Going Postal

wizard in a jar • A discussion of Lord Vetinari’s
backside • A promise to deliver • Mr. Hobson’s Boris
    I N HIS ANCIENT OFFICE smelling of oil and ink, Mr. Spools was impressed by this strange young man in the golden suit and wingéd hat.
    “You certainly know your papers, Mr. Lipwig,” he said, as Moist thumbed through the samples. “It’s a pleasure to meet a customer who does. Always use the right paper for the job, that’s what I say.”
    “The important thing is to make stamps hard to forge,” said Moist, leafing through the samples. “On the other hand, it mustn’t cost us anything like a penny to produce a penny stamp!”
    “Watermarks are your friend there, Mr. Lipwig,” said Mr. Spools.
    “Not impossible to fake, though,” said Moist, and then added, “So I’ve been told.”
    “Oh, we know all the tricks, Mr. Lipwig, don’t you worry about that!” said Mr. Spools. “We’re up to scratch, oh yes! Chemical voids, thaumic shadows, timed inks, everything. We do paper and engraving and even printing for some of the leading figures in the city, although of course I am not at liberty to tell you who they are.”
    He sat back in his worn leather chair and scribbled in a notebook for a moment.
    “Well, we could do you twenty thousand of the penny stamps, uncoated stock, gummed, at two dollars a thousand plus setup,” said Mr. Spools. “Ten pence less for ungummed. You’ll have to find someone to cut them out, of course.”
    “Can’t you do that with some kind of machine?” said Moist.
    “No. Wouldn’t work, not with things as small as this. Sorry, Mr. Lipwig.”
    Moist pulled a scrap of brown paper out of his pocket and held it up.
    “Do you recognize this, Mr. Spools?”
    “What, is that a pin paper?” Mr. Spools beamed. “Hah, that takes me back! Still got my old collection in the attic, I’ve always thought it must be worth a bob or two if only—”
    “Watch this, Mr. Spools,” said Moist, gripping the paper carefully. Stanley was almost painfully precise in placing his pins; a man with a micrometer couldn’t have done it better.
    Gently, the paper tore down the line of holes. Moist looked at Mr. Spools and raised his eyebrows.
    “It’s all about holes,” he said. “It ain’t nothing if it ain’t got hole…”
    Three hours went past. Foremen were sent for. Serious men in overalls turned things on lathes, other men soldered things together, tried them out, changed this, reamed that, then dismantled a small hand press and built it in a different way. Moist loitered on the periphery of all this, clearly bored, while the serious men fiddled, measured things, rebuilt things, tinkered, lowered things, raised things, and, eventually, watched by Moist and Mr. Spools, tried out the converted press officially—
    Chonk…
    It felt to Moist that everyone was holding their breath so hard that the windows were bending inwards. He reached down, eased the sheet of little perforated squares off the board, and lifted it up.
    He tore off one stamp.
    The windows buckled outwards. People breathed again. There wasn’t a cheer. These weren’t men to cheer and whoop at a job well done. Instead, they lit their pipes and nodded to one another.
    Mr. Spools and Moist von Lipwig shook hands over the perforated paper.
    “The patent is yours, Mr. Spools,” said Moist.
    “You’re very kind, Mr. Lipwig. Very kind indeed. Oh, here’s a little souvenir…”
    An apprentice had bustled up with a sheet of paper. To Moist’s astonishment, it was already covered with stamps—ungummed, unperforated, but perfect miniature copies of his drawing for the one-penny stamp.
    “Iconodiabolic engraving, Mr. Lipwig!” said Spools, seeing his face. “No one can say we’re behind the times! Of course, there’ll be a few little flaws this time round, but by early next week we’ll—”
    “I want penny and two-penny ones tomorrow, please, Mr. Spools, please,” said Moist firmly. “I don’t need perfect, I want quick.”
    “My word, you’re quick off the mark, Mr. Lipwig!”
    “Always move fast, Mr. Spools, you never know who’s catching up!”
    “Hah! Yes! Er…good motto, Mr. Lipwig. Nice one,” said Mr. Spools, grinning uncertainly.
    “And I want the five-pennies and one-dollars the day after, please.”
    “You’ll scorch your boots, Mr. Moist!” said Spools.
    “Got to move, Mr. Spools, got to fly!”
    Moist hurried back to the Post Office as fast as decently possible, feeling