Going Postal

hanky-panky. I will not stand for it, Mr. Lipwig.”
    Moist stared at her. Then he looked up at Mr. Pump, who was never far away.
    “Mr. Pump, is there any reason why one of the golems can’t have a new name?” he asked. “In the interest of hanky-panky avoidance?”
    “No, Mr. Lipvig,” the golem rumbled.
    Moist turned back to Miss Maccalariat. “Would ‘Gladys’ do, Miss Maccalariat?”
    “‘Gladys’ will be sufficient, Mr. Lipwig,” said Miss Maccalariat, more than a hint of triumph in her voice. “She must be properly clothed, of course.”
    “Clothed?” said Moist weakly. “But a golem isn’t—it doesn’t—they don’t have…” He quailed under the glare, and gave up. “Yes, Miss Maccalariat. Something gingham, I think, Mr. Pump?”
    “I Shall Arrange It, Postmaster,” said the golem.
    “Will that be all right, Miss Maccalariat?” said Moist meekly.
    “For the present,” said Miss Maccalariat, as if she regretted that there were currently no further things to complain of. “Mr. Groat knows my particulars, Postmaster. I will now return to the proper execution of my duties, otherwise people will try to steal the pens again. You have to watch them like hawks, you know.”
    “A good woman, that,” said Groat, as she strode away. “Fifth generation of Miss Maccalariats. Maiden name kept for professional purposes, o’course.”
    “They get married ?” From the mob around the makeshift counter came the ringing command: “Put that pen back this minute! Do you think I’m made of pens?”
    “Yessir,” said Groat.
    “Do they bite their husbands’ heads off on their wedding night?” said Moist.
    “I wouldn’t know about that sort of thing, sir,” said Groat, blushing.
    “But she’s even got a bit of a mustache!”
    “Yessir. There’s someone for everyone in this wonderful world, sir.”
    “And we’ve got other people looking for work, you say?”
    Groat beamed. “That’s right, sir. ’Cos of the bit in the paper, sir.”
    “You mean this morning?”
    “I expect that helped, sir,” said Groat. “But I reckon it was the lunchtime edition that did it.”
    “ What lunchtime edition? ”
    “We’re all over the front page!” said Groat proudly. “I put a copy on your desk upstairs—”
    Moist pushed the Sto Lat mailbag into the man’s arms. “Get this…sorted,” he said. “If there’s enough mail for another delivery to go, find some kid who’s mad for a job and put him on a horse and get him to take it. Doesn’t have to be fast, we’ll call it the overnight delivery. Tell him to see the mayor and come back in the morning with any fresh mail.”
    “Right you are, sir,” said Groat. “We could do an overnight to Quirm and Pseudopolis, too, sir, if we could change horses like the mail coaches do—”
    “Hang on…why can’t the mail coaches take it?” said Moist. “Hell, they’re still called mail coaches, right? We know they take stuff from anyone, on the quiet. Well, the Post Office is back in business. They take out mail. Go and find whoever runs it and tell him so!”
    “Yessir,” said Groat, beaming. “Thought about how we’re going to send post to the moon yet, sir?”
    “One thing at a time, Mr. Groat!”
    “That’s not like you, sir,” said Groat cheerfully. “All at once is more your style, sir!”
    I wish it wasn’t , Moist thought, as he eased his way upstairs. But you had to move fast. He always moved fast. His whole life had been movement. Move fast, because you never know what’s trying to catch you up—
    He paused on the stairs.
    Not Mr. Pump!
    The golem hadn’t left the Post Office! He hadn’t tried to catch him up! Was it that he’d been on postal business? How long could he be away on postal business? Could he fake his death, maybe? The old pile-of-clothes-on-the-seashore trick? Worth remembering. All he needed was a long enough start. How did a golem’s mind actually work? He’d have to ask Miss—
    Miss Dearheart! He’d been flying so high that he’d asked her out! That might be a problem now, because most of the lower part of his body was on fire, not especially for Miss Dearheart. Oh, well , he thought, as he entered the office, perhaps he could find a restaurant with really soft seats—

    FASTER THAN THE
“SPEED OF LIGHT”
“Old-fashioned” Mail Beats Clacks
Amazing Scenes as Postmaster Delivers,
Says: Snook Not Cocked
Post Office

    The headlines screamed at him as soon as he saw the paper. He