The Invention of the Hole - Mr Lipwig Speaks Out — The Wizard in a

Jar - A discussion of Lord Vetinari’s back side — A Promise to Deliver —

Mr Hobson’s Boris

 

Mr Spools, in his ancient office smelling of oil and ink, was impressed by this strange young man in the golden suit and winged hat.

‘You certainly know your papers, Mr Lipwig,’ he said, as Moist thumbed through the samples. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet a customer who does. Always use the right paper for the job, that’s what I say.’

‘The important thing is to make stamps hard to forge,’ said Moist, leafing through the samples. ‘On the other hand, it mustn’t cost us anything like a penny to produce a penny stamp!’

‘Watermarks are your friend there, Mr Lipwig,’ said Mr Spools.

‘Not impossible to fake, though,’ said Moist, and then added, ‘so I’ve been told.’

‘Oh, we know all the tricks, Mr Lipwig, don’t you worry about that!’ said Mr Spools. ‘We’re up to scratch, oh yes! Chemical voids, thaumic shadows, timed inks, everything. We do paper and engraving and even printing for some of the leading figures in the city, although of course I am not at liberty to tell you who they are.’

He sat back in his worn leather chair and scribbled in a notebook for a moment.

‘Well, we could do you twenty thousand of the penny stamps, uncoated stock, gummed, at two dollars a thousand plus setup,’ said Mr Spools. ‘Ten pence less for ungummed. You’ll have to find someone to cut them out, of course.’

‘Can’t you do that with some kind of machine?’ said Moist.

‘No. Wouldn’t work, not with things as small as this. Sorry, Mr Lipwig.’

Moist pulled a scrap of brown paper out of his pocket and held it up. ‘Do you recognize this, Mr Spools?’

‘What, is that a pin paper?’ Mr Spools beamed. ‘Hah, that takes me back! Still got my old collection in the attic. I’ve always thought it must be worth a bob or two if only—’

‘Watch this, Mr Spools,’ said Moist, gripping the paper carefully. Stanley was almost painfully precise in placing his pins; a man with a micrometer couldn’t have done it better.

Gently, the paper tore down the line of holes. Moist looked at Mr Spools and raised his eyebrows.

‘It’s all about holes,’ he said. ‘It ain’t nothing if it ain’t got a hole . . .’

Three hours went past. Foremen were sent for. Serious men in overalls turned things on lathes, other men soldered things together, tried them out, changed this, reamed that, then dismantled a small hand press and built it in a different way. Moist loitered on the periphery of all this, clearly bored, while the serious men fiddled, measured things, rebuilt things, tinkered, lowered things, raised things and, eventually, watched by Moist and Mr Spools, tried out the converted press officially—

Chonk . . .

It felt to Moist that everyone was holding their breath so hard that the windows were bending inwards. He reached down, eased the sheet of little perforated squares off the board, and lifted it up.

He tore off one stamp.

The windows snapped outwards. People breathed again. There wasn’t a cheer. These weren’t men to cheer and whoop at a job well done. Instead, they lit their pipes and nodded to one another.

Mr Spools and Moist von Lipwig shook hands over the perforated paper.

‘The patent is yours, Mr Spools,’ said Moist.

‘You’re very kind, Mr Lipwig. Very kind indeed. Oh, here’s a little souvenir . . .’

An apprentice had bustled up with a sheet of paper. To Moist’s astonishment, it was already covered with stamps - ungummed, unperforated, but perfect miniature copies of his drawing for the one penny stamp.

‘Iconodiabolic engraving, Mr Lipwig!’ said Spools, seeing his face. ‘No one can say we’re behind the times! Of course there’ll be a few little flaws this time round, but by early next week we’ll—’

‘I want penny and twopenny ones tomorrow, Mr Spools, please,’ said Moist firmly. ‘I don’t need perfect, I want quick.’

‘My word, you’re hot off the mark, Mr Lipwig!’

‘Always move fast, Mr Spools. You never know who’s catching up!’

‘Hah! Yes! Er . . . good motto, Mr Lipwig. Nice one,’ said Mr Spools, grinning uncertainly.

‘And I want the fivepennies and one dollars the day after, please.’

