Going Postal - Terry Pratchett [57]
There was a moment of silence and then Moist said, in a faraway voice: “So…definitely not imported purebreds, you think?”
“Bet your life on it, sir,” said Groat cheerfully. “Is there a problem, sir?”
“What? Um…no. Not at all.”
“You sounded a bit disappointed, sir. Or something.”
“No. I’m fine. No problem.” Moist added thoughtfully: “You know, I really have got to get some laundry done. And perhaps some new shoes…”
The doors swung open to reveal not the return of the dogs but Mr. Pump again. He picked up the box he’d left and headed on toward Moist.
“Well, we’ll be off,” said the Worshipful Master. “Nice to have met you, Mr. Moist.”
“That’s it?” said Moist. “Isn’t there a ceremony or something?”
“Oh, that’s Tolliver, that is,” said the Worshipful Master. “I like to see the old place still standing, really I do, but it’s all about the clacks these days, isn’t it? Young Tolliver thinks it can all be got going again, but he was just a lad when it all broke down. You can’t fix some things, Mr. Moist. Oh, you can call yourself postmaster, but where’d you start to get this lot back working? It’s an old fossil, sir, just like us.”
“Your hat, sir,” said Pump. They turned.
“What?” said Moist, and turned to where the golem was standing by the dais, patiently, with a hat in his hands.
It was a postman’s peaked hat, in gold, with golden wings. Moist took it, and saw how the gold was just paint, cracked and peeling, and the wings were real dried pigeon wings and almost crumbled to the touch. As the golem had held it up in the light, it had gleamed like something from some ancient tomb. In Moist’s hands, it crackled and smelled of attics and shed golden flakes. Inside the brim, on a stained label, were the words BOULT & LOCKE, MILITARY AND CEREMONIAL OUTFITTERS, PEACH PIE STREET, A-M. SIZE: 7¼.
“There is a pair of boots with wings, too,” said Mr. Pump, “and some sort of elasticated—”
“Don’t bother about that bit!” said Groat excitedly. “Where did you find that stuff? We’ve been looking everywhere! For years!”
“It Was Under The Mail In The Postmaster’s Office, Mr. Groat.”
“Couldn’t have been, couldn’t have been!” Groat protested. “We’ve sifted through there dozens of times! I seen every inch o’ carpet in there!”
“A lot of mail, er, moved about today,” said Moist.
“That Is Correct,” said the golem. “Mr. Lipvig Came Through The Ceiling.”
“Ah, so he found it, eh?” said Groat triumphantly. “See? It’s all coming true! The prophecy!”
“There is no prophecy, Tolliver,” said the Worshipful Master, shaking his head sadly. “I know you think there is, but wishing that someone will come along and sort this mess out one day is not the same as a prophecy. Not really.”
“We’ve been hearing the letters talking again!” said Groat. “They whisper in the night. We have to read them the Regulations to keep ’em quiet. Just like the wizard said!”
“Yes, well, you know what we used to say: you do have to be mad to work here!” said the Worshipful Master. “It’s all over, Tolliver. It really is. The city doesn’t even need us anymore.”
“You put that hat on, Mr. Lipwig!” said Groat. “It’s fate, that turning up like this. You just put it on and see what happens!”
“Well, if everyone’s happy about it…” Moist mumbled. He held the hat above his head, but hesitated.
“Nothing is going to happen, is it?” he said. “Only I’ve had a very strange day—”
“No, nothing’s going to happen,” said the Worshipful Master. “It never does. Oh, we all thought it would, once. Every time someone said they’d put the chandeliers back or deliver the mail, we thought, maybe it’s ended, maybe it really is going to work this time. And young Tolliver there, you made him happy when you put the sign back. Got him excited. Made him think it’d work this time. It never