Going Postal, Page 42

Page 42

 

  Yes, sir. A big bet, said Stanley happily. About you racing the clacks to Genua. People think thats funny. A lot of the bookmakers are offering odds, sir, so Mr Groat is organizing it, sir! He said the odds arent good, though.

  I shouldnt think they are, said Moist weakly. No one in their right mind would—

  He said wed only win one dollar for every eight we bet, sir, but we reckoned— Moist shot upright. Eight to one odds on? he shouted. The bookies think Im going to win? How much are you all betting?

  Er . . . about one thousand two hundred dollars at the last count, sir. Is that— Pigeons rose from the roof at the sound of Moist von Lipwigs scream. Fetch Mr Groat right now! It was a terrible thing to see guile on the face of Mr Groat. The old man tapped the side of his nose. Youre the man that got money out o a bunch of gods, sir! he said, grinning happily. Yes, said Moist desperately. But supposing I - I just did that with a trick . . .

  Damn good trick, sir, the old man cackled. Damn good. A man who could trick money out of the godsd be capable of anything, I should think!

  Mr Groat, there is no way a coach can get to Genua faster than a clacks message. Its two thousand miles!

  Yes, I realize youve got to say that, sir. Walls have ears, sir. Mums the word. But we all had a talk, and we reckoned youve been very good to us, sir, you really believe in the Post Office, sir, so we thought: its time to put our money in our mouth, sir! said Groat, and now there was a touch of defiance. Moist gaped once or twice. You mean “where your mouth is”?

  Youre the man who knows a trick or three, sir! The way you just went into the newspaper office and said, well race you! Reacher Gilt walked right into your trap, sir! Glass into diamond, thought Moist. He sighed. All right, Mr Groat. Thank you. Eight to one on, eh?

  We were lucky to get it, sir. They went up to ten to one on, then they closed the books. All theyre accepting now is bets on how youll win, sir. Moist perked up a little. Any good ideas? he asked. Ive got a one-dollar flutter on “by dropping fire from the sky”, sir. Er . . . you wouldnt like to give me a hint, praps?

  Please go and get on with your work, Mr Groat, said Moist severely. Yessir, of course, sir, sorry I asked, sir, said Groat, and crabbed off.

  Moist put his head in his hands. I wonder if its like this for mountain climbers, he thought. You climb bigger and bigger mountains and you know that one day one of them is going to be just that bit too steep. But you go on doing it, because its so-o good when you breathe the air up there. And you know youll die falling. How could people be so stupid? They seemed to cling to ignorance because it smelled familiar. Reacher Gilt sighed. He had an office in the Tump Tower. He didnt like it much, because the whole place shook to the movement of the semaphore, but it was necessary for the look of the thing. It did have an unrivalled view of the city, though. And the site alone was worth what theyd paid for the Trunk. It takes the best part of two months to get to Genua by coach, he said, staring across the rooftops to the Palace. He might be able to shave something off that, I suppose. The clacks takes a few hours. What is there about this that frightens you?

  So whats his game? said Greenyham. The rest of the board sat around the table, looking worried. I dont know, said Gilt. I dont care.

  But the gods are on his side, Readier, said Nutmeg. Lets talk about that, shall we? said Gilt. Does that claim strike anyone else as odd? The gods are not generally known for no-frills gifts, are they? Especially not ones that you can bite. No, these days they restrict themselves to things like grace, patience, fortitude and inner strength. Things you cant see. Things that have no value. Gods tend to be interested in prophets, not profits, haha. There were some blank looks from his fellow directors. Didnt quite get that one, old chap, said Stowley. Prophets, I said, not profits, said Gilt. He waved a hand. Dont worry yourselves, it will look better written down. In short, Mr Lipwigs gift from above was a big chest of coins, some of them in what look remarkably like bank sacks and all in modern denominations. You dont find this strange?

  Yes, but even the high priests say he—

  Lipwig is a showman, snapped Gilt. Do you think the gods will carry his mail coach for him? Do you? This is a stunt, do you understand? It got him on page one again, thats all. This is not hard to follow. He has no plan, other than to fail heroically. No one expects him actually to win, do they?

  I heard that people are betting heavily on him.

  People enjoy the experience of being fooled, if it promises a certain amount of entertainment, said Gilt. Do you know a good bookmaker? I shall have a little flutter. Five thousand dollars, perhaps? This got some nervous laughter, and he followed it up. Gentlemen, be sensible. No gods will come to the aid of our Postmaster. No wizard, either. Theyre not generous with magic and well soon find out if he uses any. No, hes looking for the publicity, thats all. Which is not to say, he winked, that we shouldnt, how shall I put it, make certainty doubly sure. They perked up still more. This sounded like the kind of thing they wanted to hear. After all, accidents can happen in the mountains, said Greenyham. I believe that is the case, said Gilt. However, I was referring to the Grand Trunk. Therefore I have asked Mr Pony to outline our procedure. Mr Pony? The engineer shifted uneasily. Hed had a bad night. T want it recorded, sir, that I have urged a six-hour shutdown before the event, he said. Indeed, and the minutes will show that I have said that is quite impossible, said Gilt. Firstly because it would be an unpardonable loss of revenue, and secondly because sending no messages

  would send quite the wrong message.

