Going Postal (2010–…): Season 1, Episode 2 - Episode #1.2 - full transcript
You know what they say.
Hear the cry of the banshee and die!
Actually...
...it's banshee cries, somebody dies.
Today it's you.
Missed both my hearts.
I do love postmasters.
Killing them is so lucrative.
Who's paying you?
Not everyone can afford
assassin of calibre.
I deal with all Reacher's
loose ends.
Gilt.
The Dearheart boy
screamed like a pig.
Screamed like a pig!
Till he struck the ground.
Time to shut up shop, Postmaster.
This is not Reacher Gilt's
Post Office to close.
It belongs to the city.
How dare he come in here
and destroy it.
Oh, please!
Can't I even die in peace?
I mean, I'm no angel, but him?
He's a devil.
"Upon discovery of fire,
remain calm."
"Shout 'fire'
in a loud, clear voice."
Fire!
Stanley.
"If trapped...
...await A, rescue or B, death."
Straightforward enough.
A it is, then.
Come on.
I owe you.
Where are the fire brigade?
We have no insurance.
What?
I'm sorry, sir,
it was fire insurance or food.
Where are the buckets then?
This is beyond buckets, Mr Lipwig.
Hmm!
Adora.
Care for a dance?
A dance? With you?
A self-centred skuggem
with the moral fibre of a...
A rat?
A rat.
Thank you.
My pleasure.
Let me go!
Not until I've told you
what's really going on.
You destroyed my family,
that's what's going on.
That was an accident.
I can put it right.
You don't know the meaning
of the word "right".
Those dead postmasters,
Gilt had them killed.
He tried to kill me, too.
Who'd have thought I had something
in common with Reacher Gilt?
Adora, he murdered your brother.
John wore a safety line,
but he fell to his death.
It doesn't make sense, unless you
hire a flying banshee to push him.
And banshees are Gilt's
weapon of choice.
You've got proof?
Of course.
Well, the banshee was my proof.
He knew everything.
Except how to be fireproof.
How convenient!
Even so, I think I can bring down
Reacher Gilt.
All talk and no action, as usual.
Adora, will you trust me
just this once?
Oh!
Does that answer your question?
Any comment to go with the picture,
Mr Lipwig?
Reacher.
Marvellous, isn't it?
A bit...
...extreme?
The point is, Horsefry, we've won.
We've won.
Well, I suppose that's one way
to deal with the backlog.
How can you joke?
That's our life. And it's gone.
Be brave, Mr Groat.
There's our customers over there.
Sending clacks, we've lost them.
Then we'II just have
to win them back again, won't we?
Come on, Mr Groat.
The Post Office is open... as usual.
A bit more open than usual,
I would say.
< Number four delivery, proceed.
Number four delivery.
Stan!
Aggy!
Not many of us old postmen
left now, Mr Groat.
We help out the best we can
in the post's hour of need.
See?
People love the Post Office.
So...
Get your men organised,
Deputy Postmaster Groat.
I want them...
Did you say deputy postmaster, sir?
I did.
And, what's more,
I want your men out on the streets
delivering the mail today.
Yes, sir.
Looks like the clacks is down again.
This really is my lucky day.
Special today, ladies and gentlemen,
mail to Pseudopolis
reduced to three pence.
Three pence only.
And if anyone has a message
already stuck in the clacks,
we'll deliver it for free.
No matter how hard I scrape my shoe,
Lipwig remains stuck to it.
It says here he was unscathed.
Does this mean we have to try again?
No.
He may be alive,
but he's yesterday's man.
Knowing Lipwig, he'll rebuild.
With what?
Lt'll cost a fortune.
And the... Post Office is bankrupt.
Nevertheless, people...
...seem to have a fondness
for the post.
My latest innovation
will change all that.
Innovation?
We closed down research
and development years ago.
This isn't about research, Horsefry.
This is about dazzling the masses
with a bauble.
I believe the respectable term is...
...marketing.
We are proud
to usher in a new era.
The mobile era.
A network of towers like this
will move around Discworld
as demand requires.
This doesn't look good.
In future,
if you can't get to a clacks tower,
the clacks tower
will be brought to you.
Full coverage for the entire Disc.
Mr Gilt, today's increase
in the price of clacks messages
is the fifth this year.
Surely that is extortion.
This is the future
of long-distance communication,
and new technology is not cheap.
Would you really have that
when you can have this?
But he had the Post Office
destroyed.
We have no proof, Mr Pump.
We must do something.
Follow me.
Arrest those men!
For what?
Vandalising clacks property.
I think you'll find the only offence
here is trespass.
Your map was being paraded
on Post Office property.
I'll see you paraded
through hell, Lipwig.
Are you going to send another
assassin to sort me out?
Assassin? I have no idea
what you're talking about.
Mr Gryle and I
had a very interesting chat.
I know exactly
what you've been up to.
Where's your proof?
All in good time.
You're such a fraud.
And you're such a murderer.
That is slander.
This is a declaration of war.
Can I quote you on that?
If you want a quote,
Miss Cripslock, try this.
Neither rain nor fire
can stop the post.
Very stirring.
But his quote had "war" in it.
Fine talk, sir. Fine talk.
You do give a good bite of sound.
If you don't mind me saying,
it's bugger all help.
I know, I know.
They come through with a new
technological breakthrough.
"A modern miracle that will change
communications for ever."
And we haven't even got a roof.
Oh, one decent downpour
and all this will be papier-mache.
Big roofs cost big money.
That's it, Mr Groat.
Rain.
Rainy days.
The problem with people who put
money away for a rainy day
is they never know when it's raining.
Well, I think it's about to pour.
Stress.
It does funny things to a man.
Sausage?
Mrs Leakall's
Premium Reserve sausages.
A special offering.
Because I have a special prayer.
Well, you're off to a good start.
Tell me, how do you actually
get the sausages up there?
Frying. The gift of sausages ascends
onto Offler, the sacred crocodile,
by means of smell.
And then you... eat the sausage?
A common misconception.
But the true sausagidity
goes to Offler.
He eats the... essence
of the sausages.
While we priests
eat the earthly shell.
That would explain
why the smell of sausages
is always better than
the actual taste, perhaps.
You should have been a theologian.
So, what is your prayer
to accompany Mrs Leakall's finest?
Just the usual.
Pennies from heaven.
$150,000... to be precise.
Might take more than a few sausages
to get something that... specific.
But... let's give it a shot.
Post!
Post!
Good work, Stanley. That'll do it.
Forwards, Stanley, forwards.
Post.
Come on.
Everyone loves getting a letter.
I think it's best
you stay away from Miss Adora.
Stay away?
I can't do that, she loves me.
But she just tried to kill you.
Well, the human heart
is a complex thing, Mr Pump.
Love, hate,
they're just a breath apart.
She doesn't know it yet,
but she loves me.
Mr Pump.
That's your third delivery today.
Many letters survived the fire.
We are working round the clock
to deliver them.
