Going Postal

What he did say was “Oh, no. It’s a fine old building, and I fully intend to bring it back to its former glory.”
    “Good. How old are you, Mr. Moist?”
    “Twenty-six. Is that important?”
    “We like to be thorough.” Miss Cripslock gave him a sweet smile. “Besides, it’s important if we have to write your obituary.”

    M OIST MARCHED through the hall, with Groat sidling after him.
    He pulled the new letters out of his pocket and thrust them into Groat’s crabby hands. “Get these delivered. Anything addressed to a god goes to his or her or its temple. Any other strange ones, put on my desk.”
    “We picked up another fifteen just now, sir. People think it’s funny!”
    “Got the money?”
    “Oh, yes, sir.”
    “Then we’re the ones who’re laughing,” said Moist firmly. “I won’t be long. I’m off to see the wizard.”

    B Y LAW AND TRADITION , the great Library of Unseen University is open to the public, although they aren’t allowed as far as the magical shelves. They don’t realize this, however, since the rules of time and space are twisted inside the library, and so hundreds of miles of shelving can easily be concealed inside a space roughly the thickness of paint.
    People flock in, nevertheless, in search of answers to those questions only librarians are considered to be able to answer, such as “Is this the laundry?” “How do you spell surreptitious?” and, on a regular basis, “Do you have a book I remember reading once? It had a red cover and it turned out they were twins.”
    And, strictly speaking, the library will have it…somewhere. Somewhere it has every book ever written, that ever will be written, and, notably, every book that is possible to write. These are not on the public shelves lest untrained handling cause the collapse of everything that it is possible to imagine. *
    Like everyone else who entered the library, Moist stared up at the dome. Everyone did. They always wondered why a library that was technically infinite in size was covered by a dome a few hundred feet across, and they were allowed to go on wondering.
    Just below the dome, staring down from their niches, were statues of the Virtues: Patience, Chastity, Silence, Charity, Hope, Tubso, Bissonomy, * and Fortitude.
    Moist couldn’t resist removing his hat and giving a little salute to Hope, to whom he owed so much. Then, as he wondered why the statue of Bissonomy was carrying a kettle and what looked like a bunch of parsnips, he collided with someone who grabbed him by the arm and hurried him across the floor.
    “Don’t say a word, don’t say a word, but you are looking for a book, yes?”
    “Well, actually—” He seemed to be in the clutches of a wizard.
    “—you are not sure what book!” said the wizard. “Exactly. It is the job of a librarian to find the right book for the right person. If you would just sit here, we can proceed. Thank you. Please excuse the straps. This will not take long. It is practically painless.”
    “Practically?”
    Moist was pushed, firmly, into a large and complex swivel chair. His captor, or helper, or whatever he might turn out to be, gave him a reassuring smile. Other, shadowy figures helped him strap Moist into the chair, which, while basically an old, horseshoe-shaped one with a leather seat, was surrounded by…stuff. Some of it was clearly magical, being of the stars-and-skulls variety, but what about the jar of pickles, the pair of tongs, and the live mouse in a cage made of—
    Panic gripped Moist and, not at all coincidentally, so did a pair of padded paddles, which closed over his ears. Just before all sound was silenced, he heard: “You may experience a taste of eggs and the sensation of being slapped in the face with some sort of a fish. This is perfectly—”
    And then thlabber happened. It was a traditional magic term, although Moist didn’t know this. There was a moment in which everything, even the things that couldn’t be stretched, felt stretched. And then there was the moment when everything suddenly went back to not being stretched, known as the moment of thlabber.
    When Moist opened his eyes again, the chair was facing the other way. There was no sign of the pickles, the tongs, or the mouse, but in their place was a bucket of clockwork pastry lobsters and a boxed set of novelty glass eyes.
    Moist gulped and muttered: “Haddock.”
    “Really? Most people say cod,” said someone. “No accounting for taste, I suppose.” Hands