  Well shut down for an hour before the event, then, and clear down, said Mr Pony. Every tower will send a statement of readiness to the Tump and then lock all doors and wait. No one will be allowed in or out. Well configure the towers to run duplex - that is, he translated for management, well turn the down-line into a second up-line, so the message will get to Genua twice as fast. We wont have any other messages on the Trunk while the, er, race is on. No Overhead, nothing. And from now on, sir, from the moment I walk out of this room, we take no more messages from feeder towers. Not even from the one in the Palace, not even from the one in the University. He sniffed, and added with some satisfaction:

  specially not them students. Someones been having a go at us, sir.

  That seems a bit drastic, Mr Pony? said Greenyham. I hope it is, sir. I think someones found a way of sending messages that can damage a tower, sir.

  Thats impossi— Mr Ponys hand slapped the table. How come you know so much, sir? Did you sit up half the night trying to get to the bottom of it? Have you taken a differential drum apart with a tin opener? Did you spot how the swage armature can be made to jump off the elliptical bearing if you hit the letter K and then send it to a tower with an address higher than yours, but only if you hit the letter Q first and the drum spring is fully wound? Did you spot that the key levers wedge together and the spring forces the arm up and youre looking at a gearbox full of teeth? Well, I did!

  Are you talking about sabotage here? said Gilt. Call it what you like, said Pony, drunk with nervousness. I went to the yard this morning and dug out the old drum we took out of Tower 14 last month. Ill swear the same thing happened there. But mostly the breakdowns are in the upper tower, in the shutter boxes. Thats where—

  So our Mr Lipwig has been behind a campaign to sabotage us . . . Gilt mused. I never said that! said Pony. No name need be mentioned, said Gilt smoothly. Its just sloppy design, said Pony. I dare say one of the lads found it by accident and tried it again to see what happened. Theyre like that, the tower boys. Show em a bit of cunning machinery and theyll spend all day trying to make it fail. The whole Trunks a lash-up, it really is.

  Why do we employ people like this? said Stowley, looking bewildered. Because theyre the only people mad enough to spend their life up a tower miles from anywhere pressing keys, said Pony. They like it.

  But somebody in a tower must press the keys that do all these . . . terrible things, said Stowley. Pony sighed. They ne
ver took an interest. It was just money. They didnt know how anything worked. And then suddenly they needed to know, and you had to use baby talk. The lads follow the signal, sir, as they say, he said. They watch the next tower and repeat the message, as fast as they can. Theres no time to think about it. Anything for their tower comes out on the differential drum. They just pound keys and kick pedals and pull levers, as fast as they can. They take pride in it. They even do all kinds of tricks to speed things up. I dont want any talk about sabotage, not right now. Lets just get the message sent, as fast as possible. The lads will enjoy that.

  The image is attractive, said Gilt. The dark of night, the waiting towers, and then, one by one, they come alive as a serpent of light speeds across the world, softly and silently carrying its . . . whatever. We must get some poet to write about it. He nodded at Mr Pony. Were in your hands, Mr Pony. Youre the man with the plan.

  I dont have one, said Moist.

  No plan? said Miss Dearheart. Are you telling me you—

  Keep it down, keep it down! Moist hissed. I dont want everyone to know! They were in the little cafe near the Pin Exchange which, Moist had noticed, didnt seem to be doing much business today. Hed had to get out of the Post Office, in case his head exploded. You challenged the Grand Trunk! You mean you just talked big and hoped something would turn up? said Miss Dearheart. Its always worked before! Wheres the sense in promising to achieve the achievable? What kind of success would that be? said Moist. Havent you ever heard of learning to walk before you run?

  Its a theory, yes.

  I just want to be absolutely clear, said Miss Dearheart. Tomorrow night - thats the day after today - you are going to send a coach -thats a thing on wheels, pulled by horses, which might reach fourteen miles an hour on a good road - to race against the Grand Trunk -thats all those semaphore towers, which can send messages at hundreds of miles an hour - all the way to Genua - thats the town which is a very long way away indeed?

  Yes.

  And you have no wonderful plan?

  No.

  And why are you telling me?

  Because, in this city, right now, you are the only person who would possibly believe I dont have a plan! said Moist. I told Mr Groat and he just tapped the side of his nose, which is something you wouldnt want to watch, by the way, and said, “Of course you havent, sir. Not you! Hohoho!”

  And you just hoped something would turn up? What made you think it would?

  It always has. The only way to get something to turn up when you need it is to need it to turn up.

  And Im supposed to help you how?

  Your father built the Trunk!

  Yes, but I didnt, said the woman. Ive never been up in the towers. I dont know any big secrets, except that its always on the point of breaking down. And everyone knows that.

  People who cant afford to lose are betting money on me! And the more I tell them they shouldnt, the more they bet!

  Dont you think thats a bit silly of them? said Miss Dearheart sweetly. Moist drummed his fingers on the edge of the table. All right, he said, I can think of another good reason why you might help me. Its a little complicated, so I can only tell you if you promise to sit still and not make any sudden movements.