Going Postal

unshakable friend in Stanley. That was to say, his darker regions added, Stanley was friends with him . The boy, all panic subsumed by the joy of pins, was holding the pin up to the light.
    “Magnificent,” he breathed, all terrors fled. “Clean as a new pin! I have a place ready and waiting for this in my pin folder, sir!”
    “Yes, I thought you might.”
    His head was all over the wall…
    Somewhere there was a locked door, and Moist didn’t have the key. Four of his predecessors had predeceased in this very building. And there was no escape . Being postmaster general was a job for life—one way or the other. That was why Vetinari had put him here. He needed a man who couldn’t walk away, and who was incidentally completely expendable. It didn’t matter if Moist von Lipwig died. He was already dead.
    And then he tried not to think about Mr. Pump.
    How many other golems had worked their way to freedom in the service of the city? Had there been a Mr. Saw, fresh from a hundred years in a pit of sawdust? Or Mr. Shovel? Mr. Axe, maybe?
    And had there been one here when the last poor guy had found the key or a good lockpick, and was about to open it when behind him someone called maybe Mr. Hammer, yes, oh gods, yes , raised his first for one sudden, terminal blow?
    No one had been near him? But they weren’t people, were they…they were tools. It’d be an industrial accident.
    His head was all over the wall…
    I’m going to find out about this. I have to, otherwise it’ll lie in wait for me. And everyone will tell me lies. But I am the fibbermeister.
    “Hmm?” he said, aware that he’d missed something.
    “I said, could I go and put this in my collection, Postmaster?” said Stanley.
    “What? Oh. Yes. Fine. Yes. Give it a really good polish, too.”
    As the boy gangled off to his end of the locker room—and he did gangle—Moist caught Groat looking at him shrewdly.
    “Well done, Mr. Lipwig,” he said. “Well done.”
    “Thank you, Mr. Groat.”
    “Good eyesight you’ve got there,” the old man went on.
    “Well, the light was shining off it—”
    “Nah, I meant to see cobbles in Market Street, it being all brick paving up there.”
    Moist returned his blank stare with one ever blanker.
    “Bricks, cobbles, who cares?” he said.
    “Yeah, right. Not important, really,” said Groat.
    “And now,” said Moist, feeling the need for some fresh air, “there’s a little errand I have to run. I’d like you to come with me, Mr. Groat. Can you find a crowbar anywhere? Bring it, please. And I’ll need you, too, Mr. Pump.”
    Werewolves and golems, golems and werewolves , Moist thought. I’m stuck here. I might as well take it seriously .
    I will show them a sign .

    “T HERE’S A LITTLE HABIT I have,” said Moist, as he led the way through the streets. “It’s to do with signs.”
    “Signs, sir?” said Groat, trying to keep close to the walls.
    “Yes, Junior Postman Groat, signs,” said Moist, noticing the way the man winced at “Junior.” “Particularly signs with missing letters. When I see one, I automatically read what the missing letters say.”
    “And how can you do that, sir, when they’re missing?” said Groat.
    Ah, so there’s a clue as to why you’re still sitting in a rundown old building making tea from rocks and weeds all day , Moist thought. Aloud he said: “It’s a knack. Now, I could be wrong, of course, but—ah, we turn left here…”
    This was quite a busy street, and the shop was in front of them. It was everything that Moist had hoped.
    “Voilà,” he said and, remembering his audience, he added: “That is to say, there we have it.”
    “It’s a barber’s shop,” said Groat uncertainly. “For ladies.”
    “Ah, you’re a man of the world, Tolliver, there’s no fooling you,” said Moist. “And the name over the window, in those large, blue-green letters, is…?”
    “HUGOS,” said Groat. “And?”
    “Yes, HUGO’S,” said Moist. “No apostrophe present, in fact, and the reason for this is…you could work with me a little here, perhaps…?”
    “Er…” Groat stared frantically at the letters, defying them to reveal their meaning.
    “Close enough,” said Moist. “There is no apostrophe there because there was and is no apostrophe on the uplifting slogan that adorns our beloved Post Office, Mr. Groat.” He waited for light to dawn. “Those big metal letters were stolen from our facade, Mr. Groat. I mean, the front of the building.