So? Hanging only lasts a couple of minutes. The Pension Fund Committee lasts a lifetime! It's all so boring! You're trapped in chains of gold-ish!
Moist had ended up near the window. The coachman was eating a biscuit. When he caught sight of Moist he gave him a friendly wave.
Moist almost jumped back from the window. He sat down hurriedly and countersigned FG/2 requisition forms for fifteen minutes straight. Then he went out into the corridor, which on its far side was open to the big hall, and looked down.
He'd promised to get the big chandeliers back, and now they both hung there glittering like private star systems. The big shiny counter gleamed in its polished splendour. There was the hum of purposeful and largely efficient activity.
He'd done it. It all worked. It was the Post Office. And it wasn't fun any more.
He went down into the sorting rooms, he dropped into the postmen's locker room to have a convivial cup of tar-like tea, he wandered around the coach yard and got in the way of people who were trying to do their jobs, and at last he plodded back to his office, bowed under the weight of the humdrum.
He just happened to glance out of the window, as anyone might. The coachman was eating his lunch! His damn lunch! He had a little folding chair on the pavement, with his meal on a little folding table! It was a large pork pie and a bottle of beer! There was even a white tablecloth!
Moist went down the main stairs like a maddened tapdancer and ran out through the big double doors. In one crowded moment, as he hurried towards the coach, the meal, table, cloth and chair were stowed in some unnoticeable compartment, and the man was standing by the invitingly open door.
'Look, what is this about?' Moist demanded, panting for breath. 'I don't have all - '
'All, Mr Lipwig,' said Lord Vetinari's voice from within, 'do step inside. Thank you, Houseman, Mrs Lavish will be waiting. Hurry up, Mr Lipwig, I am not going to eat you. I have just had an acceptable cheese sandwich.'
What harm can it do to find out? It's a question that has left bruises down the centuries, even more than 'It can't hurt if I only take one' and 'It's all right if you only do it standing up'.
Moist climbed into the shadows. The door clicked behind him, and he turned suddenly.
'Oh, really,' said Lord Vetinari. 'It's just shut, it isn't locked, Mr Lipwig. Do compose yourself!' Beside him, Drumknott sat primly with a large leather satchel on his lap.
'What is it you want?' said Moist.
Lord Vetinari raised an eyebrow. 'I? Nothing. What do you want?'
'What?'
'Well, you got into my coach, Mr Lipwig.'
'Yes, but I was told it was outside!'
'And if you had been told it was black, would you have found it necessary to do anything about it? There is the door, Mr Lipwig.'
'But you've been parked out here all morning!'
'It is a public street, sir,' said Lord Vetinari. 'Now sit down. Good.'
The coach jerked into motion.
'You are restless, Mr Lipwig,' said Vetinari. 'You are careless of your safety. Life has lost its flavour, has it not?'
Moist didn't reply.
'Let us talk about angels,' said Lord Vetinari.
'Oh yes, I know that one,' said Moist bitterly. 'I've heard that one. That's the one you got me with after I was hanged - '
Vetinari raised an eyebrow again. 'Only mostly hanged, I think you'll find. To within an inch of your life.'
'Whatever! I was hanged! And the worst part of that was finding out I only got two paragraphs in the Tanty Bugle![1] Two paragraphs, may I say, for a life of ingenious, inventive and strictly non-violent crime? I could have been an example to youngsters! Page one got hogged by the Dyslectic Alphabet Killer, and he only managed A and W!'
'I confess the editor does appear to believe that it is not a proper crime unless someone is found in three alleys at once, but that is the price of a free Press. And it suits us both, does it not, that Albert Spangler's passage from this world was... unmemorable?'
'Yes, but I wasn't expecting an afterlife like this! I have to do what I'm told for the rest of my life?'