Round the clock?
Without a break.
That is how much we believe
in Postmaster Lipwig.
But that's exploitation.
The Golem Trust can't allow it.
You misunderstand.
We volunteered.
Volunteered?
That is the worst form
of exploitation.
Rats.
What are you doing, Horsefry?
I need it for my budget.
Budget?
I need to know how many towers
we're going to build.
Do you know what I really like
about you, Horsefry?
Your naivety.
Sorry, don't quite get you.
We put up the clacks charges
to finance a fleet of towers, right?
But we don't actually build any.
So the extra revenue
becomes pure profit.
But won't people
want to see some towers?
Well, we'll wheel out that fancy
model every now and then,
give the idiots
some eye candy to gawp at.
Meanwhile, the mobile clacks project
is officially in development.
Shame.
I thought it was a good idea.
Horsefry, Horsefry.
They aim of business is?
Erm...
Not to provide a good service,
but to provide the...
Only.
...only service.
They seem very taken with
the new-fangled towers, sir.
It's the oldest trick in the book.
Dazzle the punter
with a pretty picture.
What's a punter?
They haven't even built
the mobiles yet, have they?
It's all promise.
Know what happens to promises.
Will the people
ever come back to us?
How would they be able to resist
when we have our new
state-of-the-art Post Office?
Not in our lifetime.
You underestimate me, Mr Groat.
I don't want to hurt your feelings,
but praying for money
is a bit desperate, don't you think?
There's a god out there for everyone.
The trick is hooking up with -
Mr Lipwig! Mr Lipwig!
Mr Lipwig!
The light.
The wonderful light.
Glory be to Offler.
The sacred crocodile god.
Oh!
He's blind. He's blind.
Mr Lipwig, sir.
Mr Lipwig! Mr Lipwig!
One regular white,
one skinny Klatchian.
And two figgins, please.
Somebody call a doctor.
Can you see nothing at all?
Are you totally blind?
Only blind to this world, my friend.
Now I perceive the inner truth.
Yes.
The angels of Offler...
...whisper onto me.
One... hundred... and...
...fifty thousand dollars.
Buried... in a forest.
Offler.
I am not worthy.
Let the angels choose a holy witness.
Me, me!
I'll give you the front page.
You...
...are chosen.
Offler says... to the hop gate.
And bring a shovel.
Divine intervention.
Show me the way!
The praying man.
It is here.
The praying man
under the praying tree.
Looks like an elephant to me.
Well, now you mention it,
I can definitely see a praying man.
He can see.
What's going on?
You're under arrest,
that's what's going on.
Hello again.
Mr Lipwig.
I demand you step aside.
Can't you wait
until Mr Lipwig returns?
Mr Lipwig is in breach of contract.
But we golems
are satisfied with him.
You've been manipulated by him.
Not manipulated.
Persuaded.
Now you're making me angry.
Pump 19.
I will assemble the golems.
Mr Lipwig.
You've had a most strenuous day,
have you not?
Can't be as strenuous
as signing death warrants.
Joke.
Oh, I'm sorry, I hadn't realised.
Do tell me if you feel obliged
to make another.
To be honest, today has all been
a bit of a blur.
There's $150,000 buried
in the forest.
And you have no idea
how it got there.
It's miraculous.
A remarkable coincidence that
it is precisely the sum of money
that was hidden
by a notorious conman.
Conman?
Who was that then?
We hanged him. He's dead.
Isn't he?
Yes. He's dead.
Excellent.
So, as this money
is a gift from the gods,
it should be used for
the public good, should it not?
The eyes, Mr Lipwig.
Hmm?
You can trust me.
Oh, that.
Made from turtle egg shells.
Ingenious.
Thank you.
I meant me
for making you postmaster.
Ah. Marvellous.
Mr Lipwig.
But if I'm to restore the Post
Office, I have to pay the builders.
Send the bills to Drumknott.
Your job is to make sure
that Reacher Gilt
is in no position to burn
the Post Office down again.
He's a murderer.
An accusation
for which you have hard evidence?
Your spies could find some evidence,
no doubt.
Spies?
I did hear there was a man
on the inside.
But he was dropped
from his position.
Quite literally.
John Dearheart was your spy?
He was a spy.
But he didn't get very far.
Perhaps if he'd possessed
the agile mind of a conman,
he might have had more success
as a spy.
You think I'm some thug piece
to be moved around at your leisure?
Precisely.
No.
I won't be your spy.
Shame. Miss Dearheart
would have been impressed.
Indeed it is
the very essence of golem.
But enough is enough.
This postmaster, this Lipwig,
is an exploiter.
The Golem Trust can't allow it
and won't allow it.
Just because
you don't need a tea break
doesn't mean you're not
entitled to one.
Right now the Post Office
needs you more than you need it.
There is only one course of action
to take in those circumstances.
Strike and strike hard.
So what do we want?
OK.
OK, let's go straight to the vote.
All those in favour of
an immediate withdrawal of labour
raise your hand.
Oh, I see.
I suppose you all think the sun
shines out of Lipwig's backside.
Very well.
But don't come running to me
when you're so worn out
that the only thing you're able
to hold is a pot plant.
Adora.
Adora, wait.
How dare you turn my golems
against me.
You're the one who said
they can't be manipulated.
The brochure is being revised.
Did you know your brother was a spy
for Lord Vetinari?
You really will say anything
just to get my attention.
It's the truth.
Let my brother rest in peace.
Fine, then here's what we'll do.
We'll keep on fighting day and night.
We'II make sure
we never share information
that could damage the clacks.
That way Reacher Gilt's sure to win.
You think you're the only one
who can bring down Reacher Gilt.
The arrogance, the conceit.
I don't need you.
I'll show you just how much
I don't need you.
The one-woman crusade, how noble.
You'll see. The whole city will see.
Good work, lads.
Are we ready, Mr Groat?
Just a few more, sir.
Bet you're glad you invented
perforations, eh, Stanley?
Strange thing is some people
are sending letters to themselves.
What?
Once the stamp has been through
the post it makes it more real.
You see, people are collecting them.
Just like you and your pins, eh?
Pins?
Oh, pins.
No, pins are just
pointy metal things.
> Ready to roll, sir.
All you good people of the city.
Now run in conjunction
with Hobson's Livery,
it gives me great pleasure
to crack the whip
on the overnight express
to Sto Lat.
So much for us having won.
How dare the gods work against me.
I don't remember
giving them permission.
Why don't we just concentrate
on our own business?
Because Lipwig's taking
our business.
Look at them.
One artist's impression...
and they believe.
Of course,
posting the letter is one thing.
Making sure it arrives
is another thing altogether.
Yah! Yah!
Oh, here we go again.
What's up?
It's jammed.
Maybe it's iced up.
Better call maintenance.
Oh yeah, yeah.
Like we got three days to waste.
Princess,
you've got to come and see this.
I'm looking right at it.
A fault?
