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'Gilt can kiss my—' Grandad began, then remembered the present company and finished:'— donkey. You read what went through just now! Do you think that bas— that man is still in charge?' Princess looked out from the upstream window. '182's lit up,' she announced. 'Right! Let's light up and shift code,' Grandad growled. 'That's what we do! And who's going to stop us? All those without something to do, get out! We are running!' Princess went out on to the little platform, to be out of the way. Underfoot the snow was like icing sugar, in her nostrils the air was like knives. When she looked across the mountains, in the direction she'd learned to think of as downstream, she could see that Tower 180 was sending. At that moment, she heard the thump and click of 181's own shutters opening, dislodging snow. We shift code, she thought. It's what we do. Up on the tower, watching the star-like twinkle of the Trunk in the clear, freezing air, it was like being part of the sky. And she wondered what Grandad most feared: that dead clacks-men could send messages to the living, or that they couldn't. Collabone finished. Then he produced a handkerchief and rubbed away at whatever the green stuff was that had begun to grow on the glass. This made a squeaking sound. He peered nervously through the smear. 'Is that all right, sir? I'm not in some sort of trouble, am I?' he asked. 'Only at the moment I think I'm close to translating the mating call of the giant clam . . .'
'Thank you, Professor Collabone; a good job well done. That will be all,' said Archchancellor Ridcully coldly. 'Unhinge the mechanism, Mr Stibbons.' A look of fervid relief passed across
Devious Colla-bone's face just before the omniscope went blank. 'Mr Pony, you are the chief engineer of the Grand Trunk, are you not?' said Vetinari, before the babble could rise again. The engineer, suddenly the focus of attention, backed away waving his hands frantically. 'Please, your lordship! I'm just an engineer, I don't know anything—'
'Calm yourself, please. Have you heard that the souls of dead men travel on the Trunk?'
'Oh, yes, your lordship.'
'Is it true? 'Well, er . . .' Pony looked around, a hunted man. He'd got his pink flimsies, and they would show everyone that he was nothing more than a man who'd tried to make things work, but right now all he could find on his side was the truth. He took refuge in it. 'I can't see how, but, well . . . sometimes, when you're up a tower of a night, and the shutters are rattlin' and the wind's singing in the rigging, well, you might think it's true.'
'I believe there is a tradition called “Sending Home”?' said Lord Vetinari. The engineer looked surprised. 'Why, yes, sir, but . . .' Pony felt he ought to wave a little flag for a rational world in which, at the moment, he didn't have a lot of faith, 'the Trunk was dark before we ran the message, so I don't see how the message could have got on—'
'Unless, of course, the dead put it there?' said Lord Vetinari. 'Mr Pony, for the good of your soul and, not least, your body, you will go now to the Tump Tower, escorted by one of Commander Vimes's men, and send a brief message to all the towers. You will obtain the paper tapes, which I believe are known as drum rolls, from all the towers on the Grand Trunk. I understand that they show a record of all messages originating at that tower, which cannot be readily altered?'
'That will take weeks to do, sir!' Pony protested. 'An early start in the morning would seem in order, then,' said Lord Vetinari. Mr Pony, who had suddenly spotted that a spell a long way from Ankh-Morpork might be a very healthy option just now, nodded and said, 'Right you are, my lord.'
'The Grand Trunk will remain closed in the interim,' said Lord Vetinari. 'It's private property!' Greenyham burst out. 'Tyrant, remember,' said Vetinari, almost cheerfully. 'But I'm sure that the audit will serve to sort out at least some aspects of this mystery. One of them, of course, is that Mr Readier Gilt does not seem to be in this room.' Every head turned. 'Perhaps he remembered another engagement?' said Lord Vetinari. 'I think he slipped out some time ago.' It dawned on the directors of the Grand Trunk that their chairman was absent and, which was worse, they weren't. They drew together. 'I wonder if, uh, at this point at least we could discuss the matter with you privately, your lordship?' said Greenyham. 'Readier was not an easy man to deal with, I'm afraid.'
'Not a team player,' gasped Nutmeg. 'Who?' said Stowley. 'What is this place? Who are all these people?'
'Left us totally in the dark most of the time—' said Greenyham. 'I can't remember a thing—' said Stowley. 'I'm not fit to testify, any doctor will tell you . . .'
'I think I can say on behalf of all of us that we were suspicious of him all along—'
'Mind's a total blank. Not a blessed thing . . . what's this thing with fingers on . . . who am I . . .' Lord Vetinari stared at the Board for five seconds longer than was comfortable, while tapping his chin gently with the knob of his cane. He smiled faintly.
