Free Going Postal by Terry Pratchett

opened the door. This was Mr. Carlton, the one with the beard a dwarf would be proud of—no, two dwarfs would be proud of. He seemed more sensible than the other two, although this was not hard.
    Groat removed his hat.
    “Come about the rent, sir,” he repeated, peering around the man. “Got a bit o’ news, too. Just thought I’d better mention, lads, we’ve got a new postmaster,” said Groat. “If you could be a bit careful for a while? A nod’s as good as a wink, eh?”
    “How long’s this one going to last, then?” said a man who was sitting on the floor, working on a big metal drum full of what, to Mr. Groat, appeared to be very complicated clockwork. “You’ll push him off the roof by Saturday, right?”
    “Now, now, Mr. Winton, there’s no call to make fun of me like that,” said Groat nervously. “Once he’s been here a few weeks and got settled in, I’ll kind of… hint that you’re here, all right? Pigeons getting on okay, are they?” He peered around the loft. Only one pigeon was visible, hunched up high in a corner.
    “They’re out for exercise right now,” said Winton.
    “Ah, right, that’d be it, then,” said Groat.
    “Anyway, we’re a bit more interested in woodpeckers at the moment,” said Winton, pulling a bent metal bar out of the drum. “See, Alex? I told you, it’s bent. And two gears are stripped bare…”
    “Woodpeckers?” said Groat.
    There was a certain lowering of the temperature, as if he’d said the wrong thing.
    “That’s right, woodpeckers,” said a third voice.
    “Woodpeckers, Mr. Emery?” The third pigeon-fancier made Groat nervous. It was the way his eyes were always on the move, like he was trying to see everything all at once. And he was always holding a tube with smoke coming out of it, or another piece of machinery. They all seemed very interested in tubes and cogwheels, if it came to that. Oddly enough, Groat had never seen them holding a pigeon. He didn’t know how pigeons were fancied, but he’d assumed that it had to be close up.
    “Yes, woodpeckers,” said the man, while the tube in his hand changed color from red to blue. “Because”—and here he appeared to stop and think for a moment—“we’re seeing if they can be taught to…oh, yes, tap out the message when they get there, see? Much better than messenger pigeons.”
    “Why?” said Groat.
    Mr. Emery stared at the whole world for a moment. “Because…they can deliver messages in the dark?” he said.
    “Well done,” murmured the man dismantling the drum.
    “Ah, could be a lifesaver, I can see that,” said Groat. “Can’t see it beating the clacks, though!”
    “That’s what we want to find out,” said Winton.
    “But we’d be very grateful if you didn’t tell anyone about this,” said Carlton quickly. “Here’s your three dollars, Mr. Groat. We wouldn’t want other people stealing our idea, you see.”
    “Lips are sealed, lads,” said Groat. “Don’t you worry about it. You can rely on Groat.”
    Carlton was holding the door open.
    “We know we can. Good-bye, Mr. Groat.”
    Groat heard the door shut behind him as he walked back across the roof. Inside the shed, there seemed to be an argument starting; he heard someone say, “What did you have to go and tell him that for?”
    That was a bit hurtful, someone thinking that he couldn’t be trusted. And, as he eased his way down the long ladder, Groat wondered if he ought to have pointed out that woodpeckers wouldn’t fly in the dark. It was amazing that bright lads like them hadn’t spotted this flaw. They were, he thought, a bit gullible.

    A HUNDRED FEET DOWN and a quarter of a mile away as the woodpecker flies during daylight, Moist followed the path of destiny.
    Currently, it was leading him through a neighborhood that was on the downside of whatever curve you hoped you’d bought your property on the upside of. Graffiti and garbage were everywhere here. They were everywhere in the city, if it came to