It seems it's spreading
right through the system,
which is why we need
to shut everything down now.
Shut down the entire clacks?
It's the only way.
Did I tell you the good news,
Mr Pony?
I'm recommending you for a pay rise.
A substantial pay rise.
And I'm pushing for a bonus, too.
That's very generous of you,
Mr Gilt.
Nothing less than you deserve,
Mr Po-
Or may I call you...
...George.
Problem is, George,
I have to answer to the board.
And what will they say
when my very next sentence is,
"Mr Pony wants to shut down
the clacks."
Well, you don't have to be
a boardroom veteran
to work that one out, do you?
I want you to have that bonus,
George.
I really do.
So I'm going to ask you
just one more time.
Are you absolutely sure you can't
solve this technical hiccough
without having to shut down
the whole system?
Well, maybe we can come at it
from a different angle.
By damn it, George,
you've talked me into it.
I'll tell the board you've got
the whole thing under control.
Your skill and ingenuity
will be the saving of the company.
I hadn't budgeted for any pay rises,
Reacher.
You won't have to.
Money dangled is much more
effective than...
... money given.
Er, talking of wages.
How much did you pay
the banshee in the end?
What does it matter?
I just need to reconcile my ledger.
You mean you actually intend
to write down how much
I paid an assassin?
I've always done it in the past.
Well, got to keep records, Reacher.
Can't cover your tracks if you
don't know where you've left them.
And is that the only ledger?
No, I've got dozens of them
going back years.
Oh.
I'd love to see them, Horsefry.
Really?
Yes.
They're in my office.
Come up any time.
Now, Crispin.
I want to see them.
Now.
Never shown any interest before.
No.
Well, I'm very interested in...
...settling accounts.
Thank you.
There you are.
So that's what she meant.
Mr Lipwig, sir.
Oh, calamity.
The mail coach is back, sir.
Already?
But there's no mail.
And not much coach.
So efficient.
Thank you.
Nice to be appreciated.
What have you done, Horsefry?
Er...
...my job.
Account for things.
Damn you.
Account for this.
Reacher, no!
Leave it.
What are you doing?
Saving us from prison.
But we have to keep account.
Your job is to hide things,
not to declare them
for the whole world to see.
Please, Reacher!
It is my life's work.
Get off me, you fat fool.
Look at you.
Loose flesh, loose tongue,
loose brain.
Just loose everything.
The fact is, Horsefry,
you're too stupid to live.
Found the fault yet, Mr Pony?
I- I...
Mr Horsefry was taken ill.
It left a nasty stain on the carpet.
I sent him home.
But can't stand the smell.
Mr Pony,
that's not the look of a man
who's in for a substantial pay rise.
Better.
Adora, that's a really neat trick
you pulled off.
I knew you'd see it my way.
I have no idea
what you're talking about.
Freezing the towers.
That was very slick.
The trouble is, right now the
Post Office is down, too. Bandits.
Hmm. How careless of you.
We need a double whammy.
As you hit the clacks,
we can steal their business.
A synchronised attack.
I wouldn't synchronise with you
if you were the last person
on the Disc.
40 Passing Clouds, please.
You know what?
You're right. You don't need me.
You're more than capable of bringing
down Reacher Gilt on your own.
You've got it all under control
so I'll just walk away
and leave you in peace.
You won't ever hear from me again.
Two...
Don't you want to know how I did it?
Go out onto the Post Office roof.
Get yourself a little bit closer
to Heaven.
Then get down on your knees
and pray.
You know how to pray, don't you?
Just put your hands together
and hope.
Hello?
She said pray.
Hope you don't mind
about the sausage business.
But, to be perfectly honest,
I think we both came out of it
looking pretty good.
Anyway, I was wondering if -
Is this about the rent?
Who the hell are you?
We paid Mr Groat. So you'll
have to take it up with him.
Forget Groat.
What are you doing on my roof?
I'm Mad Al. He's Sane Alex.
And that's Adrian.
He says he's not mad
but you can't prove it, can you?
We're pigeon fanciers.
So where are the pigeons?
Out flying.
Pigeons don't fly at night.
Bats.
We're trying to breed homing bats.
Bats don't have a homing instinct.
Yes.
Tragic, isn't it?
Yeah, because sometimes
I come up here at night
and I just see their empty
little perches.
As all I can do not to cry.
Well, I'm sure Lord Vetinari will be
fascinated to hear all about it.
You know, I quite enjoyed
seeing you on your knees.
Adora.
The Smoking GNU, actually.
You can really jam the whole
clacks system from a pigeon loft?
Mm-hmm.
Nice trick.
Trick?
This is cutting edge cracking.
Two years in development.
Iterative beta testing.
Culminating in this.
Away you go, boys.
Firing out from here...
...into the Grand Trunk.
Then...
Jam.
But before it jams,
it's already passed the code on.
So...
Jam.
The problem started at this tower.
And I think one of you
has been meddling.
Was it him?
Was this his idea of a joke?
No, sir. He didn't do anything.
Then it must have been you.
You with a juvenile sense of humour.
Stay back. I'll have to drop
every employee until someone -
I've got it. I know what's happened.
One moment, Mr Pony.
I'm just disposing of some assets.
Hey! That's my niece.
Oh, that is useful to know.
It's a strange aperture.
It's jumping off
the elliptical bearing.
I can fix it.
If you hit Q and then K,
and the resonant frequency
to sent it to Genua,
when the pressure
is higher than ours -
Spare me the details.
Can you trace it?
Well, there's over
10,000 messages here.
I might be able to find it.
Thank you.
There, there.
Better stop down now.
When the sun comes up,
they can see us. Shh.
See?
We can do to the clacks
what my stiletto did to your foot.
It's not a bad start.
Not bad?
As long as we're sending, Reacher
Gilt doesn't earn a single dollar.
Ah, but if we worked together
while you're stabbing his foot,
I can be picking his pocket.
The great thing about the Post Office
is we don't rely
on complicated machines.
We have hands and feet.
And...
...strong ones at that.
Heave away, Mr Pump.
Ladies, gentlemen,
don't get caught in the clacks.
Come join us at the Post Office.
We'II get your message delivered.
You see, the clacks system works
at the cutting edge of technology.
And in the white heat of progress
there are sometimes complications.
But I can assure you
there are now all resolved.
Some people are saying -
And we'll be providing refunds for
any messages that have been lost.
All you have to do is
fill in the claim form.
But I do urge your readers
not to do anything as rash
as writing a letter
and sending it by post.
Wouldn't you -
You might as well tear it up
and scatter it to the four winds.
Mr Gilt, this claim form
is 50 pages long.
A help desk will be provided.
But, please, don't get bogged down
in the details.
What really matters is
we fly high above the bandits.
I will wager my hat of office
that the clacks will have broken down
by sunset tonight.
And when we win, I'll burn his
ludicrous hat of office in this.
Now to collect on that wager.
Ready to stick the stiletto in?
The pleasure's all ours.
So, how long does it take?
