Going Postal

they said a lot of the messages the clacks carries is about the clacks, okay? Orders from the company, housekeeping messages, messages about messages—”
    “—dead men’s names—” said Moist.
    “Yeah, them, too. Well, the Smoking Gnu is in there somewhere,” Jim went on. “That’s all I know. I drive coaches, Mr. Lipwig. I ain’t a clever man like them up on the towers. Hah, I’m stupid enough to keep my feet on the ground!”
    “Tell Mr. Lipwig about Tower 93, Jim,” said Harry. “Make ’is flesh creep!”
    “Yeah, heard about that one?” said Jim, looking slyly at Moist.
    “No. What happened?”
    “Only two lads were up there, where there should’ve been three. One of them went out in a gale to budge a stuck shutter, which he shouldn’t’ve done, and fell off and got his safety rope tangled around his neck. So the other bloke rushed out to get him, without his safety rope—which he shouldn’t’ve done—and they reckon he got blown right off the tower.”
    “That’s horrible,” said Moist. “Not creepy, though. As such.”
    “Oh, you want the creepy bit? Ten minutes after they was both dead the tower sent a message for help. Sent by a dead man’s hand.” Jim stood up and put his tricorn hat on. “Got to take a coach out in twenty minutes. Nice to meet you, Mr. Lipwig.” He pulled open a drawer in the battered desk and pulled out a length of lead pipe. “That’s for highwaymen,” he said, and then took out a big, silver brandy flask. “And this is for me,” he added with rather more satisfaction. “Eh? Damn right!”
    And I thought the Post Office was full of crazy people , Moist thought.
    “Thank you,” he said, standing. Then he remembered the strange letter in his pocket, for whatever use it was, and added: “Have you got a coach stopping at Pseudopolis tomorrow?”
    “Yeah, at ten o’clock,” said Harry.
    “We’ll have a bag for it,” said Moist.
    “Is it worth it?” said Jim. “It’s more’n fifty miles, and I heard they’ve got the Trunk repaired. It’s a stoppin’ coach, won’t get there ’til nearly dark.”
    “Got to make the effort, Jim,” said Moist.
    The coachman gave him a look with the little glint that indicated he thought Moist was up to something, but said: “Well, you’re game, I’ll say that for you. We’ll wait for your bag, Mr. Lipwig, and the best of luck to you. Must rush, sir.”
    “What coach are you taking out?” said Moist.
    “I’ll take the first two stages of the overnight flyer to Quirm, leaving at seven,” said Jim. “If it’s still got all its wheels.”
    “It’s nearly seven?”
    “Twenty to, sir.”
    “I’ll be late!”
    The coachmen watch him run back across the yard, with Mr. Pump trailing slowly behind.
    Jim thoughtfully pulled on his thick leather gauntlets and then said to his brother: “You know how you get them funny feelings?”
    “I reckon I do, Jim.”
    “And would you reckon there’ll be a clacks failure between here and Pseudopolis tomorrow?”
    “Funny you should mention that. Mind you, it’d be a two-to-one bet anyway, the way things have been going. Maybe he’s just a betting man, Jim.”
    “Yeah,” said Jim. “Yeah. Eh? Damn right!”

    M OIST STRUGGLED out of the golden suit. It was good advertising, no doubt about it, and when he wore it he felt he had style coming out of his ears, but wearing something like that to the Mended Drum meant that he wanted to be hit over the head with a stool and what would come out of his ears wouldn’t bear thinking about.
    He threw the wingéd hat on the bed and struggled into his second golem-made suit. Somber, he’d said. You had to hand it to golem tailoring. The suit was so black that if it had been sprinkled with stars the owls would have collided with it. He needed more time, but somehow Adora Belle Dearheart was not someone you should keep waiting.
    “You look fine, sir,” said Groat.
    “Thanks, thanks,” said Moist, struggling with his tie. “You’re in charge, Mr. Groat. Should all be quiet this evening. Remember, first thing tomorrow, all mail for Pseudopolis ten pence a go, okay?”
    “Right you are, sir. Can I wear the hat now?” Groat pleaded.
    “What? What?” said Moist, staring into the mirror. “Look, have I got spinach between my teeth?”
    “Have You Eaten Spinach Today, Sir?” said Mr. Pump.
    “I haven’t eaten spinach since I was old enough to spit,” said Moist. “But people always worry about that at a