‘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.