It should have got
to the first tower already.
I must say, it's looking
distinctly underwhelming.
It's alright leaving us.
So much for iterative beta testing.
Don't shout at me.
I'm not shouting.
I'm just calmly stating.
Well, just don't.
Is it possible they could have...
...cracked our code?
Just as I was beginning
to like the hat.
Stop whining, Lipwig.
I'm not whining, I'm just -
I'd like to know why
the GNU isn't smoking.
I'm sure you've talked your way
out of worse situations before.
That was the old Lipwig, remember?
I'm a changed man now.
Mr Lipwig, sir. Mr... oh.
Mr Lipwig, sir.
Mr Groat.
I imagine Gilt's demanding the hat.
You're not gonna let them have it,
are you?
What's that I hear?
Nothing.
Moist Von Lipwig has nothing to say.
Have we lost everything?
Relax, Mr Groat.
I'm not done yet.
All I have to do...
...is attempt the impossible.
As you can see, the sun has set
and the clacks system
is working perfectly.
All that remains is for
the Postmaster to admit defeat.
But where is he?
Another empty promise.
Now, don't get me wrong.
I have a fondness
for the quaint old Post Office.
It's part of our history.
But, really,
that is where it belongs.
Did someone ask for me?
Ah, Postmaster.
Just in time.
The fire was getting low.
Well...
...if you're too scared
to rise to the challenge.
Have it.
Challenge?
An overnight race
from here to Uberwald.
The clacks versus the post.
That's over a thousand miles away.
1,700 miles, to be precise,
Miss Cripslock.
Mr Gilt,
do you accept the challenge?
Accept?
How could the clacks possibly lose?
Well, you've made quite a splash.
As the fish said to the man with
the lead weight tied to his feet.
Perhaps I'm missing something.
No, my lord, it's a straight race.
But you can't possibly win.
I agree, it won't be easy.
And I must insist
that the race is run fairly
with strict rules.
I have no intention of cheating.
And I ask for no favours.
All I ask is that when I win,
Reacher Gilt hands over
the entire clacks network.
Very well.
But I have a condition of my own.
If you lose, Mr Lipwig, you hang.
Really?
It seems a little harsh.
But fair.
If you lose, you will have
outlived your usefulness.
Having second thoughts, Postmaster?
Let's race.
Very good, sir.
The worried look. Very convincing.
Throws them off the scent.
Yes.
But how do you know
I'm not really worried?
Because you're the man
who got money out of the gods, sir.
Ah. Yeah.
Supposing I did that with a trick?
Damn good trick, sir, damn good.
A man who can trick money out of the
gods is capable of anything, sir.
Mr Groat.
Hmm?
What if I told you that, er...
There's no way a coach
can get to Uberwald
faster than the clacks machines?
Of course you have to say that, sir.
Because the walls have ears, eh?
Mum's the word.
Everything?
Everything.
But there's 15 years of work here.
He's grown out of pins.
Sir, pins are for life.
They stick with you.
He's starting a new life.
Isn't that right, Stanley?
So. How much?
Dave, what do you think
about stamps?
So... what's the plan?
How can you possibly win?
Hmm?
Friction.
The coach will be so shiny
it'II glide through the air.
Meanwhile back in the real world
The Post Office
is a hopeless underdog.
Ah, but the underdog can always
find somewhere soft to bite.
This is no time for witty banter.
We're not on a date.
Do you have a plan?
Do you trust me?
No.
Do you have a plan?
Of course.
We got 50-1. 50-1, sir.
You haven't done anything silly,
I hope.
No, no, no. I took all me savings,
Stanley here sold his pin collection
and we put the whole lot
on you to win the race.
The whole lot?
Erm...
Perhaps that wasn't so wise.
50-1.
But we don't want to appear greedy.
Do we?
I mean, we want to keep
the moral high ground.
Bugger the moral high ground.
We'll be rich.
It's all thanks
to your inspired plan, sir.
Mr Groat.
What?
Let's go and see if the golems
want to cash in. Good idea, lad.
Oh, my God.
There is no inspired plan.
There.
Right between your eyes.
The next time I see you,
that's where I'm aiming.
Messages can be blocked.
I trust you have
discovered Lipwig's plan.
I'm afraid not, sir.
Only a fool would challenge
the clacks with a horse and cart.
He must have a trick up his sleeve.
Now...
...what is it?
All I can promise you, sir,
is the clacks won't let you down.
We're clearing all messages off the
system, running double bandwidth,
I'm putting all my best operators -
You just remember,
if I'm made to look a fool,
your pretty little niece
will rue the day
her Uncle Pony
got her a job at the clacks!
Archchancellor Ridcully, my lord.
This had better be important,
I'm in the middle of an experiment.
Involving a knife and fork,
no doubt.
I wouldn't expect a layman
to understand the pressures
of university life.
Incredible though it may seem,
we have found a practical use
for one of your magical devices.
Have you?
The object in question is...
An Omniscope, my lord.
Enabling us to see things
at a distance, I believe.
The Omniscope is a highly complex,
very unstable piece of equipment.
You mean, it doesn't work?
Well...
Relatively speaking, it works.
Excellent, kindly have it
up and running by dawn tomorrow.
Now, listen,
magic is not some workmen's tool
that you can hire out by the hour.
Just as well, because
I wasn't intending to pay you.
Can I help?
Mr Pony.
Miss Adora.
How have you been?
It's nice to see you
after all these years.
I'm sorry I never came
to your father's funeral.
It didn't seem right.
What happened wasn't your fault.
You must hate me
for staying on at the clacks.
You're just doing your job, Mr Pony.
The truth is,
clacks is run on blood now.
There's not a day goes by
when I wouldn't like
to throw my resignation
in Reacher Gilt's face.
I'm 58.
Twinges in my knuckles,
a sick wife and a bad back.
You have to think twice, don't you,
before such gestures?
My father always said
you were a good man.
And a great engineer.
I'm sure he was right.
No.
Your father was a great engineer.
Gilt tried to burn these.
I'm sure you'll know
what to do with them.
I'm sorry.
Stand by to repel borders.
Adora?
If this is about
what I said earlier...
They killed him.
They killed John and they put
his name in a debit column.
These people, they...
...they get away with murder and
everyone just looks the other way.
No, not everyone.
Just because you were right,
doesn't mean you have to gloat.
Forget gloating.
Now I really do have a plan.
Go away!
All you do is talk of plans.
Crazy, non-existent plans.
What sort of man are you?
Adora, just listen to me.
Give me the crossbow.
Those ledgers
are the key to everything!
Just hear me out.
If you don't like the plan,
be my guest. Shoot.
This had better be good.
Now then, boys, you take the message
and ride hell-for-leather
to Uberwald.
But how are we going to get
to Uberwald overnight, sir?
You're not, Mr Groat.
Does that mean you're going to hang,
Mr Lipwig?
Not if I can help it.
I have a plan, Stan.
I need you to take a little detour.
