Going Postal

serious?”
    “Deadly,” said Moist.
    “You’re going to pray for money?”
    “Not exactly, Spike. They get thousands of prayers every day. I have other plans. We’ll bring the Post Office back, Miss Dearheart. I don’t have to think like a policeman, or a postman, or a clerk. I just have to do things my way. And then I’ll bankrupt Reacher Gilt by the end of the week.”
    Her mouth became a perfect O .
    “How exactly will you do that?” she managed.
    “I’ve no idea, but anything is possible if I can dance with you and still have ten toes left. Shall we dance, Miss Dearheart?”
    She was amazed and surprised and bewildered, and Moist von Lipwig liked that in a person. For some reason, he felt immensely happy. He didn’t know why, and he didn’t know what he was going to do next, but it was going to be fun .
    He could feel that old electric feeling, the one you got deep inside when you stood right there in front of a banker who was carefully examining an example of your very best work. The universe held its breath, and then the man would smile and say, “Very good, Mr. Assumed Name, I will have my clerk bring up the money right away.” It was the thrill not of the chase but of the standing still, of remaining so calm, composed, and genuine that, for just long enough, you could fool the world and spin it on your finger. These were the moments he lived for, when he was really alive, and his thoughts flowed like quicksilver, and the very air sparkled. Later, that feeling would present its bill. For now, he flew.
    He was back in the game. But, for now, by the light of the burning yesterdays, he waltzed with Miss Dearheart while the scratch band scratched away.
    Then she went home to bed, puzzled but smiling oddly, and he went up to his office, which was missing the whole of one wall, and got religion as it had never been got before.

    T HE YOUNG PRIEST of Offler the Crocodile God was somewhat off-balance at 4 a.m., but the man in the wingéd hat and golden suit seemed to know what should be happening and so the priest went along with it. He was not hugely bright, which was why he was on this shift.
    “You want to deliver this letter to Offler?” he said, yawning. An envelope had been placed in his hand.
    “It’s addressed to him,” said Moist. “And correctly stamped. A smartly written letter always gets attention. I’ve also brought a pound of sausages, which I believe is customary. Crocodiles love sausages.”
    “Strictly speaking, you see, it’s prayers that go up to the gods,” said the priest doubtfully. The nave of the temple was deserted, except for a little old man in a grubby robe, dreamily sweeping the floor.
    “As I understand it,” said Moist, “the gift of sausages reaches Offler by being fried, yes? And the spirit of the sausages ascends unto Offler by means of the smell? And then you eat the sausages?”
    “Ah, no. Not exactly. Not at all,” said the young priest, who knew this one. “It might look like that to the uninitiated, but, as you say, the true sausagidity goes straight to Offler. He, of course, eats the spirit of the sausages. We eat the mere earthy shell, which, believe me, turns to dust and ashes in our mouths.”
    “That would explain why the smell of sausages is always better than the actual sausage, then?” said Moist. “I’ve often noticed that.”
    The priest was impressed. “Are you a theologian, sir?” he said.
    “I’m in…a similar line of work,” said Moist. “But what I’m getting at is this: If you were to read this letter it would be as though Offler himself was reading it, am I right? Through your eyeballs, the spirit of the letter would ascend to Offler? And then I could give you the sausages.”
    The young priest looked desperately around the temple. It was too early in the morning. When your god, metaphorically, doesn’t do much until the sandbanks have got nice and warm, the senior priests tend to lie in.
    “I suppose so,” he said reluctantly. “But wouldn’t you rather wait until Deacon Jones gets—”
    “I’m in rather a hurry,” said Moist. There was a pause. “I’ve brought some honey mustard,” he added. “The perfect accompaniment to sausages.”
    Suddenly, the priest was all attention.
    “What sort?” he said.
    “Mrs. Edith Leakall’s Premium Reserve,” said Moist, holding up the jar.
    The young man’s face lit up. He was low in the hierarchy and got barely more sausage than Offler.
    “God, that’s the