Going Postal

rise again.
    The engineer, suddenly the focus of attention, backed away, waving his hands frantically. “Please, Your Lordship! I’m just an engineer, I don’t know anything—”
    “Calm yourself, please. Have you heard that the souls of dead men travel on the Trunk?”
    “Oh, yes, Your Lordship.”
    “Is it true?”
    “Well, er…” Pony looked around, a hunted man. He’d got his pink carbon copies, and they would show everyone that he was nothing more than a man who’d tried to make things work, but right now all he could find on his side was the truth. He took refuge in it. “I can’t see how, but, well…sometimes, when you’re up a tower of a night, and the shutters are rattlin’ and the wind’s singing in the rigging, well, you might think it’s true.”
    “I believe there is a tradition called ‘Sending Home’?” said Lord Vetinari.
    The engineer looked surprised. “Why, yes, sir, but…” Pony felt he ought to wave a little flag for a rational world, in which, right now, he didn’t have a lot of faith. “The Trunk was dark before we ran the message, so I don’t see how the message could have got on—”
    “Unless, of course, the dead put it there?” said Lord Vetinari. “Mr. Pony, for the good of your soul and, not least, your body, you will go now to the Tump Tower, escorted by one of Commander Vimes’s men, and send a brief message to all the towers. You will obtain the paper tapes, which I believe are known as drum rolls, from all the towers on the Grand Trunk. I understand that they show a record of all messages originating at that tower, which cannot be readily altered?”
    “That will take weeks to do, sir!” Pony protested.
    “An early start in the morning would seem in order, then,” said Lord Vetinari.
    Mr. Pony, who had suddenly spotted that a spell a long way from Ankh-Morpork might be a very healthy option at the moment, nodded and said, “Right you are, my lord.”
    “The Grand Trunk will remain closed in the interim,” said Lord Vetinari.
    “It’s private property!” Greenyham burst out.
    “Tyrant, remember,” said Vetinari almost cheerfully. “But I’m sure that the audit will serve to sort out at least some aspects of this mystery. One of them, of course, is that Mr. Reacher Gilt does not seem to be in this room.”
    Every head turned.
    “Perhaps he remembered another engagement?” said Lord Vetinari. “I think he slipped out some time ago.”
    It dawned on the directors of the Grand Trunk that their chairman was absent and, which was worse, they weren’t. They drew together.
    “I wonder if, uh, at this point at least we could discuss the matter with you privately, Your Lordship?” said Greenyham. “Reacher was not an easy man to deal with, I’m afraid.”
    “Not a team player,” gasped Nutmeg.
    “Who?” said Stowley. “What is this place? Who are these people?”
    “Left us totally in the dark most of the time—” said Greenyham.
    “I can’t remember a thing—” said Stowley. “I’m not fit to testify, any doctor will tell you…”
    “I think I can say on behalf of all of us that we were suspicious of him all along—”
    “Mind’s a total blank. Not a blessed thing…what’s this thing with fingers on…who am I…”
    Lord Vetinari stared at the board for five seconds longer than was comfortable, while tapping his chin gently with the knob of his cane. He smiled faintly.
    “Quite,” he said. “Commander Vimes, I think it would be iniquitous to detain these gentlemen here any longer,” he said. As the faces in front of him relaxed into smiles full of Hope, that greatest of all gifts, he added: “To the cells with them, Commander. Separate cells, if you please. I shall see them in the morning. And if Mr. Slant comes to see you on their behalf, do tell him I’d like a little chat, will you?”
    That sounded…good. Moist strolled toward the door, while the hubbub rose, and had almost made it when Lord Vetinari’s voice came out of the throng like a knife.
    “Leaving so soon, Mr. Lipwig? Do wait a moment. I shall give you a lift back to your famous Post Office.”
    For a moment, just a slice of a second, Moist contemplated running. He did not do so. What would be the point?
    The crowd parted hurriedly as Lord Vetinari headed toward the door; behind him, the Watch closed in.
    Ultimately, there is the freedom to take the consequences.

    T HE P ATRICIAN leaned back in the leather upholstery as the coach drew