‘You’ll scorch your boots, Mr Lipwig!’ said Spools.

‘Got to move, Mr Spools, got to fly!’

Moist hurried back to the Post Office as fast as decently possible, feeling slightly ashamed.

He liked Teemer and Spools. He liked the kind of business where you could actually speak to the man whose name was over the door; it meant it probably wasn’t run by crooks. And he liked the big, solid, unflappable workmen, recognizing in them all the things he knew he lacked, like steadfastness, solidarity and honesty. You couldn’t lie to a lathe or fool a hammer. They were good people, and quite unlike him . . .

One way in which they were quite unlike him was that none of them, right now, probably had wads of stolen paper stuffed into their jacket.

He really shouldn’t have done it, he really shouldn’t. It was just that Mr Spools was a kind and enthusiastic man and the desk had been covered with examples of his wonderful work, and when the perforation press was being made people had been bustling around and not really paying Moist much attention and he’d . . . tidied up. He couldn’t help himself. He was a crook. What did Vetinari expect?

The postmen were arriving back as he walked into the building. Mr Groat was waiting for him with a worried smile on his face.

‘How’s it going, Postal Inspector?’ said Moist cheerfully.

‘Pretty well, sir, pretty well. There’s good news, sir. People have been giving us letters to post, sir. Not many yet and some of them are a bit, er, jokey, but we got a penny off’f them every time. That’s seven pence, sir,’ he added proudly, proffering the coins.

‘Oh boy, we eat tonight!” said Moist, taking the coins and pocketing the letters.

‘Sorry, sir?’

‘Oh, nothing, Mr Groat. Well done. Er . . . you said there was good news. Is there any of the other sort, perhaps . . . ?’

‘Um . . . some people didn’t like getting their mail, sir.’

‘Things got posted through the wrong doors?’ said Moist.

‘Oh, no, sir. But old letters ain’t always welcome. Not when they’re, as it might be, a will. A will. As in Last Will and Testament, sir,’ the old man added meaningfully. ‘As in, it turns out the wrong daughter got mum’s jewellery twenty years ago. As it were.’

‘Oh, dear,’ said Moist.

‘The Watch had to be called in, sir. There was what they call in the papers a “rumpus” in Weaver Street, sir. There’s a lady waiting for you in your office, sir.’

‘Oh gods, not one of the daughters?’

‘No, sir. She’s a writing lady from the Times. You can’t trust ‘em, sir, although they do a very reasonable crossword,’ Groat added conspiratorially.

‘What does she want me for?’

‘Couldn’t say, sir. I expect it’s ‘cos you’re postmaster?’

‘Go and . . . make her some tea or something, will you?’ said Moist, patting his jacket. ‘I’ll just go and . . . pull myself together . . .’

Two minutes later, with the stolen paper tucked safely away, Moist strode into his office.

Mr Pump was standing by the door, fiery eyes banked, in the stance of a golem with no current task other than to exist, and a woman was sitting in the chair by Moist’s desk.

Moist weighed her up. Attractive, certainly, but dressing apparently to play down the fact while artfully enhancing it. Bustles were back in fashion in the city for some inexplicable reason, but her only concession there was a bum-roll, which achieved a certain perkiness in the rear without the need to wear twenty-seven pounds of dangerously spring-loaded underwear. She was blonde but wore her hair in a bag net, another careful touch, while a small and quietly fashionable hat perched on top of her head to no particular purpose. A large shoulder bag was by her chair, a notebook was on her knee, and she wore a wedding ring.

‘Mr Lipwig?’ she said brightly. ‘I am Miss Cripslock. From the Times!

Okay, wedding ring but nevertheless ‘Miss’, thought Moist. Handle with care. Probably has Views. Do not attempt to kiss hand.

‘And how can I assist the Times?’ he said, sitting down and giving her a non-condescending smile.

‘Do you intend to deliver all the backlog of mail, Mr Lipwig?’

‘If at all possible, yes,’ said Moist.

‘Why?’

‘It’s my job. Rain, snow, gloom of night, just as it says over the door.’

‘Have you heard about the fracas in Weaver Street?’

‘I heard it was a rumpus.’

