Going Postal

up spread around the whole of society.
    Tomorrow he’d have to take it all seriously. Proper mail runs. Many more staff. Hundreds of things to do, and hundreds of other things to do before you could do those things. It wasn’t going to be fun anymore, cocking a snook, whatever a snook was, at the big, slow giant. He’d won, so he’d have to pick up the pieces and make everything work. And come in here the next day and do it all again.
    This wasn’t how it was supposed to end. You won, and you pocketed the cash and walked away. That was how the game was supposed to go, wasn’t it?
    His eye fell on Anghammarad’s message box, on its twisted, corroded strap, and he wished he was at the bottom of the sea.
    “Mr. Lipwig?”
    He looked up. Drumknott the clerk was standing in the doorway, with another clerk behind him.
    “Yes?”
    “Sorry to disturb you, sir,” said the clerk. “We’re here to see Mr. Pump. Just a minor adjustment, if you don’t mind?”
    “What? Oh. Fine. Whatever. Go ahead.” Moist waved a hand vaguely.
    The two men walked over to the golem. There was some muted conversation, and then it knelt down and they unscrewed the top of its head.
    Moist stared in horror. He knew it was done, of course, but it was shocking to see it happening. There was some rummaging around that he couldn’t make out, and then the cranium was replaced, with a little pottery noise.
    “Sorry to have disturbed you, sir,” said Drumknott, and the clerks left.
    Mr. Pump stayed on his knees for a moment, and then rose slowly. The red eyes focused on Moist, and the golem stuck out his hand.
    “I Do Not Know What A Pleasure Is, But I Am Sure That If I Did, Then Working With You Would Have Been One,” he said. “Now I Must Leave You. I Have Another Task.”
    “You’re not my, er, parole officer anymore?” said Moist, taken aback.
    “Correct.”
    “Hold on,” said Moist, as light dawned. “Is Vetinari sending you after Gilt?”
    “I Am Not At Liberty To Say.”
    “He is, isn’t he? You’re not following me anymore?”
    “I Am Not Following You Anymore.”
    “So I’m free to go?”
    “I Am Not At Liberty To Say. Good Night, Mr. Lipvig.” Mr. Pump paused at the door. “I Am Not Certain What Happiness Is, Either, Mr. Lipvig, But I Think—Yes, I Think I Am Happy To Have Met You.”
    And, ducking to get through the doorway, the golem left.
    That only leaves the werewolf , thought part of Moist’s mind, faster than light. And they’re not much good at boats and completely lost when it comes to oceans! It’s the middle of the night, the Watch are running around like madmen, everyone’s busy, I’ve got a bit of cash, and I’ve still got the diamond ring and a deck of cards…who’d notice? Who’d care? Who’d worry?
    He could go anywhere . But that wasn’t really him thinking that, was it…it was just a few old brains cells, running on automatic. There wasn’t anywhere to go, not anymore.
    He walked over to the big hole in the wall and looked down into the hall. Did anyone go home here? But now the news had got around, and if you wanted any hope of anything delivered anywhere tomorrow, you went to the Post Office. It was quite busy, even now.
    “Cup of tea, Mr. Lipwig?” said the voice of Stanley, behind him.
    “Thank you, Stanley,” said Moist, without looking around. Down below, Miss Maccalariat was standing on a chair and nailing something to the wall.
    “Everyone says we’ve won, sir, ’cos the clacks has been shut down, ’cos the directors are in prison, sir. They say all Mr. Upwright has to do is get there! But Mr. Groat says the bookies probably won’t pay up, sir. And the King of Lancre wants some stamps printed, but it’ll come a bit pricey, sir, since they only write about ten letters a year up there. Still, we’ve showed them, eh, sir? The Post Office is back!”
    “It’s some kind of a banner,” said Moist aloud.
    “Sorry, Mr. Lipwig?” said Stanley.
    “Er…nothing. Thank you, Stanley. Have fun with the stamps. Good to see you standing up so…straight…”
    “It’s like having a new life, sir,” said Stanley. “I’d better go, sir, they need help with the sorting…”
    The banner was crude. It read: THANK YOU MR. LIPWIC !
    Gloom rolled around Moist. It was always bad after he’d won, but this time was the worst. For days his mind had been flying and he’d felt alive. Now he felt numb. They’d put up a banner like that, while he was a liar and a thief.