Going Postal

was how much they didn’t care.
    And today you’d been told to shift code as fast as possible, and you didn’t want to be the one accused of slowing the system down, so you watched the next tower in line until your eyes watered and you hit keys like a man tap-dancing on hot rocks.
    One after another, the towers failed. Some burned when the shutter boxes broke free and smashed on the cabin roofs, spilling blazing oil. There was no hope of fighting fire in a wooden box sixty feet up in the air; you slid down the suicide line and legged it to a safe distance to watch the show.
    Fourteen towers were burning before someone took their hands off the keys. And then what? You’d been given orders. There were to be no—repeat, no—messages on the Trunk while this message was being sent. What did you do next?
    Moist awoke, the Grand Trunk burning in his head.
    The Smoking Gnu wanted to break it down and pick up the pieces, and he could see why. But it wouldn’t work. Somewhere on the line there was going to be one inconvenient engineer who’d risk his job to send a message ahead saying, “It’s a killer, shift it slowly,” and that would be that. Oh, it might take a day or two to get the thing to Genua, but they had weeks to work with. And someone else, too, would be smart enough to compare the message with what had been sent by the first tower. Gilt would wriggle out of it—no, he’d storm out of it. The message had been tampered with, he’d say, and he’d be right. There had to be another solution.
    The Gnu were on to something, though. Changing the message was the answer, if only he could do it the right way.
    Moist awoke. He was at his desk, and someone had put a pillow under his head.
    When was the last time he’d slept in a decent bed? Oh, yes, the night Mr. Pump had caught him. He’d spent a couple of hours in a rented bed that had a mattress that didn’t actually move and wasn’t full of rocks. Bliss.
    His immediate past life scampered before his eyes. He groaned.
    “Good Morning, Mr. Lipvig,” said Mr. Pump from the corner. “Your Razor Is Sharp, The Kettle Is Hot, And I Am Sure A Cup Of Tea Is On The Way.”
    “What time is it?”
    “Noon, Mr. Lipvig. You Did Not Get In Until Dawn,” the golem added reproachfully.
    Moist groaned again. Six hours to the race. And then so many pigeons would come home to roost it’d be like an eclipse.
    “There Is Much Excitement,” said the golem, as Moist shaved. “It Has Been Agreed That The Starting Line Will Be In Sator Square—”
    Moist stared at his reflection, barely listening. He always raised the stakes, automatically. Never promise to do the possible. Anyone could do the possible. You should promise to do the impossible, because sometimes the impossible was possible, if you could find the right way, and at least you could often extend the limits of the possible. And if you failed, well, it had been impossible.
    But he’d gone too far this time. Oh, it’d be no great shame to admit that a coach and horses couldn’t travel at a thousand miles an hour, but Gilt would strut about it and the Post Office would remain just a little, old-fashioned thing, behind the times, small, unable to compete. Gilt would find some way to hold on to the Grand Trunk, cutting even more corners, killing people out of greed—
    “Are You All Right, Mr. Lipvig?” said the golem behind him.
    Moist stared into his own eyes, and what flickered in the depths.
    Oh, boy .
    “You Have Cut Yourself, Mr. Lipvig,” said Mr. Pump. “Mr. Lipvig?”
    Shame I missed my throat , Moist thought. But that was a secondary thought, edging past the big dark one now unfolding in the mirror.
    Look into the abyss and you’ll see something growing, reaching toward the light. It whispered: Do this. This will work. Trust me.
    Oh, boy. It’s a plan that will work , Moist thought. It’s simple and deadly, like a razor. But it’d need an unprincipled man to even think about it .
    No problem there, then .
    I’ll kill you, Mr. Gilt. I’ll kill you in our special way, the way of the weasel and cheat and liar. I’ll take away everything but your life. I’ll take away your money, your reputation, and your friends. I’ll spin words around you until you’re cocooned in them. I’ll leave you nothing, not even hope…
    He carefully finished shaving, and wiped the remnant of the foam off his chin. There was not, in truth, that much blood.
    “I think I could do with a hearty breakfast, Mr.