Going Postal - Terry Pratchett [64]
The tears coursed down Groat’s cheeks. It’s madness, of course, thought Moist. But now I’ve got it, too.
“Ah, I can see it in your eyes, sir, yes I can!” said Groat, grinning wetly. “The Post Office has found you! It’s enfolded you, sir, yes it has. You’ll never leave it, sir. There’s families that’ve worked here for hundreds and hundreds of years, sir. Once the postal service puts its stamp on you, sir, there’s no turning back…”
Moist disentangled his hand as tactfully as he could.
“Yes,” he said. “Do tell me about stamps.”
THUMP.
Moist looked down at the piece of paper. Smudgy red letters, chipped and worn, spelled out ANKH-MORPORK POST OFFICE.
“That’s right, sir,” said Groat, waving the heavy metal-and-wood stamper in the air. “I bang the stamp on the ink pad here, then bang it, sir, bang it on the letter. There! See? Done it again. Same every time. Stamped.”
“And this is worth a penny?” said Moist. “Good grief, man, a kid could forge this with half a potato!”
“That was always a bit of a problem, sir, yes,” said Groat.
“Why does a postman have to stamp the letters, anyway?” said Moist. “Why don’t we just sell people a stamp?”
“But they’d pay a penny and then go on stamping forever, sir,” said Groat reasonably.
In the machinery of the universe, the wheels of inevitability clicked into position…
“Well, then,” said Moist, staring thoughtfully at the paper, “how about…how about a stamp you can use only…once?”
“You mean, like, not much ink?” said Groat. His brow wrinkled, causing his toupee to slip sideways.
“I mean…if you stamped the stamper lots of times on paper, then cut out all the stampings…” Moist stared at an inner vision, if only to avoid the sight of the toupee slowly crawling back. “The rate for delivery anywhere in the city is a penny, isn’t it?”
“Except for the Shades, sir, that’s five pence ’cos of the armed guard,” said Groat.
“Right. O-kay. I think I might have something here…” Moist looked up at Mr. Pump, who was smoldering in the corner of the office. “Mr. Pump, would you be so good as to go along to The Goat and Spirit Level over at Hen and Chickens and ask the publican for ‘Mr. Robinson’s box,’ please? He may want a dollar. And while you’re over there, there’s a printing shop over that way, Teemer and Spools. Leave a message to say that the postmaster general wishes to discuss a very large order.”
“Teemer and Spools? They’re very expensive, sir,” said Groat. “They do all the posh printing for the banks.”
“They’re the very devil to forge, I know that,” said Moist. “Or so I’ve been told,” he added quickly. “Watermarks, special weaves in the paper, all kinds of tricks. Ahem. So…a penny stamping, and a five-penny stamping…what about post to the other cities?”
“Five pence to Sto Lat,” said Groat. “Ten or fifteen to the others. Hah, three dollars for all the way to Genua. We used to have to write those out.”
“We’ll need a one-dollar stamp, then.” Moist started to scribble on the scrap of paper.
“A dollar stamp! Who’d buy one of those?” said Groat.
“Anyone who wants to send a letter to Genua,” said Moist. “They’ll buy three, eventually. But for now I’m dropping the price to one dollar.”
“One dollar! That’s thousands of miles, sir!” Groat protested.
“Yep. Sounds like a bargain, right?”
Groat looked torn between exultation and despair. “But we’ve only got a bunch of old men, sir! They’re pretty spry, I’ll grant you, but…well, you’ve got to learn to walk before you try to run, sir!”
“No!” Moist’s fist thumped the table. “Never say that, Tolliver! Never! Run before you walk! Fly before you crawl! Keep moving forward! You think we should try to get a decent mail service in the city. I think we should try to send letters anywhere in the world! Because if we fail, I’d rather fail really hugely. All or nothing, Mr. Groat!”
“Wow, sir!” said Groat.
Moist grinned his bright, sunny smile. It very nearly reflected