‘I’m afraid it’s got worse. There was a house on fire when I left. Doesn’t that worry you?’ Miss Cripslock’s pencil was suddenly poised.

Moist’s face remained expressionless as he thought furiously. ‘Yes, it does, of course,’ he said. ‘People shouldn’t set fire to houses. But I also know that Mr Parker of the Merchants’ Guild is marrying his boyhood sweetheart on Saturday. Did you know that?’

Miss Cripslock hadn’t, but she scribbled industriously as Moist told her about the greengrocer’s letter.

‘That’s very interesting,’ she said. ‘I will go and see him immediately. So you’re saying that delivering the old mail is a good thing?’

‘Delivering the mail is the only thing,’ said Moist, and hesitated again. Just on the edge of hearing was a whispering.

‘Is there a problem?’ said Miss Cripslock.

‘What? No! What was I— Yes, it’s the right thing. History is not to be denied, Miss Cripslock. And we are a communicating species, Miss Cripslock!’ Moist raised his voice to drown out the whispering. ‘The mail must get through! It must be delivered!’

‘Er . . . you needn’t shout, Mr Lipwig,’ said the reporter, leaning backwards.

Moist tried to get a grip, and the whispering died down a little.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, and cleared his throat. ‘Yes, I intend to deliver all the mail. If people have moved, we will try to find them. If they have died, we’ll try to deliver to their descendants. The post will be delivered. We are tasked to deliver it, and deliver it we will. What else should we do with it? Burn it? Throw it in the river? Open it to decide if it’s important? No, the letters were entrusted to our care. Delivery is the only way.’

The whispering had almost died away now, so he went on: ‘Besides, we need the space. The Post Office is being reborn!’ He pulled out the sheet of stamps. ‘With these!’

She peered at them, puzzled. ‘Little pictures of Lord Vetinari?’ she said.

‘Stamps, Miss Cripslock. One of those stuck on a letter will ensure delivery anywhere within the city. These are early sheets, but tomorrow we will be selling them gummed and perforated for ease of use. I intend to make it easy to use the post. Obviously we are still finding our feet, but soon I intend that we should be capable of delivering a letter to anyone, anywhere in the world.’

It was a stupid thing to say, but his tongue had taken over.

‘Aren’t you being rather ambitious, Mr Lipwig?’ she said.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t know any other way to be,’ said Moist.

‘I was thinking that we do have the clacks now.’

‘The clacks?’ said Moist. ‘I dare say the clacks is wonderful if you wish to know the prawn market figures from Genua. But can you write S.W.A.L.K. on a clacks? Can you seal it with a loving kiss? Can you cry tears on to a clacks, can you smell it, can you enclose a pressed flower? A letter is more than just a message. And a clacks is so expensive in any case that the average man in the street can just about afford it in a time of crisis: GRANDADS DEAD FUNERAL TUES. A day’s wages to send a message as warm and human as a thrown knife? But a letter is real.’

He stopped. Miss Cripslock was scribbling like mad, and it’s always worrying to see a journalist take a sudden interest in what you’re saying, especially when you half suspect it was a load of pigeon guano. And it’s worse when they’re smiling.

‘People are complaining that the clacks is becoming expensive, slow and unreliable,’ said Miss Cripslock. ‘How do you feel about that?’

‘All I can tell you is that today we’ve taken on a postman who is eighteen thousand years old,’ said Moist. ‘He doesn’t break down very easily.’

‘Ah, yes. The golems. Some people say—’

‘What is your first name, Miss Cripslock?’ said Moist.

For a moment, the woman coloured. Then she said: ‘It’s Sacharissa.’

‘Thank you. I’m Moist. Please don’t laugh. The golems— You’re laughing, aren’t you . . .’

‘It was just a cough, honestly,’ said the reporter, raising a hand to her throat and coughing unconvincingly.

‘Sorry. It sounded a bit like a laugh. Sacharissa, I need postmen, counter clerks, sorters - I need lots of people. The mail will move. I need people to help me move it. Any kind of people. Ah, thanks, Stanley.’