'Quite,' he said. 'Commander Vimes, I think it would be iniquitous to detain these gentlemen here any longer.' As the faces in front of him relaxed into smiles full of hope, that greatest of all gifts, he added: 'To the cells with them, Commander. Separate cells, if you please. I shall see them in the morning. And if Mr Slant comes to see you on their behalf, do tell him I'd like a little chat, will you?' That sounded . . . good. Moist strolled towards the door, while the hubbub rose, and had almost made it when Lord Vetinari's voice came out of the throng like a knife. 'Leaving so soon, Mr Lipwig? Do wait a moment. I shall give you a lift back to your famous Post Office.' For a moment, just a slice of a second, Moist contemplated running. He did not do so. What would be the point? The crowd parted hurriedly as Lord Vetinari headed towards the door; behind him, the Watch closed in. Ultimately, there is the freedom to take the consequences. The Patrician leaned back in the leather upholstery as the coach drew away. 'What a strange evening, Mr Lipwig,' he said. 'Yes, indeed.' Moist, like the suddenly bewildered Mr Stowley, considered that his future happiness lay in saying as little as possible. 'Yes, sir,' he said. 'I wonder if that engineer will find any evidence that the strange message was put on the clacks by human hands?' he wondered aloud. 'I don't know, my lord.'
'You don't?'
'No, sir.'
'Ah,' said Vetinari. 'Well, the dead are known to speak, sometimes. Ouija boards and seances, and so on. Who can say they wouldn't use the medium of the clacks?'
'Not me, sir.'
'And you are clearly enjoying your new career, Mr Lipwig.'
'Yes, sir.'
'Good. On Monday your duties will include the administration of the Grand Trunk. It is being taken over by the city.' Oh well, so much for future happiness . . . 'No, my lord,' said Moist. Vetinari raised an eyebrow. 'There is an alternative, Mr Lipwig?'
'It really is private property, sir. It belongs to the Dearhearts and the other people who built it.'
'My, my, how the worm turns,' said Vetinari. 'But the trouble is, you see, they weren't good at business, only at mechanisms. Otherwise they would have seen through Gilt. The freedom to succeed goes hand in hand with the freedom to fail.'
'It was robbery by numbers,' said Moist. 'It was Find The Lady done with ledgers. They didn't stand a chance.' Vetinari sighed. 'You drive a hard bargain, Mr Lipwig.' Moist, who wasn't aware he had tried to drive a bargain at all, said nothing. 'Oh, very well. The question of ownership will remain in abeyance for now, until we have plumbed the sordid depths of this affair. But what I truly meant was that a great many people depend on the Trunk for their living. Out of sheer humanitarian considerations, we must do something. Sort things out, Postmaster.'
'But I'm going to have my hands more than full with the Post Office!' Moist protested.
'I hope you are. But in my experience, the best way to get something done is to give it to someone who is busy,' said Vetinari. 'In that case, I'm going to keep the Grand Trunk running,' said Moist. 'In honour of the dead, perhaps,' said Vetinari. 'Yes. As you wish. Ah, here is your stop.' As the coachman opened the door Lord Vetinari leaned towards Moist. 'Oh, and before dawn I do suggest you go and check that everyone's left the old wizarding tower,' he said. 'What do you mean, sir?' said Moist. He knew his face betrayed nothing. Vetinari sat back. “Well done, Mr Lipwig.' There was a crowd outside the Post Office, and a cheer went up as Moist made his way to the doors. It was raining now, a grey, sooty drizzle that was little more than fog with a slight weight problem. Some of the staff were waiting inside. He realized the news hadn't got around. Even Ankh- Morpork's permanent rumour-mill hadn't been able to beat him back from the University. 'What's happened, Postmaster?' said Groat, his hands twisting together. 'Have they won?'
'No,' said Moist, but they picked up the edge in his voice. 'Have we won?'
'The Archchancellor will have to decide that,' said Moist. 'I suppose we won't know for weeks. The clacks has been shut down, though. I'm sorry, it's all complicated . . .' He left them standing and staring as he trudged up to his office, where Mr Pump was standing in the corner. 'Good Evening, Mr Lipvig,' the golem boomed. Moist sat down and put his head in his hands. This was victory, but it didn't feel like it. It felt like a mess. The bets? Well, if Leadpipe got to Genua you could make a case under the rules that he'd won, but Moist had a feeling that all bets were off now. That meant people would get their money back, at least. He'd have to keep the Trunk going, gods knew how. He'd sort of promised the Gnu, hadn't he? And it was amazing how people had come to rely on the clacks. He wouldn't know how Leadpipe had fared for weeks, and even Moist had got used to daily news from Genua. It was like having a finger cut off. But the clacks was a big, cumbersome monster of a thing, too many towers, too many people, too much effort. There had to be a way of making it better and sleeker and cheaper . . . or maybe it was something so big that no one could run it at a profit. Maybe it was like the Post Office, maybe the profit turned up spread around the whole of society. Tomorrow he'd have to take it all seriously. Proper mail runs. Many more staff. Hundreds of things to do, and hundreds of other things to do before you could do those things. It wasn't going to be fun any more, cocking a snook, whatever a snook was, at the big slow giant. He'd won, so he'd have to pick up the pieces and make everything work. And come in here the next day and do it all again. This wasn't how it was supposed to end. You won, and you pocketed the cash and walked away. That was how the game was supposed to go, wasn't it? His eye fell on Anghammarad's message box, on its twisted, corroded strap, and he wished he was at the bottom of the sea. 'Mr Lipwig?' He looked up. Drumknott the clerk was standing in the doorway, with another clerk behind him. 'Yes?'
'Sorry to disturb you, sir,' said the clerk. 'We're here to see Mr Pump. Just a minor adjustment,
