Going Postal by Terry Pratchett Page A

would go out if it was dropped; it made the lanterns look like the lights of some abyssal fish from the squidy, iron-hard depths.
    There was a little glugging noise in the dark. Groat corked his bottle of elixir and got on with business.
    “Be the inkwells filled, Apprentice Postman Stanley?” Groat intoned.
    “Aye, Junior Postman Groat, full to a depth of one-third of one inch from the top as per Post Office Counter Regulations, Daily Observances, Rule C18,” said Stanley.
    There was a rustle as Groat turned the pages of a huge book on the lectern in front of him.
    “Can I see the picture, Mr. Groat?” said Stanley eagerly.
    Groat smiled. It had become part of the ceremony, and he gave the reply he gave every time.
    “Very well, but this is the last time. It’s not good to look too often on the face of a god,” he said. “Or any other part.”
    “But you said there used to be a gold statue of him in the big hall, Mr. Groat. People must’ve looked on it all the time.”
    Groat hesitated. But Stanley was a growing lad. He’d have to know sooner or later.
    “Mind you, I don’t reckon people used to look at the face much,” he said. “They looked more at the…wings.”
    “On his hat and his ankles,” said Stanley. “So he could fly the messages at the speed of…messages.”
    A little bead of sweat dripped off Groat’s forehead.
    “Mostly on his hat and ankles, yes,” he said. “Er…but not only there.”
    Stanley peered at the picture.
    “Oh yes, I never noticed them before. He’s got wings on—”
    “The fig leaf,” said Groat quickly. “That’s what we call it.”
    “Why’s he got a leaf there?” said Stanley.
    “Oh, they all had ’em in the olden days, ’cos of being Classical,” said Groat, relieved to be shifting away from the heart of the matter. “It’s a fig leaf. Off a fig tree.”
    “Har har, the joke’s on them, there’s no fig trees round here!” said Stanley in the manner of one exposing the flaw in a long-held dogma.
    “Yes, lad, very good, but it was a tin one anyway,” said Groat with patience.
    “And the wings?” said the boy.
    “We-ell, I ’spose they thought that the more wings the better,” said Groat.
    “Yes, but ’sposing his hat wings and his ankle wings stopped working, he’d be held up by—”
    “Stanley! It’s just a statue! Don’t get excited! Calm down! You don’t want to upset… them .”
    Stanley hung his head.
    “They’ve been…whispering to me again, Mr. Groat,” he confided in a low voice.
    “Yes, Stanley. They whisper to me, too.”
    “I remember ’em last time, talking in the night, Mr. Groat,” said Stanley, his voice trembling. “I shut my eyes and I kept seeing the writin’…”
    “Yes, Stanley. Don’t worry about it. Try not to think about it. It’s Mr. Lipstick’s fault, stirring them up. Leave well alone, I say. They never listen, and then what happens? They find out the hard way.”
    “It seems like only yesterday, those watchmen drawing that chalk outline round Mr. Mutable,” said Stanley, beginning to tremble. “ He found out the hard way!”
    “Calm down now, calm down,” said Groat, patting him gently on the shoulder. “You’ll set ’em off. Think about pins.”
    “But it’s a cruel shame, Mr. Groat, them never being alive long enough to make you senior postman!”
    Groat sniffed. “Oh, that’s enough of that. That’s not important, Stanley,” he said, his face like thunder.
    “Yes, Mr. Groat, but you’re an old, old man and you’re still only a junior postman—” Stanley persisted.
    “I said that’s enough , Stanley! Now, just raise that lamp again, will you? Good. That’s better. I’ll read a page of the Regulations, that always quietens them down.” Groat cleared his throat. “I shall now read from the Book of Regulations, Delivery Times (Metropolitan) (Sundays and Octadays excepted),” he announced to the air. “As follows:
    “‘The hours by which letters should be put into