Going Postal

balcony ahead—
    And stopped.
    All right, the brain had been carried all the way up here at great expense, now it was time for it to do some work.
    The hall of the Post Office was a dark cavern filled with mountains of mail. There were no balconies, no shining brasswork, no bustling staff, and, as sure as hell, there were no customers.
    The only time the Post Office could have looked like this was in the past, yes?
    There was balconies, sir, all round the big hall on every floor, made of iron, like lace!
    —but they weren’t in the present, not in the here and now. Yet he wasn’t in the past, not exactly. His fingers had felt a stairwell when his eyes had seen carpeted floor.
    Moist decided that he was standing in the here and now but seeing in the here and then. Of course, you’d have to be mad to believe it, but this was the Post Office.
    Poor Mr. Sideburn had stepped out onto a floor that wasn’t there anymore.
    Moist stopped before stepping out onto the balcony, reached down, and felt the chill on his fingertips once again as they went through the carpet. Who was it—oh, yes, Mr. Mutable. He’d stood here, rushed to looked down and—
    —smack, sir, smack onto the marble…
    Moist stood up carefully, steadied himself against the wall, and peered gingerly into the big hall.
    Chandeliers hung from the ceiling, but they were unlit because sunlight was pouring through the sparkling dome onto a scene innocent of pigeon droppings but alive with people, scuttling across the checkerboard floor or hard at work behind the long, polished counters made of rare wood, my dad said . Moist stood and stared.
    It was a scene made up of a hundred purposeful activities that fused happily into a great anarchy. Below him, big wire baskets on wheels were being manhandled across the floor, sacks of letters were being tipped on moving belts, clerks were feverishly filling the pigeonholes. It was a machine made of people sir, you should’ve seen it!
    Away to Moist’s left, at the far end of the hall, was a golden statue three or four times lifesize. It was of a golden, slim young man, obviously a god, wearing nothing more than a hat with wings on, sandals with wings on, and—Moist squinted—a fig leaf with wings on?
    He’d been caught by the sculptor as he was about to leap into the air, carrying an envelope and wearing an expression of noble purpose.
    It dominated the hall. It wasn’t there in the present day; the dais was unoccupied. If the counters and the chandeliers were gone, a statue that even looked like gold must’ve stood no chance. It had probably been The Spirit of the Post, or something.
    Meanwhile, the mail down there was moving more prosaically.
    Right under the dome was a clock with a face pointing in each of the four directions. As Moist watched it, the big hand clanked to the top of the hour.
    A horn blew. The frantic ballet ceased as, somewhere below Moist, some doors opened and two lines of men in the uniforms, sir, royal blue with brass buttons! You should’ve seen them! marched in the hall in two lines and stood to attention in front of the big doors. A large man in a rather grander version of the uniform and with a face like a toothache was waiting there for them; he wore a large hourglass hanging in a gimballed brass cage at his belt, and he looked at the waiting men as if he had seen worse sights but not often and even then only on the soles of his enormous boots.
    He held up the hourglass with an air of evil satisfaction, and took a deep breath before roaring: “Numbahhh Four Delivereeee…stand!”
    The words reached Moist’s ears slightly muffled, as though he was hearing them through cardboard. The postmen already at attention contrived to look even more alert.
    The big man glared at them and took another huge gulp of air.
    “Numbahhh Three Delivereeee wait for it, wait for it!… DELIVAAAAAAAH!”
    The two lines marched past him and out into the day.
    Once, we were postmen…
    I’ve got to find a real stairway , Moist thought, pushing himself away from the edge. I’m…hallucinating the past. But I’m standing in the present. It’s like sleepwalking. I don’t walk out onto fresh air and end up as one more chalk outline .
    He turned around and someone walked right through him.
    The sensation was unpleasant, like a sudden snap of fever. But that wasn’t the worst part. The worst part is seeing someone’s head walk through yours. The view is mostly gray, with traces of red and hollow