There is a derelict clacks tower
and I need you to deliver
some canvas and ropes and rigging.
Rigging? Is this about boats, sir.
Only I can't do boats.
I get very seasick.
Not boats, Mr Groat. Sails.
We are going to block out
their message with a sail.
Block it out? Won't they notice?
Not if we put our own message
in its place.
Sorry, sir,
could you run that by me again?
Yeah. I got a bit lost at... sail.
Hello!
Hello, Ankh-Morpork!
Welcome to the great race!
Lovely to see you all!
Hello!
Hello.
Nice entrance.
It will make up
for your ignominious exit.
Hello, sir.
Citizens of Ankh-Morpork.
As per Lord Vetinari's directive
number P1500-
We know why we are here.
To witness a great race!
The Postmaster has challenged
the clacks.
Two identical messages
must be delivered to Uberwald.
The wizard's Omniscope
will show us the finish line.
Get it ready by sunrise, Ridcully,
which is when I expect to win.
And to show the spirit of fair play,
we have graciously allowed the
Post Office to choose the message.
I thought long and hard
about an appropriate message.
And then, I remembered
how nice it is to receive a parcel.
So, why not a book?
The authorised, illustrated
biography of Lord Vetinari.
You think yourself so clever,
lt'll buy you a few hours at best.
Our message
will still be there by dawn,
while your lumbering coach
will get bogged down
in some godforsaken marsh.
Maybe.
Maybe not.
Ready when you are, my lord.
Get clacksing!
Come on, move it!
If we win this race...
...you can have a half-day holiday!
Come on!
Get on with it.
You took a while.
I had to stop a couple of times,
all that bumping and jolting,
my bladder's not what it used to be.
If we don't get this sail rigged
before they start sending,
we're done for.
Yeah, alright.
OK!
Ready?
Hoist it up, lads.
Quick as you can.
Alright!
Come on,
let's get a wriggle on here!
Where are ya?
Here, look, stick your boot
in there, will you?
Still here, Mr Groat?
I'm not built for parcel post, sir.
Now, you know what to do?
Ride like the clappers, sir.
Good man, stop for nothing.
The mail must get through!
No gloom of night.
Hey, Mr Lipwig.
Exactly, Stanley, no gloom of night.
C- C-Can I say, sir, even if we
lose and the Post Office collapses,
and all this was in vain -
And you get hanged.
Yes, sir, even dead,
you are still the best
Postmaster we have ever had.
That's very touching, Mr Groat.
But I'm not dead yet.
Good luck, boys.
Why aren't we sending?!
I want to see those lights flashing!
Where's Mr Pony?
Get me Pony!
That's what I love
about the Dearhearts.
Perfect alignment.
Any message coming out of there
comes straight through us.
Time to create some interference.
OK, 14!
Number 14!
14's good.
Number 15?
OK, there is a snag on 15!
It's stuck! It's stuck!
Where's the hammer?
I put it back in the toolbox.
It's not here!
It's in there!
In the spanner drawer!
Yeah, it's still the toolbox!
And who would look for a hammer
in the spanner drawer?
Boys!
We haven't got time for this!
A place for everything
and everything in its place!
If you say that one more time, I'll
find another place for the hammer!
Oh, for God's sake, look!
They're sending!
Let's go, come on!
Grand Trunk are sending the message.
Hurry up!
Pull it up!
Come on boys, pull!
It's stuck!
Pull it! Keep pulling!
It's stuck on something!
If you want something done
properly...
Oh no, up we go!
Strange. The signal's stopped.
No, it can't have,
this is top priority.
Send! Send!
For God's sake, start sending!
It's OK. They're sending again.
Yes! Yes! They've taken the bait!
They're passing it on!
Adora!
I'm coming for you!
What kept you?
Adora...
I don't suppose...
...now would be a good time
to ask you something?
Well, I can hardly walk away.
Will you marry me?
You are forgetting...
...we still have a race to win.
That's not exactly a rejection.
Not exactly.
< Hang on!
Down you get, Mr Lipwig.
You're under arrest.
What for now?
Same as last time. Doing a runner.
But- but I've come back.
Let's keep it that way.
Lord Vetinari's orders.
Listen.
Nice you have you with us again,
sir. Same last words as before?
I'm rather hoping there'll be
a different outcome this time.
Keep your hands off.
Let's see some magic, please.
It'll come in a moment.
Please don't touch it.
There we are.
We need to read the ticker-tape,
Archchancellor.
Nobody said anything about
a close-up.
Can't you just move it in?
Just move it in? This is a highly
sophisticated magical apparatus.
There we are.
I think we have a winner, my lord.
Mm-hmm.
Uberwald receiving station,
message as follows.
"Havelock Vetinari was born into
a wealthy and influential family."
There we have it, my lord.
The message has arrived, delivered
on time by clacks technology.
The clacks has won.
Never mind, sir. It could be worse.
How, exactly?
Well, we've got a good crowd,
lots of press.
They'd even promised me
a review in "What Gallows?".
Pull the lever, Mr Trooper.
No, wait.
The message hasn't finished yet.
They're playing for time!
My Lord, it's clear the race
is over. I demand my prize.
My last words!
I haven't had my last words.
If he must.
Strange as it may seem,
as I stand here on
the verge of oblivion
I have a great sense of relief.
I no longer fear the worst because,
frankly, the worst has happened.
And although I may not have always
been a model citizen,
finally I've been made
to see the error of my ways.
Not by the heavy hand of the law,
but by the gentle touch of...
...well.
By the gentlest touch of all.
Very nice, sir. Stand by.
No, there's more.
Where's it gone?
It's not coming back.
Give it a moment.
Don't breathe on it.
The man who has never known love
has never really lived.
Get on with it.
But worst is the man
who avoids love.
Too true. Well said, sir. Now...
Because the man who runs from love
and all its trials and tribulations,
that man is just conning himself,
swindling himself out of true...
Ah. There we are.
...happiness.
Sorry to interrupt, my lord.
I wish someone would.
I'm not quite sure what this means
but I think you ought to hear it.
Message continues.
"We are the voice of the dead."
"The ghosts of those
who met a bloody end."
That's enough. The race is finished.
"Postmaster Mutable pushed
from the fifth floor."
"Postmaster Sideburn,
his neck broken."
Pack it all away!
Touch nothing.
"John Dearheart,
flung to his death from a tower."
"And Crispin Horsefry,
clubbed to death by Reacher Gilt."
Turn it off!
"Here follow the facts and figures
proving fraud,
embezzlement and murder."
"The full record of the clandestine
dealings of Reacher Gilt."
My Lord, they're lying. Lying.
Who are they, exactly?
They're only reading
what has been delivered by you.
The message has originated
from your own company
which makes it a confession.
I confess nothing!
Lipwig!
Your safety is my concern,
Mr Lipwig.
Your safety is my concern.
Arrest Reacher Gilt.
He appears to have vanished,
my lord.
Find him.
