Going Postal - Terry Pratchett [41]
“I Have Perfect Recall Of Legal Verbal Instructions,” said the golem in his normal rumbling tone. “I Surmise That Lord Vetinari, Mindful Of Your Way Of Thinking, Left That Message Because—”
“I meant the voice!”
“Perfect Recall, Mr. Lipvig,” Pump replied. “I Can Speak With All The Voices Of Men.”
“Really? How nice for you.” Moist stared up at Mr. Pump. There was never any animation in that face. There was a nose, of sorts, but it was just a lump in the clay. The mouth moved when he spoke, and the gods knew how baked clay could move like that—indeed, they probably did know. The eyes never closed, they merely dimmed.
“Can you really read my thoughts?” he said.
“No, I Merely Extrapolate From Past Behavior.”
“Well—” Moist said, once again stuck for words. He glared up at the expressionless face that nevertheless contrived to be disapproving. He was used to looks of anger, indignation, and hatred. They were part of the job. But what was a golem? Just…dirt. Fired earth. People looking at you as though you were less than the dust beneath their feet was one thing, but it was strangely unpleasant when even the dust did that, too.
“—don’t,” he finished lamely. “Go and…work. Yes! Go on! That’s what you do! That’s what you’re for!”
IT WAS CALLED the lucky clacks tower, Tower 181. It was close enough to the town of Bonk for a man to be able to go and get a hot bath and a good bed on his days off, but since this was Uberwald there wasn’t too much local traffic and—this was important—it was way, way up in the mountains and management didn’t like to go that far. In the good old days of last year, when the Hour of the Dead took place every night, it was a happy tower, because both the up-line and the down-line got the Hour at the same time, so there was an extra pair of hands for maintenance. Now Tower 181 did maintenance on the fly or not at all, just like all the others, but it was still, proverbially, a good tower to man.
Mostly man, anyway. Back down on the plains it was a standing joke that 181 was staffed by vampires and werewolves. In fact, like a lot of towers, it was often manned by kids.
Everyone knew it happened. Actually, the new management probably didn’t, but wouldn’t have done anything about it if they found out, apart from carefully forgetting that they’d known. Kids didn’t need to be paid.
The—mostly—young men on the towers worked hard in all weather for just enough money. They were loners, hard dreamers, fugitives from the law that the law had forgotten, or just from everybody else. They had a special kind of directed madness; they said the rattle of the clacks got into your head and your thoughts beat time with it, so sooner or later you could tell what messages were going through by listening to the rattle of the shutters. In their towers, they drank hot tea out of strange tin mugs, much wider at the bottom, so that they didn’t fall over when gales banged into the tower. On leave, they drank alcohol out of anything. And they talked a gibberish of their own, of donkey and nondonkey, system overhead and packet space, of drumming it and hotfooting, of a 181 (which was good) or flock (which was bad) or totally flocked (really not good at all) and plug-code and hog-code and jacquard…
And they liked kids, who reminded them of the ones they left behind or would never have, and kids loved the towers. They’d come and hang around and do odd jobs and maybe pick up the craft of semaphore just by watching.
They tended to be bright, they mastered the keyboard and levers as if by magic, they usually had good eyesight, and what they were doing, most of them, was running away from home without actually leaving.
Because, up on the towers, you might believe you could see to the rim of the world. You could certainly see several other towers, on a good, clear day. You pretended that you, too, could read messages by listening to the rattle of the shutters, while under your fingers flowed the names of faraway places you’d never see but, on the tower, were somehow connected to…
She was known as Princess to the men on