The boy had come in with two mismatched mugs of tea. One had an appealing little kitten on it, except that erratic collisions in the washing-up bowl had scratched it so that its expression was that of a creature in the final stages of rabies. The other had once hilariously informed the world that clinical insanity wasn’t necessary for employment, but most of the words had faded, leaving:

 

 

He put them down with care on Moist’s desk; Stanley did everything carefully.

‘Thank you,’ Moist repeated. ‘Er . . . you can go now, Stanley. Help with the sorting, eh?’

‘There’s a vampire in the hall, Mr Lipwig,’ said Stanley.

‘That will be Otto,’ said Sacharissa quickly. ‘You don’t have a . . . a thing about vampires, do you?’

‘Hey, if he’s got a pair of hands and knows how to walk I’ll give him a job!’

‘He’s already got one,’ said Sacharissa, laughing. ‘He’s our chief iconographer. He’s been taking pictures of your men at work. We’d very much like to have one of you. For the front page.’

‘What? No!’ said Moist. ‘Please! No!’

‘He’s very good.’

‘Yes, but . . . but . . . but . . .’ Moist began, and in his head the sentence went on: but I don’t think that even a talent for looking like half the men you see in the street would survive a picture.

What actually came out was: ‘I don’t want to be singled out from all the hard-working men and golems who are putting the Post Office back on its feet! After all, there’s no “me” in team, eh?’

‘Actually, there is,’ said Sacharissa. ‘Besides, you’re the one wearing the winged hat and the golden suit. Come on, Mr Lipwig!’

‘All right, all right, I really didn’t want to go into this, but it’s against my religion,’ said Moist, who’d had time to think. ‘We’re forbidden to have any image made of us. It removes part of the soul, you know.’

‘And you believe that?’ said Sacharissa. ‘Really?’

‘Er, no. No. Of course not. Not as such. But . . . but you can’t treat religion as a sort of buffet, can you? I mean, you can’t say yes please, I’ll have some of the Celestial Paradise and a helping of the Divine Plan but go easy on the kneeling and none of the Prohibition of Images, they give me wind. It’s table d’hote or nothing, otherwise . . . well, it would be silly.’

Miss Cripslock looked at him with her head on one side. ‘You work for his lordship, don’t you?’ she said.

‘Well, of course. This is an official job.’

‘And I expect you’ll tell me that your previous job was as a clerk, nothing special?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Although your name probably is Moist von Lipwig, because I can’t believe anyone would choose that as an assumed name,” she went on.

‘Thank you very much!’

‘It sounds to me as though you’re issuing a challenge, Mr Lipwig. There’s all sorts of problems with the clacks right now. There’s been a big stink about the people they’ve been sacking and how the ones that’re left are being worked to death, and up you pop, full of ideas.’

‘I’m serious, Sacharissa. Look, people are already giving us new letters to post!’

He pulled them out of his pocket and fanned them out. ‘See, there’s one here to go to Dolly Sisters, another to Nap Hill, one for . . . Blind Io . . .’

‘He’s a god,’ said the woman. ‘Could be a problem.’

‘No,’ said Moist briskly, putting the letters back in his pocket. “We’ll deliver to the gods themselves. He has three temples in the city. It’ll be easy.’ And you’ve forgotten about the pictures, hooray . . .

‘A man of resource, I see. Tell me, Mr Lipwig, do you know much about the history of this place?’

‘Not too much. I’d certainly like to find out where the chandeliers went to!’

‘You haven’t spoken to Professor Pelc?’

‘Who’s he?’

‘I’m amazed. He’s at the University. He wrote a whole chapter on this place in his book on . . . oh, something to do with big masses of writing thinking for themselves. I suppose you do know about the people who died?’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘He said the place drove them mad in some way. Well, actually, we said that. What he said was a lot more complicated. I have to hand it to you, Mr Lipwig, taking on a job that has killed four men before you. It takes a special kind of man to do that.’

Yes, thought Moist. An ignorant one.

‘You haven’t noticed anything strange yourself?’ she went on.

‘Well, I think my body travelled in time but the soles of my feet didn’t, but I’m not sure how much of it was hallucination; I was nearly killed in a mailslide and the letters keep talking to me,’ were the words that Moist didn’t say, because it’s the kind of thing you don’t say to an open notebook. What he did say was, ‘Oh, no. It’s a fine old building, and I fully intend to bring it back to its former glory.’