An ingenious plan, Mr Lipwig.
And most effective.
Which is why I have agreed to your
request to hand over ownership
of the clacks back
to the Dearheart family.
Just sign here.
And here.
No need to thank me.
However, as the two of you now run
all communications
in and out of this city,
should I find that my long-range
game of thud is interrupted
I shall come looking
for one of you to blame.
I wonder which one it will be.
By the way, you look great.
Colour really suits you.
Thank you.
Is that as sore as it looks?
Oh, it's not the first time
I've been hanged.
A bad habit to get into.
I'll tell you what, I'll give up
hanging if you give up smoking.
Too late.
I already quit.
You did that for me?
Why on earth would you think that?
Adora...
...those things I said on the gallows
when I was staring death in the face
about the gentlest touch of all.
You do know I meant every word?
Yes.
It's amazing the rubbish
some people spout
when they're trying
to save their lives.
Or trying to get a kiss.
Of course, we can't do this.
What now?
Conflict of interest.
You're the Post Office,
I'm the clacks.
We're rivals.
Which throws up some very interesting
possibilities of a corporate merger,
don't you think?
Maybe.
Well, I'd certainly like
to get my hands on your assets.
Keep your hands as far away
from my assets as humanly possibly.
Ah, Mr Gilt.
I see you are awake.
I don't know what you're
talking about.
My name is Merryforth Truman and...
...l've got papers to prove it.
Some wonderful papers
they are too, Mr Gilt.
But enough of that.
I've brought you here because
I want to talk to you about angels.
Come.
Excuse me, my lord. I've got a letter
here for Merryforth Truman.
Strewth.
He was here, but sadly
he didn't believe in angels.
Oh.
Well, that's a bit
of an embuggerance.
We did it, Mr Groat.
Home sweet home.
Stanley,
it's not only the race we won.
The bet, remember.
50-1. Blimey, we're rich.
Let's have the betting slip, then.
I gave it to you, Mr Groat.
Hey?
Oh, yes. I've got it here somewhere.
You can't have lost it, Mr Groat.
50-1.
50-1.
No, of course.
I remember now.
I've put it somewhere safe.
I, erm...
...I hid it under the mattress.
Which mattress?
The one in that tavern.
Which tavern, Mr Groat?
You remember, that...
...that nice one in Uberwald.
Oh!
Uberwald...
Mr Groat, Mr Groat!
Get in the carriage, Mr Groat!
Hear the cry of the banshee and die!
Actually...
...it's banshee cries, somebody dies.
Today it's you.
Missed both my hearts.
I do love postmasters.
Killing them is so lucrative.
Who's paying you?
Not everyone can afford
assassin of calibre.
I deal with all Reacher's
loose ends.
Gilt.
The Dearheart boy
screamed like a pig.
Screamed like a pig!
Till he struck the ground.
Time to shut up shop, Postmaster.
This is not Reacher Gilt's
Post Office to close.
It belongs to the city.
How dare he come in here
and destroy it.
Oh, please!
Can't I even die in peace?
I mean, I'm no angel, but him?
He's a devil.
"Upon discovery of fire,
remain calm."
"Shout 'fire'
in a loud, clear voice."
Fire!
Stanley.
"If trapped...
...await A, rescue or B, death."
Straightforward enough.
A it is, then.
Come on.
I owe you.
Where are the fire brigade?
We have no insurance.
What?
I'm sorry, sir,
it was fire insurance or food.
Where are the buckets then?
This is beyond buckets, Mr Lipwig.
Hmm!
Adora.
Care for a dance?
A dance? With you?
A self-centred skuggem
with the moral fibre of a...
A rat?
A rat.
Thank you.
My pleasure.
Let me go!
Not until I've told you
what's really going on.
You destroyed my family,
that's what's going on.
That was an accident.
I can put it right.
You don't know the meaning
of the word "right".
Those dead postmasters,
Gilt had them killed.
He tried to kill me, too.
Who'd have thought I had something
in common with Reacher Gilt?
Adora, he murdered your brother.
John wore a safety line,
but he fell to his death.
It doesn't make sense, unless you
hire a flying banshee to push him.
And banshees are Gilt's
weapon of choice.
You've got proof?
Of course.
Well, the banshee was my proof.
He knew everything.
Except how to be fireproof.
How convenient!
Even so, I think I can bring down
Reacher Gilt.
All talk and no action, as usual.
Adora, will you trust me
just this once?
Oh!
Does that answer your question?
Any comment to go with the picture,
Mr Lipwig?
Reacher.
Marvellous, isn't it?
A bit...
...extreme?
The point is, Horsefry, we've won.
We've won.
Well, I suppose that's one way
to deal with the backlog.
How can you joke?
That's our life. And it's gone.
Be brave, Mr Groat.
There's our customers over there.
Sending clacks, we've lost them.
Then we'II just have
to win them back again, won't we?
Come on, Mr Groat.
The Post Office is open... as usual.
A bit more open than usual,
I would say.
< Number four delivery, proceed.
Number four delivery.
Stan!
Aggy!
Not many of us old postmen
left now, Mr Groat.
We help out the best we can
in the post's hour of need.
See?
People love the Post Office.
So...
Get your men organised,
Deputy Postmaster Groat.
I want them...
Did you say deputy postmaster, sir?
I did.
And, what's more,
I want your men out on the streets
delivering the mail today.
Yes, sir.
Looks like the clacks is down again.
This really is my lucky day.
Special today, ladies and gentlemen,
mail to Pseudopolis
reduced to three pence.
Three pence only.
And if anyone has a message
already stuck in the clacks,
we'll deliver it for free.
No matter how hard I scrape my shoe,
Lipwig remains stuck to it.
It says here he was unscathed.
Does this mean we have to try again?
No.
He may be alive,
but he's yesterday's man.
Knowing Lipwig, he'll rebuild.
With what?
Lt'll cost a fortune.
And the... Post Office is bankrupt.
Nevertheless, people...
...seem to have a fondness
for the post.
My latest innovation
will change all that.
Innovation?
We closed down research
and development years ago.
This isn't about research, Horsefry.
This is about dazzling the masses
with a bauble.
I believe the respectable term is...
...marketing.
We are proud
to usher in a new era.
The mobile era.
A network of towers like this
will move around Discworld
as demand requires.
This doesn't look good.
In future,
if you can't get to a clacks tower,
the clacks tower
will be brought to you.
Full coverage for the entire Disc.
Mr Gilt, today's increase
in the price of clacks messages
is the fifth this year.
Surely that is extortion.
This is the future
of long-distance communication,
and new technology is not cheap.
Would you really have that
when you can have this?
But he had the Post Office
destroyed.
We have no proof, Mr Pump.
We must do something.
Follow me.
Arrest those men!
For what?
Vandalising clacks property.
I think you'll find the only offence
here is trespass.
Your map was being paraded
on Post Office property.
I'll see you paraded
through hell, Lipwig.
