Lucifer's Hammer - Larry Niven [33]
At the next gate George Christopher was doing something incomprehensible in the orange groves. Probably setting up to smudge, Harry decided. Christopher came plodding up as Harry opened the gate. He was a bull of a man, Harry's height and two or three times Harry's width, with a thick neck. His head was bald and tanned, but Christopher couldn't be a lot over thirty. He wore a checkered flannel shirt and dark trousers, muddy boots.
Harry set the bag down and got out beside it. Christopher frowned. "Trash Day again, Harry?" He studied the long hair and extravagantly trimmed beard and the frown deepened.
Harry grinned in return. "Yup, Happy Trash Day, every two weeks, like clockwork. I'll take it up to the house for you."
"You don't have to."
"I like to." There wasn't a Mrs. Christopher, but George had a sister about Alice Cox's age, and she liked to talk to Harry. A very bright little girl, pleasant to talk to and full of news about Harry's valley.
"All right. Mind the dog."
"Sure will." Harry never worried about dogs.
"Ever wonder what the advertising industry would give for your head?" Christopher asked.
"I'll trade 'em question for question," Harry said. "Why does the government give them a lower rate so they can waste more of our time? And your taxes?"
Christopher's frown faded and he almost smiled. "Have at 'em, Harry. Lost causes are the only ones worth fighting for. And the taxpayer's cause is about as lost as they come. I'll close the gate behind you."
Day's end. Clockout time. Harry went into the sorting rooms behind the Post Office. There was a note pinned to his station.
"Hairy, the Wolf wants to see you. Gina XXX"
Gina—tall, black, erect of posture and large of bone, the only black in the valley as far as Harry knew—was at the counter. Harry winked at her, then knocked at the supervisor's door.
When he entered, Mr. Wolfe regarded him coldly. "Harry. Happy Trash Day," Wolfe said.
Oops! But Harry smiled. "Thank you, and a Happy Trash Day to you, sir."
"Not funny, Harry. Why do you do it? Why do you separate out the commercial mail and reserve it for one day every two weeks?"
Harry shrugged. He could have explained: Sorting junk mail took so much of his time that he didn't have a chance to chat with his customers, so he'd started letting it pile up. It had begun that way, but it had become popular with his people. "Everybody's happy with it," Harry said defensively. "People can go through the stuff or just drop it in the fireplace."
"It is illegal to withhold a citizen's mail," Wolfe said.
"If someone has complained, I'll take him off the list," Harry said. "I like to keep my customers happy."
"Mrs. Adams," Wolfe said.
"Oh." Too bad. Without Trash Day he wouldn't have an excuse to go up to the Adams house and talk to Donna.
"You will deliver the commercial mail according to regulations," Wolfe was saying. "As it comes in. Not in batches. Trash Day will cease."
"Yes, sir. Any other way I can be obliging?"
"Shave your beard. Cut your hair."
Harry shook his head. That part of the regulations he knew.
Wolfe sighed. "Harry, you just don't have the right attitude to be a mailman."
Eileen Susan Hancock's office was small and cramped, but it was an office; she had worked for years to get an office of her own, away from the area behind the counter. It proved that she was more than a secretary.
She was poking at the buttons on her calculator, frowning, when a sudden thought made her burst into rippling laughter. A moment later she realized that Joe Corrigan was standing in her doorway.
Corrigan came into the office. He had unbuttoned the top button of his trousers again, and it showed. His wife wouldn't let him buy larger sizes. She hadn't given up hope that he would reduce. He put his thumbs into the waistband and regarded her quizzically.
Eileen's laughter cut off. She went back to the calculator, and now she wasn't even smiling.
"Okay," Corrigan said. "What's the punch line?"
Eileen looked up with wide eyes. "What? Oh, no. I couldn't possibly tell you."
"If you drive me nuts, you think