Going Postal

they showed. This, it turned out, is because “nothing to see” is what most of the universe consists of, and many a wizard has peacefully trimmed his beard while gazing into the dark heart of the cosmos.
    There were very few steerable omniscopes. They took a long time to make and cost a great deal. And the wizards were not at all keen on making any more. Omniscopes were for them to look at the universe, not for the universe to look back at them.
    Besides, the wizards did not believe in making life too easy for people. At least, for people who weren’t wizards. An omniscope was a rare, treasured, and delicate thing.
    But today was a special occasion, and they had thrown open the doors to the richer, cleaner, and more hygienic sections of Ankh-Morpork society. A long table had been set for Second Tea. Nothing too excessive—a few dozen roast fowls, a couple of cold salmon, one hundred linear feet of salad bar, a pile of loaves, one or two kegs of beer, and, of course, the chutney, pickle, and relish train, one trolley not being considered big enough. People had filled their plates and were standing around chatting and, above all, Being There. Moist slipped in unnoticed, for now, because people were watching the university’s biggest omniscope.
    Archchancellor Ridcully thumped the side of the thing with his hand, causing it to rock.
    “It’s still not working , Mr. Stibbons!” he bellowed. “Here’s that damn enormous fiery eye again!”
    “I’m sure we have the right—” Ponder began, fiddling with the rear of the big disc.
    “It’s me, sir, Devious Collabone, sir,” said a voice from the omniscope. The fiery eye pulled back and was replaced by an enormous fiery nose. “I’m here at the terminal tower, sir, in Genua. Sorry about the redness, sir. I’ve picked up an allergy to seaweed, sir.”
    “Hello, Mr. Collabone!” yelled Ridcully. “How are you? How’s the—”
    “—shellfish research—” murmured Ponder Stibbons.
    “—shellfish research comin’ along?”
    “Not very well, actually, sir, I’ve developed a nasty—”
    “Good, good! Lucky chap!” Ridcully yelled, cupping his hands to increase the volume. “I wouldn’t mind bein’ in Genua myself at this time of year! Sun, sea, surf, and sand, eh?”
    “Actually it’s the wet season, sir, and I’m a bit worried about this fungus that’s growing on the omni—”
    “Wonderful!” shouted Ridcully. “Well, I can’t stand here and chew your fat all day! Has anything arrived? We are agog!”
    “Could you just stand back a little bit further, please, Mr. Collabone?” said Ponder. “And you don’t really need to speak so…loudly, Archchancellor.”
    “Chap’s a long way away, man!” said Ridcully.
    “Not as such, sir,” said Ponder, with well-honed patience. “Very well, Mr. Collabone, you may proceed.”
    The crowd behind the Archchancellor pressed forward. Mr. Collabone backed away. This was all a bit too much for a man who spent his days with no one to talk to but bivalves.
    “Er, I’ve had a message by clacks, sir, but—” he began.
    “Nothin’ from the Post Office?” said Ridcully.
    “No, sir. Nothing, sir.”
    There were cheers and boos and general laughter from the crowd. From his shadowy corner, Moist saw Lord Vetinari, right by the Archchancellor. He scanned the rest of the crowd and spotted Reacher Gilt, standing off to one side and, surprisingly, not smiling. And Gilt saw him.
    One look was enough. The man wasn’t certain. Not totally certain.
    Welcome to fear, said Moist to himself. It’s hope, turned inside out. You know it can’t go wrong, you’re sure it can’t go wrong…
    But it might.
    I’ve got you .
    Devious Collabone coughed. “Er, but I don’t think this is the message Archchancellor Ridcully sent,” he said, his voice gone squeaky with nervousness.
    “What makes you think that, man?”
    “Because it says it isn’t,” Collabone quavered. “It says it’s from dead people…”
    “You mean it’s an old message?” said Ridcully.
    “Er, no, sir. Er…I’d better read it, shall I? Do you want me to read it?”
    “That’s the point , man!”
    In the big disc of glass, Collabone cleared his throat.
    “ Who will listen to the dead? We who died so that words could fly demand justice now. These are the crimes of the Board of the Grand Trunk: theft, embezzlement, breach of trust, corporate murder— ”

CHAPTER 14
    Deliverance
Lord Vetinari requests silence • Mr. Lipwig