‘Good. How old are you, Mr Lipwig?’

‘Twenty-six. Is that important?’

‘We like to be thorough.’ Miss Cripslock gave him a sweet smile. ‘Besides, it’s useful if we have to write your obituary.’

 

Moist marched through the hall, with Groat sidling after him.

He pulled the new letters out of his pocket and thrust them into Groat’s crabby hands. ‘Get these delivered. Anything for a god goes to his or her or its temple. Any other strange ones put on my desk.’

‘We picked up another fifteen just now, sir. People think it’s funny!’

‘Got the money?’

‘Oh, yes, sir.’

‘Then we’re the ones who’re laughing,’ said Moist firmly. ‘I won’t be long. I’m off to see the wizard.’

 

By law and tradition the great Library of Unseen University is open to the public, although they aren’t allowed as far as the magical shelves. They don’t realize this, however, since the rules of time and space are twisted inside the Library and so hundreds of miles of shelving can easily be concealed inside a space roughly the thickness of paint.

People flock in, nevertheless, in search of answers to those questions only librarians are considered to be able to answer, such as ‘Is this the laundry?’ ‘How do you spell surreptitious?’ and, on a regular basis: ‘Do you have a book I remember reading once? It had a red cover and it turned out they were twins.’

And, strictly speaking, the Library will have it . . . somewhere. Somewhere it has every book ever written, that ever will be written and, notably, every book that it is possible to write. These are not on the public shelves lest untrained handling cause the collapse of everything that it is possible to imagine.*

 

* Again.

 

Moist, like everyone else who entered the Library, stared up at the dome. Everyone did. They always wondered why a library that was technically infinite in size was covered by a dome a few hundred feet across, and they were allowed to go on wondering.

Just below the dome, staring down from their niches, were statues of the Virtues: Patience, Chastity, Silence, Charity, Hope, Tubso, Bissonomy * and Fortitude.

 

* Many cultures practise neither of these in the hustle and bustle of the modern world,
because no one can remember what they are.

 

Moist couldn’t resist removing his hat and giving a little salute to Hope, to whom he owed so much. Then, as he wondered why the statue of Bissonomy was carrying a kettle and what looked like a bunch of parsnips, he collided with someone who grabbed him by the arm and hurried him across the floor.

‘Don’t say a word, don’t say a word, but you are looking for a book, yes?’

‘Well, actually—’ He seemed to be in the clutches of a wizard.

‘—you are not sure what book!’ said the wizard. ‘Exactly. It is the job of a librarian to find the right book for the right person. If you would just sit here, we can proceed. Thank you. Please excuse the straps. This will not take long. It is practically painless.’

‘Practically?’

Moist was pushed, firmly, into a large and complex swivel chair. His captor, or helper or whatever he might turn out to be, gave him a reassuring smile. Other, shadowy figures helped him strap Moist into the chair which, while basically an old horseshoe-shaped one with a leather seat, was surrounded by . . . stuff. Some of it was clearly magical, being of the stars-and-skulls variety, but what about the jar of pickles, the pair of tongs and the live mouse in a cage made of—

Panic gripped Moist and, not at all coincidentally, so did a pair of padded paddles, which closed over his ears. Just before all sound was silenced, he heard: ‘You may experience a taste of eggs and the sensation of being slapped in the face with some sort of fish. This is perfectly—’

And then thlabber happened. It was a traditional magic term, although Moist didn’t know this. There was a moment in which everything, even the things that couldn’t be stretched, felt stretched. And then there was the moment when everything suddenly went back to not being stretched, known as the moment of thlabber.

When Moist opened his eyes again, the chair was facing the other ‘way. There was no sign of the pickles, the tongs or the mouse, but in their place was a bucket of clockwork pastry lobsters and a boxed set of novelty glass eyes.

Moist gulped, and muttered: ‘Haddock.’

‘Really? Most people say cod,’ said someone. ‘No accounting for taste, I suppose.’ Hands unbuckled Moist and helped him to his feet. These hands belonged to an orang-utan, but Moist didn’t pass comment. This was a university of wizards, after all.

