Going Postal by Terry Pratchett Read Free Book Online Page B

looked him squarely in the eye.
    “Much better than a death, sir,” he said.

    M R. P UMP followed Moist across the main hall and out of the main doors, at which point Moist turned on him.
    “All right, what are the rules here?” he demanded. “Are you going to follow me everywhere ? You know I can’t run!”
    “You Are Allowed Autonomous Movement Within The City And Environs,” the golem rumbled. “But Until You Are Settled In, I Am Also Instructed To Accompany You For Your Own Protection.”
    “Against who? Someone annoyed that their great-grandaddy’s mail didn’t turn up?”
    “I Couldn’t Say, Sir.”
    “I need some fresh air. What happened in there? Why is it so…creepy? What happened to the Post Office?”
    “I Couldn’t Say, Sir,” said Mr. Pump placidly.
    “You don’t know? But it’s your city,” said Moist sarcastically. “Have you been stuck at the bottom of a hole in the ground for the last hundred years?”
    “No, Mr. Lipvig,” said the golem.
    “Well, why can’t—” Moist began.
    “It Was Two Hundred And Forty Years, Mr. Lipvig,” said the golem.
    “What was?”
    “The Time I Spent At The Bottom Of The Hole In The Ground, Mr. Lipvig.”
    “What are you talking about?” said Moist.
    “Why, The Time I Spent At The Bottom Of The Hole In The Ground, Mr. Lipvig. Pump Is Not My Name, Mr. Lipvig. It Is My Description. Pump. Pump 19, To Be Precise. I Stood In The Bottom Of A Hole A Hundred Feet Deep And Pumped Water. For Two Hundred And Forty Years, Mr. Lipvig. But Now I Am Ambulating In The Sunlight. This Is Better, Mr. Lipvig. This Is Better!”

    T HAT NIGHT , Moist lay staring at the ceiling. It was three feet from him. Hanging from it, a little distance away, was a candle in a safety lantern. Stanley had been insistent about that, and no wonder. This place would go up like a bomb. It was the boy who’d showed him up here; Groat was sulking somewhere. He’d been right, damn him. He needed Groat. Groat practically was the Post Office.
    It had been a long day, and Moist hadn’t slept well last night, what with being upside down over Mr. Pump’s shoulder and occasionally kicked by the frantic horse.
    He didn’t want to sleep here, either, heavens knew, but he didn’t have lodgings he could use anymore, and they were at a premium in this hive of a city in any case. The locker room did not appeal, no, not at all. So he’d simply scrambled onto the pile of dead letters in what was, in theory, his office. It was no great hardship. A man of affairs such as he had to learn to sleep in all kinds of situations, often while mobs were looking for him a wall’s thickness away. At least the heaps of letters were dry and warm and weren’t carrying edged weapons.
    Paper crackled underneath him as he tried to get comfortable. Idly, he picked up a letter at random; it was addressed to someone called Antimony Parker at 1 Lobbin Clout, and on the back, in capitals, it said S.W.A.L.K. He eased it open with a fingernail; the paper inside all but crumbled at his touch.
My Very Dearest Timony ,
Yes! Why should a Woman, Sensible to the Great Honour that a Man is Doing her, play the Coy Minx at such a time!! I know you have spoken to Papa, and of course I consent to becoming the Wife of the Kindest, Most Wonderful—
    Moist glanced at the date on the letter. It had been written forty-one years ago.
    He was not, as a rule, given to introspection, it being a major drawback in his line of work, but he couldn’t help wondering if—he glanced back at the letter—“Your loving Agnathea” had ever married Antimony, or whether the romance had died right here, in this graveyard of paper.
    He shivered and tucked the envelope into his jacket. He’d have to ask Groat what S.W.A.L.K. meant.
    “Mr. Pump!” he shouted.
    There was a faint rumble from the corner of the room where the golem stood, waist-deep in mail.
    “Yes, Mr. Lipvig?”
    “Is there no way you can shut your eyes? I can’t sleep with two