Are you going to send another
assassin to sort me out?
Assassin? I have no idea
what you're talking about.
Mr Gryle and I
had a very interesting chat.
I know exactly
what you've been up to.
Where's your proof?
All in good time.
You're such a fraud.
And you're such a murderer.
That is slander.
This is a declaration of war.
Can I quote you on that?
If you want a quote,
Miss Cripslock, try this.
Neither rain nor fire
can stop the post.
Very stirring.
But his quote had "war" in it.
Fine talk, sir. Fine talk.
You do give a good bite of sound.
If you don't mind me saying,
it's bugger all help.
I know, I know.
They come through with a new
technological breakthrough.
"A modern miracle that will change
communications for ever."
And we haven't even got a roof.
Oh, one decent downpour
and all this will be papier-mache.
Big roofs cost big money.
That's it, Mr Groat.
Rain.
Rainy days.
The problem with people who put
money away for a rainy day
is they never know when it's raining.
Well, I think it's about to pour.
Stress.
It does funny things to a man.
Sausage?
Mrs Leakall's
Premium Reserve sausages.
A special offering.
Because I have a special prayer.
Well, you're off to a good start.
Tell me, how do you actually
get the sausages up there?
Frying. The gift of sausages ascends
onto Offler, the sacred crocodile,
by means of smell.
And then you... eat the sausage?
A common misconception.
But the true sausagidity
goes to Offler.
He eats the... essence
of the sausages.
While we priests
eat the earthly shell.
That would explain
why the smell of sausages
is always better than
the actual taste, perhaps.
You should have been a theologian.
So, what is your prayer
to accompany Mrs Leakall's finest?
Just the usual.
Pennies from heaven.
$150,000... to be precise.
Might take more than a few sausages
to get something that... specific.
But... let's give it a shot.
Post!
Post!
Good work, Stanley. That'll do it.
Forwards, Stanley, forwards.
Post.
Come on.
Everyone loves getting a letter.
I think it's best
you stay away from Miss Adora.
Stay away?
I can't do that, she loves me.
But she just tried to kill you.
Well, the human heart
is a complex thing, Mr Pump.
Love, hate,
they're just a breath apart.
She doesn't know it yet,
but she loves me.
Mr Pump.
That's your third delivery today.
Many letters survived the fire.
We are working round the clock
to deliver them.
Round the clock?
Without a break.
That is how much we believe
in Postmaster Lipwig.
But that's exploitation.
The Golem Trust can't allow it.
You misunderstand.
We volunteered.
Volunteered?
That is the worst form
of exploitation.
Rats.
What are you doing, Horsefry?
I need it for my budget.
Budget?
I need to know how many towers
we're going to build.
Do you know what I really like
about you, Horsefry?
Your naivety.
Sorry, don't quite get you.
We put up the clacks charges
to finance a fleet of towers, right?
But we don't actually build any.
So the extra revenue
becomes pure profit.
But won't people
want to see some towers?
Well, we'll wheel out that fancy
model every now and then,
give the idiots
some eye candy to gawp at.
Meanwhile, the mobile clacks project
is officially in development.
Shame.
I thought it was a good idea.
Horsefry, Horsefry.
They aim of business is?
Erm...
Not to provide a good service,
but to provide the...
Only.
...only service.
They seem very taken with
the new-fangled towers, sir.
It's the oldest trick in the book.
Dazzle the punter
with a pretty picture.
What's a punter?
They haven't even built
the mobiles yet, have they?
It's all promise.
Know what happens to promises.
Will the people
ever come back to us?
How would they be able to resist
when we have our new
state-of-the-art Post Office?
Not in our lifetime.
You underestimate me, Mr Groat.
I don't want to hurt your feelings,
but praying for money
is a bit desperate, don't you think?
There's a god out there for everyone.
The trick is hooking up with -
Mr Lipwig! Mr Lipwig!
Mr Lipwig!
The light.
The wonderful light.
Glory be to Offler.
The sacred crocodile god.
Oh!
He's blind. He's blind.
Mr Lipwig, sir.
Mr Lipwig! Mr Lipwig!
One regular white,
one skinny Klatchian.
And two figgins, please.
Somebody call a doctor.
Can you see nothing at all?
Are you totally blind?
Only blind to this world, my friend.
Now I perceive the inner truth.
Yes.
The angels of Offler...
...whisper onto me.
One... hundred... and...
...fifty thousand dollars.
Buried... in a forest.
Offler.
I am not worthy.
Let the angels choose a holy witness.
Me, me!
I'll give you the front page.
You...
...are chosen.
Offler says... to the hop gate.
And bring a shovel.
Divine intervention.
Show me the way!
The praying man.
It is here.
The praying man
under the praying tree.
Looks like an elephant to me.
Well, now you mention it,
I can definitely see a praying man.
He can see.
What's going on?
You're under arrest,
that's what's going on.
Hello again.
Mr Lipwig.
I demand you step aside.
Can't you wait
until Mr Lipwig returns?
Mr Lipwig is in breach of contract.
But we golems
are satisfied with him.
You've been manipulated by him.
Not manipulated.
Persuaded.
Now you're making me angry.
Pump 19.
I will assemble the golems.
Mr Lipwig.
You've had a most strenuous day,
have you not?
Can't be as strenuous
as signing death warrants.
Joke.
Oh, I'm sorry, I hadn't realised.
Do tell me if you feel obliged
to make another.
To be honest, today has all been
a bit of a blur.
There's $150,000 buried
in the forest.
And you have no idea
how it got there.
It's miraculous.
A remarkable coincidence that
it is precisely the sum of money
that was hidden
by a notorious conman.
Conman?
Who was that then?
We hanged him. He's dead.
Isn't he?
Yes. He's dead.
Excellent.
So, as this money
is a gift from the gods,
it should be used for
the public good, should it not?
The eyes, Mr Lipwig.
Hmm?
You can trust me.
Oh, that.
Made from turtle egg shells.
Ingenious.
Thank you.
I meant me
for making you postmaster.
Ah. Marvellous.
Mr Lipwig.
But if I'm to restore the Post
Office, I have to pay the builders.
Send the bills to Drumknott.
Your job is to make sure
that Reacher Gilt
is in no position to burn
the Post Office down again.
He's a murderer.
An accusation
for which you have hard evidence?
Your spies could find some evidence,
no doubt.
Spies?
I did hear there was a man
on the inside.
But he was dropped
from his position.
Quite literally.
John Dearheart was your spy?
He was a spy.
But he didn't get very far.
Perhaps if he'd possessed
the agile mind of a conman,
he might have had more success
as a spy.
You think I'm some thug piece
to be moved around at your leisure?
Precisely.
No.
I won't be your spy.
Shame. Miss Dearheart
would have been impressed.
Indeed it is
the very essence of golem.
But enough is enough.
This postmaster, this Lipwig,
is an exploiter.
The Golem Trust can't allow it
and won't allow it.
