Going Postal by Terry Pratchett

red glowing eyes watching me. It’s a…well, it’s a childhood thing.”
    “Sorry, Mr. Lipvig. I Could Turn My Back.”
    “That won’t work. I’d still know they’re there. Anyway, the glow reflects off the wall. Look, where would I run to?”
    The golem gave this some thought.
    “I Will Go And Stand In The Corridor, Mr. Lipvig,” he decided, and began to wade toward the door.
    “You do that,” said Moist. “And in the morning I want you to find my bedroom, okay? Some of the offices still have space near the ceiling, you can move the letters into there.”
    “Mr. Groat Does Not Like The Mail To Be Moved, Mr. Lipvig,” the golem rumbled.
    “Mr. Groat is not the postmaster, Mr. Pump. I am.”
    Good gods, the madness is catching , Moist thought as the glow of the golem’s eyes disappeared into darkness outside. I’m not the postmaster, I’m some poor bastard who’s the victim of some stupid…experiment. What a place! What a situation! What kind of man would put a known criminal in charge of a major branch of government? Apart from, say, the average voter .
    He tried to find the angle, the way out…but all the time a conversation kept bouncing off the insides of his brain.
    Imagine a hole, a hundred feet deep and full of water.
    Imagine the darkness. Imagine, at the bottom of the hole, a figure roughly of human shape, turning in that swirling darkness a massive handle once every eight seconds.
    Pump…Pump…Pump…
    For two hundred and forty years .
    “You didn’t mind?” Moist had asked .
    “ You Mean Did I Harbor Resentment, Mr. Lipvig? But I Was Doing Useful And Necessary Work! Besides, There Was Much For Me To Think About .”
    “ At the bottom of a hundred feet of dirty water? What the hell did you find to think about? ”
    “ Pumping, Mr. Lipvig .”
    And then, the golem said, had come cessation, and dim light, a lowering of levels, a locking of chains, movement upwards, emergence into a world of light and color…and other golems.
    Moist knew something about golems. They used to be baked out of clay, thousands of years ago, and brought to life by some kind of scroll put inside their heads, and they never wore out and they worked, all the time. You saw them pushing brooms, or doing heavy work in timber yards and foundries. Most of them you never saw at all. They made the hidden wheels go round, down in the dark. And that was more or less the limit of his interest in them. They were, almost by definition, honest.
    But now the golems were freeing themselves. It was the quietest, most socially responsible revolution in history. They were property, and so they saved up and bought themselves.
    Mr. Pump was buying his freedom by seriously limiting the freedom of Moist. A man could get quite upset about that. Surely that wasn’t how freedom was supposed to work?
    Ye gods , thought Moist, back in the here-and-now, no wonder Groat sucked cough sweets all the time, the dust in this place could choke you!
    He rummaged in his pocket and pulled out the diamond-shaped cough lozenge the old man had given him. It looked harmless enough.
    One minute later, after Mr. Pump had lurched into the room and slapped him heavily on the back, the steaming lozenge was stuck to the wall on the far side of the room, where, by morning, it had dissolved quite a lot of the plaster.

    M R. G ROAT took a measured spoonful of tincture of rhubarb and cayenne pepper, to keep the tubes open, and checked that he still had the dead mole around his neck, to ward off any sudden attack of doctors. Everyone knew doctors made you ill, it stood to reason. Nature’s remedies were the trick every time, not some hellish potion made of gods knew what.
    He smacked his lips appreciatively. He’d put fresh sulfur in his socks tonight, too, and he could feel it doing him good.
    Two candle lanterns glowed in the velvet, papery darkness of the main sorting office. The light was shining through the outer glass, filled with water so that the candle