Going Postal - Terry Pratchett [118]
“Good heavens, I’m sure it does. Does he smoke at all?”
Moist considered this. “No-o. It looks more like steam,” he said.
“And his background in basic alchemy is…?”
“Nonexistent, as far as I know,” said Moist. “He makes some interesting cough sweets, though. After you’ve sucked them for two minutes you can feel the wax running out of your ears. He paints his knees with some sort of compound of iodine and—”
“Enough!” said the doctor. “Mr. Lipwig, there are times when we humble practitioners of the craft of medicine have to stand aside in astonishment. Quite a long way aside, in the case of Mr. Groat, and preferably behind a tree. Take him away, please. I have to say that, against all the odds, I found him amazingly healthy. I can quite see why an attack by a banshee would be so easily shrugged off. In fact, Mr. Groat is probably unkillable by any normal means, although I advise you not to let him take up tap dancing. Oh, and do take his wig, will you? We tried putting it in a cupboard, but it got out. We’ll send the bill to the Post Office, shall we?”
“I thought this said ‘free hospital’ on the sign,” said Moist.
“Broadly, yes, broadly,” said Dr. Lawn. “But those on whom the gods have bestowed so many favors—one hundred and fifty thousand of them, I heard—probably have had all the charity they require, hmm?”
And it’s all sitting in the Watch’s cells, thought Moist. He reached into his jacket and produced a crumpled wad of green Ankh-Morpork one-dollar stamps.
“Will you take these?” he said.
THE PICTURE of Tiddles being carried out of the Post Office by Moist von Lipwig was, since it concerned an animal, considered to be full of human interest by the Times and was thus displayed prominently on the front page.
Reacher Gilt looked at it without displaying so much as a flicker of emotion. Then he reread the story next to it, under the headlines:
MAN SAVES CAT
“We’ll Rebuild Bigger!” Vows
as Post Office Blazes
$150,000 Gift From Gods
Wave of Stuck Drawers Hits City
“It occurs to me that the editor of the Times must sometimes regret that he has only one front page,” he observed dryly.
There was a sound from the men sitting around the big table in Gilt’s office. It was the kind of sound you get when people are not really laughing.
“Do you think he has got gods on his side?” said Greenyham.
“I hardly imagine so,” said Gilt. “He must have known where the money was.”
“You think so? If I knew where that much money was, I wouldn’t leave it in the ground.”
“No, you wouldn’t,” said Gilt quietly, in such a way that Greenyham felt slightly uneasy.
“Twelve and a half percent! Twelve and a half percent!” screamed Alphonse, bouncing up and down on his perch.
“We’re made to look fools, Reacher!” said Stowley. “He knew the line would go down yesterday! He might as well have divine guidance! We’re losing the local traffic already. Every time we have a shutdown you can bet he’ll run a coach out of sheer devilment. There’s nothing that damn man won’t stoop to. He’s turned the Post Office into a…a show!”
“Sooner or later all circuses leave town,” said Gilt.
“But he’s laughing at us!” Stowley persisted. “If the Trunk breaks down again, I wouldn’t put it past him to run a coach to Genua!”
“That would take weeks,” said Gilt.
“Yes, but it’s cheaper and it gets there. That’s what he’ll say. And he’ll say it loudly, too. We’ve got to do something, Reacher.”
“And what do you suggest?”
“Why don’t we just spend some money and get some proper maintenance done?”
“You can’t,” said a new voice. “You don’t have the men.”
All heads turned to the man at the far end of the table. He had a jacket on over his overalls and a very battered top hat on the table beside him. His name was Mr. Pony, and he was the Trunk’s chief engineer. He’d come with the company, and had hung on because at the age of fifty-eight, with twinges in your knuckles, a sick wife, and a bad back, you think twice about grand gestures such as storming out. He hadn’t seen