Going Postal

words had faded, leaving:

    YOU DON’T HAVE TO BE MAD
TO WORK HERE BUT IT HELPS

    He put them down with care on Moist’s desk; Stanley did everything carefully.
    “Thank you,” Moist repeated. “Er…you can go now, Stanley. Help with the sorting, eh?”
    “There’s a vampire in the hall, Mr. Lipwig,” said Stanley.
    “That will be Otto,” said Sacharissa quickly. “You don’t have a…a thing about vampires, do you?”
    “Hey, if he’s got a pair of hands and knows how to walk, I’ll give him a job!”
    “He’s already got one,” said Sacharissa, laughing. “He’s our chief iconographer. He’s been taking pictures of your men at work. We’d very much like to have one of you. For the front page.”
    “What! No!” said Moist. “Please! No!”
    “He’s very good.”
    “Yeah, but…but…but…” Moist began, and in his head the sentence went on: But I don’t think that even a talent for looking like half the men you see in the street would survive a picture.
    What actually came out was: “I don’t want to be singled out from all the hardworking men and golems who are putting the Post Office back on its feet! After all, there’s no ‘me’ in team, eh?”
    “Actually, there is,” said Sacharissa. “Besides, you’re the one wearing the wingéd hat and the golden suit. Come on , Mr. Lipwig!”
    “All right, all right, I really didn’t want to go into this, but it’s against my religion!” said Moist, who’d had time to think. “We’re forbidden to have any image made of us. It removes part of the soul, you know.”
    “And you believe that?” said Sacharissa. “Really?”
    “Er, no. No. Of course not. Not as such. But…but you can’t treat religion as a sort of buffet, can you? I mean, you can’t say, ‘Yes please, I’ll have some of the Celestial Paradise and a helping of the Divine Plan but go easy on the kneeling and none of the Prohibition of Images, they give me wind.’ It’s table d’hôte or nothing, otherwise…well, it could get silly.”
    Miss Cripslock looked at him with her head to one side.
    “You work for his lordship, don’t you?” she said.
    “Well, of course. This is an official job.”
    “And I expect you’ll tell me that your previous job was as a clerk, nothing special?”
    “That’s right.”
    “Although your name probably is Moist von Lipwig, because I can’t believe anyone would choose that as an assumed name,” she went on.
    “Thank you very much!”
    “It sounds to me as though you’re issuing a challenge, Mr. Lipwig. There’s all sorts of problems with the clacks right now. There’s been a big stink about the people they’ve been sacking and how the ones that’re left are being worked to death, and up you pop, full of ideas.”
    “I’m serious, Sacharissa. Look, people are already giving us new letters to post!”
    He pulled them out of his pocket and fanned them out. “See, there’s one here to go to Dolly Sisters, another to Nap Hill, one for…Blind lo…”
    “He’s a god,” said the woman. “Could be a problem.”
    “No,” said Moist briskly, putting the letters back in his pocket. “We’ll deliver to the gods themselves. He has three temples in the city. It’ll be easy.” And you’ve forgotten about the pictures, hooray…
    “A man of resource, I see. Tell me, Mr. Moist, do you know much about the history of this place?”
    “Not too much. I’d certainly like to find out where the chandeliers went to!”
    “You haven’t spoken to Professor Pelc?”
    “Who’s he?” said Moist.
    “I’m amazed. He’s at the university. He wrote a whole chapter on this place in his book on…oh, something to do with big masses of writing thinking for themselves. I suppose you do know about the people who died?”
    “Oh, yes.”
    “He said the place drove them mad in some way. Well, actually, we said that. What he said was a lot more complicated. I have to hand it to you, Mr. Lipwig, taking on a job that has killed four men before you. It takes a special kind of man to do that.”
    Yes , thought Moist. An ignorant one.
    “You haven’t noticed anything strange yourself?” Miss Cripslock went on.
    “Well, I think my body traveled in time but the soles of my feet didn’t, but I’m not sure how much of it was hallucination; I was nearly killed in a mailslide; and the letters keep talking to me,” were the words that Moist didn’t say, because it’s the kind of thing you don’t say to an open notebook.