Going Postal by Terry Pratchett Page B

the receiving houses in town for each delivery within the city walls of Ankh-Morpork are as the following: Overnight by eight o’clock in the evening, for the first delivery. Morning by eight o’clock, for the second delivery. Morning by ten o’clock, for the third delivery. Morning by twelve o’clock, for the fourth delivery. Afternoon by two o’clock, for the fifth delivery. Afternoon by four o’clock, for the sixth delivery. Afternoon by six o’clock, for the seventh delivery.’ These are the hours, and I have read them.”
    Groat hung his head for a moment, and then closed the book with a snap .
    “Why are we doing this, Mr. Groat?” said Stanley meekly.
    “’Cos of hub-riss,” said Mr. Groat. “That’s what it was. Hub-riss killed the Post Office. Hub-riss and greed and Bloody Stupid Johnson and the New Pie.”
    “A pie, Mr. Groat? How could a pie—”
    “Don’t ask, Stanley. It gets complicated and there’s nothing in it about pins.”
    They put out the candles and left.
    When they were gone, a faint whispering started.

CHAPTER 3
    Our Own Hand, Or None
In which our hero discovers the world of pins
• The greengrocer’s apos’trophe • S.W.A.L.K.
• The path of fate • The golem lady • The business
of business and the nature of freedom once again discussed
• Clerk Brian shows enthusiasm
    “R ISE A ND S HINE , Mr. Lipvig. Your Second Day As Postmaster!”
    Moist opened one crusted eye and glared at the golem.
    “Oh, so you’re an alarm clock, too?” he said. “Aargh, my tongue. It feels like it was caught in a mousetrap.”
    He half crawled, half rolled across the bed of letters and managed to stand up just outside the door.
    “I need new clothes,” he said. “And food. And a toothbrush. I’m going out, Mr. Pump. You are to stay here. Do something. Tidy the place up. Get rid of the graffiti on the walls, will you? At least we can make the place look clean!”
    “Anything You Say, Mr. Lipvig.”
    “Right!” said Moist, and strode off, at least for one stride, and then yelped.
    “Be Careful Of Your Ankle, Mr. Lipwig,” said Mr. Pump.
    “And another thing!” said Moist, hopping on one leg. “ How can you follow me? How can you possibly know where I am?”
    “Karmic Signature, Mr. Lipvig,” said the golem.
    “And that means what, exactly?” Moist demanded.
    “It Means I Know Exactly Where You Are, Mr. Lipvig.”
    The pottery face was impassive. Moist gave up.
    He limped out into what, for this city, was a fresh new morning. There had been a touch of frost overnight, just enough to put some zest into the air and give him an appetite. The leg still hurt, but at least he didn’t need the crutch today.
    Here was Moist von Lipwig walking through the city. He’d never done that before. The late Alfred Spangler had, and so had Mundo Smith and Edwin Streep and half a dozen other personas that he’d donned and discarded. Oh, he’d been Moist inside (what a name, yes, he’d heard every possible joke…) but they had been on the outside, between him and the world.
    Edwin Streep had been a work of art. He’d been a lack-of-confidence trickster, and needed to be noticed. He was so patently, obviously bad at running a bent Find the Lady game and other street scams that people positively queued up to trick the dumb trickster and walked away grinning…right up to the moment when they tried to spend the coins they’d scooped up so quickly.
    There’s a secret art to forgery, and Moist had discovered it: in a hurry, or when excited, people will complete the forgery by their own cupidity. They’ll be so keen to snatch the money from the obvious idiot that their own eyes filled in all the little details that weren’t quite there on the coins they so quickly pocketed. All you needed to do was hint at them.
    But that was just for starters. Some customers never even discovered that they’d put fake coins in their purse, thus revealing to the incompetent Streep in which pocket they