dogs with orange eyebrows Rains of spaniel’s. fog.
Mrs. Cake
    “I Said It Was A Proud Institution,” the golem rumbled.
    “Who’s Mrs. Cake?”
    “I Regret I Cannot Assist You There, Mr. Lipvig.”
    “They seem pretty frightened of her.”
    “So It Appears, Mr. Lipvig.”
    Moist looked around at this busy junction in this busy city. People weren’t paying any attention to him, although the golem was getting casual glances that didn’t appear very friendly.
    This was all too strange. He’d been—what, fourteen?—when he’d last used his real name. And heavens knew how long since he’d gone out without some easily removable distinguishing marks. He felt naked. Naked and unnoticed.
    To the interest of no one whatsoever, he walked up the stained steps and turned the key in the lock. To his surprise, it moved easily, and the paint-spattered doors swung open without a creak.
    There was a rhythmic, hollow noise behind Moist. Mr. Pump was clapping his hands.
    “Well Done, Mr. Lipvig. Your First Step In A Career Of Benefit Both To Yourself And The Well-being Of The City!”
    “Yeah, right,” muttered Moist.
    He stepped into the huge, dark lobby, which was lit only dimly by a big but grimy dome in the ceiling; it could never be more than twilight in here, even at noon. The graffiti artists had been at work here, too.
    In the gloom he could see a long, broken counter, with doors and pigeonholes behind it.
    Real pigeonholes. Pigeons were nesting in the pigeonholes. The sour, salty smell of old guano filled the air, and, as marble tiles rang under Moist’s feet, several hundred pigeons took off frantically and spiraled up toward a broken pane in the roof.
    “Oh shit,” he said.
    “Bad Language Is Discouraged, Mr. Lipvig,” said Mr. Pump behind him.
    “Why? It’s written on the walls! Anyway, it was a description , Mr. Pump! Guano! There must be tons of the stuff!” Moist heard his own voice echo back from the distant walls. “When was this place last open?”
    “Twenty years ago, Postmaster!”
    Moist looked around.
    “Who said that?” he said. The voice seemed to have come from everywhere.
    There was the sound of shuffling and the click-click of a walking stick, and a bent, elderly figure appeared in the gray, dead, dusty air.
    “Groat, sir,” it wheezed. “Junior Postman Groat, sir. At your service, sir. One word from you, sir, and I will leap , sir, leap into action, sir.” The figure stopped to cough long and hard, making a noise like a wall being hit repeatedly with a bag of rocks. Moist saw that it had a beard of the short, bristled type, which suggested that its owner had been interrupted halfway through eating a hedgehog.
    “ Junior Postman