Going Postal

minute—”
    “The golems? It’s their day off!”
    “They have to obey their chem, though. A fire means humans are in danger. They’ll smell it and be here in minutes, believe me.”
    Moist hesitated, looking at her face. And people were watching him. He couldn’t not go in there, it wouldn’t fit in with the persona. Gods damn Vetinari!
    He shook his head, turned, and ran toward the doors. Best not to think about it. Best not to think about being so dumb . Just feel the front door…quite cool. Open it gently…a rush of air, but no explosion. The big hall, lit with flame…but it was all above him, and if he weaved and dodged he could make it to the door that led down to the locker room.
    He kicked it open.
    Stanley looked up from his stamps.
    “Hello, Mr. Lipwig,” he said. “I kept calm. But I think Mr. Groat is ill.”
    The old man was lying on the bed, and ill was too jolly a word.
    “What happened to him?” said Moist, lifting him gently. Mr. Groat was no weight at all.
    “It was like a big bird, but I frightened it off,” said Stanley. “I hit it in the mouth with a sack of pins. I…had a Little Moment, sir.”
    “Well, that ought to do it,” said Moist. “Now, can you follow me?”
    “I’ve got all the stamps,” said Stanley. “And the cashbox. Mr. Groat keeps them under his bed for safety.” The boy beamed. “And your hat, too. I kept calm.”
    “Well done, well done,” said Moist. “Now, stick right behind me, okay?”
    “What about Tiddles, Mr. Lipwig?” said Stanley, suddenly looking worried. Somewhere outside in the hall there was a crash, and the crackle of the fire grew distinctly louder.
    “Who? Tidd—the cat? To hell with—” Moist stopped, and readjusted his mouth. “He’ll be outside, you can bet on it, eating a toasted rat and grinning. Come on, will you?”
    “But he’s the Post Office cat!” said Stanley. “He’s never been outside!”
    I’ll bet he has now , thought Moist. But there was that edge in the boy’s voice again.
    “Let’s get Mr. Groat out of here, okay?” he said, easing his way through the door with the old man in his arms, “and then I’ll came back for Tidd—”
    A burning beam dropped onto the floor halfway across the hall, and sent sparks and burning envelopes spiraling upwards into the main blaze.
    It roared, a wall of flame, a fiery waterfall in reverse, up through the other floors and out through the roof. It thundered. It was fire let loose and making the most of it.
    Part of Moist von Lipwig was happy to let it happen. But a new and troublesome part was thinking: I was making it work. It was all moving forward. The stamps were really working. It was as good as being a criminal without the crime. It had been fun .
    “Come on , Stanley!” Moist snapped, turning away from the horrible sight and the fascinating thought. The boy followed reluctantly, calling for the damn cat all the way to the door.
    The air outside struck like a knife, but there was a round of applause from the crowd and then a flash of light that Moist had come to associate with eventual trouble.
    “Good eefning, Mr. Lipvig!” said the cheery voice of Otto Chriek. “My vord, if ve vant news, all ve have to do is follow you!”
    Moist ignored him and shouldered his way to Miss Dearheart, who, he noticed, was not beside herself with worry.
    “Is there a hospice in this city?” he said. “A decent doctor, even?”
    “There’s the Lady Sibyl Free Hospital,” said Miss Dearheart.
    “Is it any good?”
    “Some people don’t die.”
    “That good, eh? Get him there right now! I’ve got to go back in for the cat!”
    “ You are going to go back in there for a cat ?”
    “It’s Tiddles,” said Stanley primly. “He was born in the Post Office.”
    “Best not to argue,” said Moist, turning to go. “See to Mr. Groat, will you?”
    Miss Dearheart looked down at the old man’s bloodstained shirt.
    “But it looks as though some creature tried to—” she began.
    “Something fell on him,” said Moist shortly.
    “That couldn’t cause—”
    “ Something fell on him ,” said Moist. “That’s what happened.”
    She looked at his face.
    “All right,” she agreed. “Something fell on him. Something with big claws.”
    “No, a joist with lots of nails in it, something like that. Anyone can see that.”
    “That’s what happened, was it?” said Miss Dearheart.
    “That’s exactly what happened,” said Moist, and strode away before there