Going Postal

if they arrive!” He was aware of Professor Pelc glaring at him, and added: “And I’m sure it can be repaired very neatly !”
    It was a stupid gesture, but it was big and loud and funny and cruel, and if Moist didn’t know how to get the attention of a crowd, he didn’t know anything. Mr. Pony backed away, clutching the stricken chapter.
    “I didn’t mean—” he tried, but Moist interrupted with: “After all, we’ve got a big coach for such a small book.”
    “It’s just that pictures take time to code—” Mr. Pony protested. He wasn’t used to this sort of thing. Machinery didn’t answer back.
    Moist allowed a look of genuine concern to cross his face. “Yes, that does seem unfair,” he said. He turned to Ponder Stibbons. “Don’t you think that’s unfair, Mr. Stibbons?”
    The wizard looked puzzled. “But once they’ve coded it it’ll only take them a couple of hours to get it to Genua!” he said.
    “Nevertheless, I must insist,” said Moist. “We don’t want an unfair advantage. Stand down, Jim,” he called up to the coachman. “We’re going to give the clacks a head start.” He turned to Ponder and Mr. Pony with an expression of innocent helpfulness. “Would an hour be all right, gentlemen?”
    The crowd exploded. Gods, I’m good at this , Moist thought. I want this moment to go on forever…
    “Mr. Lipwig!” a voice called out. Moist scanned the faces, and spotted the writer.
    “Ah, Miss Sacharrisa. Pencil at the ready?”
    “Are you seriously telling us you’ll wait while the Grand Trunk prepares their message?” she said. She was laughing.
    “Indeed,” said Moist, grasping the lapels of his gleaming jacket. “We in the Post Office are fair-minded people. May I take this opportunity to tell you about our new Green Cabbage stamp, by the way?”
    “Surely you’re going too far, Mr. Lipwig?”
    “All the way to Genua, dear lady! Did I mention the gum is cabbage-flavored?”
    Moist couldn’t have stopped himself now for hard money. This was where his soul lived: dancing on an avalanche, making the world up as he went along, reaching into people’s ears and changing their minds. For this he offered glass as diamonds, let the Find the Lady cards fly under his fingers, stood smiling in front of clerks examining fake bills. This was the feeling he craved, the raw, naked excitement of pushing the envelope—
    Reacher Gilt was moving through the crowd like a shark among minnows. He gave Moist a carefully neutral look, and turned to Mr. Pony.
    “Is there some problem, gentlemen?” he said. “It’s getting late.”
    In a silence punctuated by chuckles from the crowd, Pony tried to explain, insofar as he now had any grip on what was going on.
    “I see,” said Gilt. “You are pleased to make fun of us, Mr. Lipwig? Then allow me to say that we of the Grand Trunk will not take it amiss if you should leave now. I think we can spare you a couple of hours, eh?”
    “Oh, certainly,” said Moist. “If it will make you feel any better.”
    “Indeed it will,” said Gilt gravely. “It would be best, Mr. Lipwig, if you were a long way away from here.”
    Moist heard the tone, because he was expecting it. Gilt was being reasonable and statesmanlike, but his eye was a dark metal ball and there was the harmonic of murder in his voice. And then Gilt said: “Is Mr. Groat well, Mr. Lipwig? I was sorry to hear of the attack.”
    “Attack, Mr. Gilt? He was hit by falling timber,” said Moist. And that question entitles you to no mercy at all, no matter what .
    “Ah? Then I was misinformed,” said Gilt. “I shall know not to listen to rumors in future.”
    “I shall pass on your good wishes to Mr. Groat,” said Moist.
    Gilt raised his hat. “Good-bye, Mr. Lipwig. I wish you the best of luck in your gallant attempt. There are some dangerous people on the road.”
    Moist raised his own hat and said: “I intend to leave them behind very soon, Mr. Gilt.”
    There , he thought. We’ve said it all, and the nice lady from the newspaper thinks we’re good chums or, at least, just business rivals being stiffly polite to each other. Let’s spoil the mood .
    “Good-bye, ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “Mr. Pump, be so good as to put the broom on the coach, would you?”
    “Broom?” said Gilt, looking up sharply. “That broom? The one with stars on it? You’re taking a broomstick ?”
    “Yes, it will come in handy if we break down,” said Moist.
    “I protest,