The man who had shoved him into the chair was now standing by a desk staring at some wizardly device.

‘Any moment now,’ he said. ‘Any moment. Any moment now. Any second . . .’

A bundle of what appeared to be hosepipes led from the desk into the wall. Moist was certain they bulged for a moment, like a snake eating in a hurry; the machine stuttered, and a piece of paper dropped out of a slot.

‘Ah . . . here we are,’ said the wizard, snatching it up. ‘Yes, the book you were after was A History of Hats, by F. G. Smallfinger, am I right?’

‘No. I’m not after a book, in fact—’ Moist began.

‘Are you sure? We have lots.’

There were two striking things about this wizard. One was . . . well, Grandfather Lipwig had always said that you could tell the honesty of a man by the size of his ears, and this was a very honest wizard. The other was that the beard he was wearing was clearly false.

‘I was looking for a wizard called Pelc,’ Moist ventured.

The beard parted slightly to reveal a wide smile.

‘I knew the machine would work!’ said the wizard. ‘You are looking, in fact, for me.’

 

The sign on the outside of the office door said: Ladislav Pelc, D.M.Phil, Prehumous Professor of Morbid Bibliomancy.

On the inside of the door was a hook, on which the wizard hung his beard.

It was a wizard’s study, so of course had the skull with a candle in it and a stuffed crocodile hanging from the ceiling. No one, least of all wizards, knows why this is, but you have to have them.

It was also a room full of books and made of books. There was no actual furniture; that is to say, the desk and chairs were shaped out of books. It looked as though many of them were frequently referred to, because they lay open with other books used as bookmarks.

‘You want to know about your Post Office, I expect?’ said Pelc, as Moist settled on to a chair carefully put together from volumes 1 to 41 of Synonyms for the word ‘Plimsoll’

‘Yes, please,’ said Moist.

‘Voices? Strange events?’

‘Yes!’

‘How can I put this . . .’ mused Pelc. ‘Words have power, you understand? It is in the nature of our universe. Our Library itself distorts time and space on quite a grand scale. Well, when the Post Office started accumulating letters it was storing words. In fact what was being created was what we call a gevaisa, a tomb of living words. Are you of a literary persuasion, Mr Lipwig?’

‘Not as such.’ Books were a closed book to Moist.

‘Would you burn a book?’ said Pelc. ‘An old book, say, battered, almost spineless, found in a box of rubbish?’

‘Well . . . probably not,’ Moist admitted.

‘Why not? Would the thought make you uncomfortable?’

‘Yes, I suppose it would. Books are . . . well, you just don’t do that. Er . . . why do you wear a false beard? I thought wizards had real ones.’

‘It’s not compulsory, you know, but when we go outside the public expect beards,’ said Pelc. ‘It’s like having stars on your robes. Besides, they’re far too hot in the summer. Where was I? Gevaisas. Yes. All words have some power. We feel it instinctively. Some, like magical spells and the true names of the gods, have a great deal. They must be treated with respect. In Klatch there is a mountain with many caves, and in those caves are entombed more than a hundred thousand old books, mostly religious, each one in a white linen shroud. That is perhaps an extreme approach, but intelligent people have always known that some words at least should be disposed of with care and respect.’

‘Not just shoved in sacks in the attic,’ said Moist. ‘Hold on . . . a golem called the Post Office “a tomb of unheard words”.’

‘I’m not at all surprised,’ said Professor Pelc calmly. ‘The old gevaisas and libraries used to employ golems, because the only words that have the power to influence them are the ones in their heads. Words are important. And when there is a critical mass of them, they change the nature of the universe. Did you have what seemed to be hallucinations?’

‘Yes! I was back in time! But also in the present!’

‘Ah, yes. That’s quite common,’ said the wizard. ‘Enough words crammed together can affect time and space.’

‘And they spoke to me!’

‘I told the Watch the letters wanted to be delivered,’ said Professor Pelc. ‘Until a letter is read, it’s not complete. They will try anything to be delivered. But they don’t think, as you understand it, and they’re not clever. They just reach out into any available mind. I see you’ve already been turned into an avatar.’

‘I can’t fly!’

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