Going Postal

and ask Mr. Pony to come in…”
    Gilt watched them go with a smile of satisfaction, which became a bright and happy face when Pony was ushered in.
    The interview with the engineer went like this:
    “Mr. Pony,” said Gilt, “I am very pleased to tell you that the board, impressed by your dedication and the hard work you have been putting in, have voted unanimously to increase your salary by five hundred dollars a year.”
    Pony brightened up. “Thank you very much, sir. That will certainly come in—”
    “However, Mr. Pony, as part of the management of the Grand Trunk Company—and we do think of you as part of the team—we must ask you to bear in mind our cash flow. We cannot authorize more than $25,000 for repairs this year.”
    “That’s only about seventy dollars a tower, sir!” the engineer protested.
    “Tch, is it really? I told them you wouldn’t accept that,” said Gilt. “Mr. Pony is an engineer of integrity, I said. He won’t accept a penny less than $50,000, I told them!”
    Pony looked hunted. “Couldn’t really do much of a job, sir, even for that. I could get some walking-tower teams out there, yes, but most of the mountain towers are living on borrowed time as it is—”
    “We’re counting on you, George,” said Gilt.
    “Well, I suppose…could we have the Hour of the Dead back, Mr. Gilt?”
    “I really wish you wouldn’t use that fanciful term,” said Gilt. “It really does not present the right image.”
    “Sorry, sir,” said Pony. “But I still need it.”
    Gilt drummed his fingers on the table. “You’re asking a lot, George, you really are. That’s revenue flow we’re talking about. The board won’t be very pleased with me if—”
    “I think I’ve got to insist, Mr. Gilt,” said Pony, looking at his feet.
    “And what could you deliver?” said Gilt. “That’s what the board will want to know. They’ll say to me: Reacher, we’re giving good old George everything he asks for, what will we be getting in return?”
    Forgetting for the moment that it was a quarter of what he’d asked for, good old George said: “Well, we could patch up all round and get some of the really shaky towers back into some sort of order, especially 99 and 201…oh, there’s just so much to do—”
    “Would it, for example, give us a year of reasonable service?”
    Mr. Pony struggled manfully with the engineer’s permanent dread of having to commit himself to anything, and managed, “Well, if we don’t lose too many staff, and the winter isn’t too bad, but of course there’s always—”
    Gilt snapped his fingers. “By damn, George, you’ve talked me into it! I’ll tell the board that I’m backing you and to hell with them!”
    “Well, that’s very kind of you, sir, of course,” said Pony, bewildered, “but it’s only papering over the cracks, really. If we don’t have a major rebuild, we’re only laying up even more trouble for the future—”
    “In a year or so, George, you can lay any plans you like in front of us!” said Gilt jovially. “Your skill and ingenuity will be the saving of the company! Now, I know you’re a busy man and I mustn’t keep you. Go and perform miracles of economy, Mr. Pony!” Mr. Pony staggered out, proud and bemused and full of dread.
    “Silly old fool,” said Gilt, and reached down and opened the bottom drawer of his desk. He pulled out a bear trap, which he set with some effort, and then stood in the middle of the floor with his back to it.
    “Igor!” he called.
    “Yeth, thur,” said Igor, behind him. There was a snap. “I think thith ith yourth, thur,” Igor added, handing Gilt the sprung trap. Gilt looked down. The man’s legs appeared unscathed.
    “How did you—” he began.
    “Oh, we Igorth are no thrangerth to marthterth of an inquiring mind, thur,” said Igor gloomily. “One of my gentlemen uthed to thtand with hith back to a pit lined with thpiketh, thur. Oh how we chuckled, thur.”
    “And what happened?”
    “One day he forgot and thtepped into it. Talk about laugh, thur.”
    Gilt laughed, too, and he went back to his desk. He liked that kind of joke.
    “Igor, would you say that I’m insane?” he said.
    Igors are not supposed to lie to an employer. It’s part of the Code of the Igors. He took refuge in strict linguistic honesty.
    “I wouldn’t find mythelf able to thay that, thur,” he said.
    “I must be, Igor. Either that or everyone else is,” said Gilt. “I mean, I show them what I do, I