Going Postal - Terry Pratchett [63]
Words spilled out of Mr. Groat like stashed mail from a crack in the wall. Sometimes the machine had produced a thousand copies of the same letter, or filled the room with letters from next Tuesday, next month, next year. Sometimes they were letters that hadn’t been written, or might have been written, or were meant to have been written, or letters that people had once sworn that they had written and hadn’t really, but which nevertheless had a shadowy existence in some strange, invisible letter world and were made real by the machine.
If, somewhere, any possible world can exist, then somewhere there is any letter that could possibly be written. Somewhere, all those checks really were in the mail.
They poured out—letters from the present day, which turned out not to be from this present day, but ones that might have happened if only some small detail had been changed. It didn’t matter that the machine had been switched off, the wizards said. It existed in plenty of other presents, and so worked here owing to…a lengthy sentence, which the postmen didn’t understand but which had the words like “portal,” “multidimensional,” and “quantum” in it, “quantum” being in it twice. They didn’t understand, but they had to do something. No one could deliver all that mail. And so the rooms began to fill up…
The wizards from Unseen University had been jolly interested in the problem, like doctors being really fascinated by some new, virulent disease; the patient appreciates all the interest but would very much prefer it if they either came up with a cure or stopped prodding.
The machine couldn’t be stopped and certainly shouldn’t be destroyed, the wizard said. Destroying the machine might well cause this universe to stop existing, instantly.
On the other hand, the Post Office was filling up, so one day Chief Postal Inspector Rumbelow had gone into the room with a crowbar, had ordered all the wizards out, and belted the machine until things stopped whirring.
The letters ceased, at least. This came as a huge relief, but nevertheless, the Post Office had its Regulations, and so the chief postal inspector was brought before Postmaster Cowerby and asked why he had decided to risk destroying the whole universe in one go.
According to Post Office legend, Mr. Rumbelow had replied: “Firstly, sir, I reasoned that if I destroyed the universe all in one go, no one would know; secondly, when I walloped the thing the first time, the wizards ran away, so I surmised that unless they has another universe to run to they weren’t really certain; and lastly, sir, the bloody thing was getting on my nerves. Never could stand machinery, sir.”
“And that was the end of it, sir,” said Mr. Groat as they left the room. “Actually, I heard where the wizards were saying that the universe was destroyed all in one go but instantly came back in one go. They said they could tell by lookin’, sir. So that was okay and it let old Rumbelow off’ve the hook, on account it’s hard to discipline a man under Post Office Regulations for destroying the universe all in one go. Mind you, hah, there’ve been postmasters that would have given it a try. But it knocked the stuffing out of us, sir. It was all downhill after that. The men had lost heart. It broke us, to tell you the truth.”
“Look,” said Moist, “the letters we’ve just given the lads, they’re not from some other dimension or—”
“Don’t worry, I checked ’em last night,” said Groat. “They’re just old. Mostly you can tell by the stamp. I’m good at telling which ones are propl’y ours, sir. Had years to learn. It’s a skill, sir.”
“Could you teach other people?”
“I daresay, yes,” said Groat.
“Mr. Groat, the letters have spoken to me,” Moist burst out.
To his surprise, the old man grabbed his hand and shook it. “Well done, sir!” he said, tears rising in his eyes. “I said it’s a skill, didn’t I? Listen to the whispers, that’s half the trick! They’re alive, sir, alive. Not like people, but like…ships