Going Postal

hissed.
    “Aye, the Unfranked Man will be Returned to Sender in no short order,” said another.
    “The Unfranked Man must be weighed in the balance,” said a third.
    “Stanley, fetch Mr. Pump right now!” shouted Moist, but the hood was thick and clinging.
    “Mustn’t do that, sir,” said Stanley. “Mustn’t do that at all, sir. It will be all right, sir. It’s just a…a test, sir. It’s The Order of the Post, sir.”
    Funny hats , Moist thought, and began to relax. Hoodwinks and threats…I know this stuff. It’s mysticism for tradesmen. There’s not a city in the world without its Loyal and Ancient and Justified and Hermetic Order of little men who think they can reap the secrets of the ancients for a couple of hours every Thursday night and don’t realize what prats they look in a robe. I should know, I must have joined a dozen of ’em myself. I bet there’s a secret handshake. I know more secret handshakes than the gods. I’m in about as much danger as I would be in a class of five-year-olds. Less, probably. Unfranked Man…good grief .
    He relaxed. He let himself be led down the stairs, and turned around. Ah, yes, that’s right. You’ve got to make the initiate fear, but everyone knows it’s just a party game. It’ll sound bad, it might even feel bad, but it won’t be bad. He remembered joining, what was it, oh yes, The Men Of The Furrow, in some town out in the stalks. * He’d been blindfolded, of course, and The Men had made all the horrific noises they could imagine, and then a voice in the darkness had said, “Shake hands with the Old Master!” and Moist had reached out and shaken a goat’s foot. Those who got out of there with clean pants won.
    Next day he’d swindled three of his trusting new Brothers out of eighty dollars. That didn’t seem quite so funny now.
    The old postmen were taking him into the big hall. He could tell by the echoes. And there were other people there, according to those little hairs on the back of his neck. Not just people, maybe; he thought he heard a muffled growl. But that was how it went, right? Things had to sound worrying. The key was to be bold, act brave and forthright.
    His escorts left him. Moist stood in darkness for a moment, and then felt a hand grasp his elbow.
    “It’s me, sir. Probationary Senior Postman Groat, sir. Don’t you worry about a thing, sir. I’m your Temporary Deacon for tonight, sir.”
    “Is this necessary, Mr. Groat?” sighed Moist. “I was appointed postmaster, you know.”
    “Appointed, yes. Accepted, not yet, sir. Proof of Posting Is Not Proof of Delivery, sir.”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “Can’t tell secrets to an Unfranked Man, sir,” said Groat piously. “You’ve done well to get this far, sir.”
    “Oh, all right,” said Moist, trying to sound jovial. “What’s the worst that can happen, eh?”
    Groat was silent.
    “I said—” Moist began.
    “I was just working that out, sir,” said Groat. “Let’s see…yes, sir. The worst that can happen is you lose all your fingers on one hand, are crippled for life, and break half the bones in your body. Oh, and then they don’t let you join. But don’t you worry about a thing, sir, not a thing!”
    Up head, a voice boomed: “Who brings the Unfranked Man?”
    Beside Moist, Groat cleared his throat, and when he spoke, his voice actually shook.
    “I, Probationary Senior Postman Tolliver Groat, do bring the Unfranked Man.”
    “ You did say that about the bones to frighten me, right? ” hissed Moist.
    “And does he stand in the Gloom of Night?” the voice demanded.
    “He does now, Worshipful Master!” shouted Groat happily and whispered to the hooded Moist, “Some of the old boys are really happy about you getting the sign back—”
    “ Good. Now, these broken bones you mentioned— ”
    “Then let him walk the Walk!” the unseen voice commanded.
    “We’re just going to walk forward, sir, easy does it,” Groat whispered urgently. “That’s it. Stop here.”
    “Look,” said Moist, “all that stuff…that was just to scare me, right?”
    “You leave it to me, sir,” Groat whispered.
    “But listen, the—” Moist began, and had a mouthful of hood.
    “Let him don the Boots!” the voice went on.
    Amazing how you can hear the capital letters , Moist thought, trying not to choke on the cloth.
    “Pair of boots right in front of you, sir,” came Groat’s hoarse whisper. “Put ’em on. No problem, sir.”
    “Pff! Yes,