Just because
you don't need a tea break
doesn't mean you're not
entitled to one.
Right now the Post Office
needs you more than you need it.
There is only one course of action
to take in those circumstances.
Strike and strike hard.
So what do we want?
OK.
OK, let's go straight to the vote.
All those in favour of
an immediate withdrawal of labour
raise your hand.
Oh, I see.
I suppose you all think the sun
shines out of Lipwig's backside.
Very well.
But don't come running to me
when you're so worn out
that the only thing you're able
to hold is a pot plant.
Adora.
Adora, wait.
How dare you turn my golems
against me.
You're the one who said
they can't be manipulated.
The brochure is being revised.
Did you know your brother was a spy
for Lord Vetinari?
You really will say anything
just to get my attention.
It's the truth.
Let my brother rest in peace.
Fine, then here's what we'll do.
We'll keep on fighting day and night.
We'II make sure
we never share information
that could damage the clacks.
That way Reacher Gilt's sure to win.
You think you're the only one
who can bring down Reacher Gilt.
The arrogance, the conceit.
I don't need you.
I'll show you just how much
I don't need you.
The one-woman crusade, how noble.
You'll see. The whole city will see.
Good work, lads.
Are we ready, Mr Groat?
Just a few more, sir.
Bet you're glad you invented
perforations, eh, Stanley?
Strange thing is some people
are sending letters to themselves.
What?
Once the stamp has been through
the post it makes it more real.
You see, people are collecting them.
Just like you and your pins, eh?
Pins?
Oh, pins.
No, pins are just
pointy metal things.
> Ready to roll, sir.
All you good people of the city.
Now run in conjunction
with Hobson's Livery,
it gives me great pleasure
to crack the whip
on the overnight express
to Sto Lat.
So much for us having won.
How dare the gods work against me.
I don't remember
giving them permission.
Why don't we just concentrate
on our own business?
Because Lipwig's taking
our business.
Look at them.
One artist's impression...
and they believe.
Of course,
posting the letter is one thing.
Making sure it arrives
is another thing altogether.
Yah! Yah!
Oh, here we go again.
What's up?
It's jammed.
Maybe it's iced up.
Better call maintenance.
Oh yeah, yeah.
Like we got three days to waste.
Princess,
you've got to come and see this.
I'm looking right at it.
A fault?
It seems it's spreading
right through the system,
which is why we need
to shut everything down now.
Shut down the entire clacks?
It's the only way.
Did I tell you the good news,
Mr Pony?
I'm recommending you for a pay rise.
A substantial pay rise.
And I'm pushing for a bonus, too.
That's very generous of you,
Mr Gilt.
Nothing less than you deserve,
Mr Po-
Or may I call you...
...George.
Problem is, George,
I have to answer to the board.
And what will they say
when my very next sentence is,
"Mr Pony wants to shut down
the clacks."
Well, you don't have to be
a boardroom veteran
to work that one out, do you?
I want you to have that bonus,
George.
I really do.
So I'm going to ask you
just one more time.
Are you absolutely sure you can't
solve this technical hiccough
without having to shut down
the whole system?
Well, maybe we can come at it
from a different angle.
By damn it, George,
you've talked me into it.
I'll tell the board you've got
the whole thing under control.
Your skill and ingenuity
will be the saving of the company.
I hadn't budgeted for any pay rises,
Reacher.
You won't have to.
Money dangled is much more
effective than...
... money given.
Er, talking of wages.
How much did you pay
the banshee in the end?
What does it matter?
I just need to reconcile my ledger.
You mean you actually intend
to write down how much
I paid an assassin?
I've always done it in the past.
Well, got to keep records, Reacher.
Can't cover your tracks if you
don't know where you've left them.
And is that the only ledger?
No, I've got dozens of them
going back years.
Oh.
I'd love to see them, Horsefry.
Really?
Yes.
They're in my office.
Come up any time.
Now, Crispin.
I want to see them.
Now.
Never shown any interest before.
No.
Well, I'm very interested in...
...settling accounts.
Thank you.
There you are.
So that's what she meant.
Mr Lipwig, sir.
Oh, calamity.
The mail coach is back, sir.
Already?
But there's no mail.
And not much coach.
So efficient.
Thank you.
Nice to be appreciated.
What have you done, Horsefry?
Er...
...my job.
Account for things.
Damn you.
Account for this.
Reacher, no!
Leave it.
What are you doing?
Saving us from prison.
But we have to keep account.
Your job is to hide things,
not to declare them
for the whole world to see.
Please, Reacher!
It is my life's work.
Get off me, you fat fool.
Look at you.
Loose flesh, loose tongue,
loose brain.
Just loose everything.
The fact is, Horsefry,
you're too stupid to live.
Found the fault yet, Mr Pony?
I- I...
Mr Horsefry was taken ill.
It left a nasty stain on the carpet.
I sent him home.
But can't stand the smell.
Mr Pony,
that's not the look of a man
who's in for a substantial pay rise.
Better.
Adora, that's a really neat trick
you pulled off.
I knew you'd see it my way.
I have no idea
what you're talking about.
Freezing the towers.
That was very slick.
The trouble is, right now the
Post Office is down, too. Bandits.
Hmm. How careless of you.
We need a double whammy.
As you hit the clacks,
we can steal their business.
A synchronised attack.
I wouldn't synchronise with you
if you were the last person
on the Disc.
40 Passing Clouds, please.
You know what?
You're right. You don't need me.
You're more than capable of bringing
down Reacher Gilt on your own.
You've got it all under control
so I'll just walk away
and leave you in peace.
You won't ever hear from me again.
Two...
Don't you want to know how I did it?
Go out onto the Post Office roof.
Get yourself a little bit closer
to Heaven.
Then get down on your knees
and pray.
You know how to pray, don't you?
Just put your hands together
and hope.
Hello?
She said pray.
Hope you don't mind
about the sausage business.
But, to be perfectly honest,
I think we both came out of it
looking pretty good.
Anyway, I was wondering if -
Is this about the rent?
Who the hell are you?
We paid Mr Groat. So you'll
have to take it up with him.
Forget Groat.
What are you doing on my roof?
I'm Mad Al. He's Sane Alex.
And that's Adrian.
He says he's not mad
but you can't prove it, can you?
We're pigeon fanciers.
So where are the pigeons?
Out flying.
Pigeons don't fly at night.
Bats.
We're trying to breed homing bats.
Bats don't have a homing instinct.
Yes.
Tragic, isn't it?
Yeah, because sometimes
I come up here at night
and I just see their empty
little perches.
As all I can do not to cry.
Well, I'm sure Lord Vetinari will be
fascinated to hear all about it.
You know, I quite enjoyed
seeing you on your knees.
Adora.
The Smoking GNU, actually.
You can really jam the whole
clacks system from a pigeon loft?
Mm-hmm.
Nice trick.
Trick?
This is cutting edge cracking.
Two years in development.
Iterative beta testing.
Culminating in this.
Away you go, boys.
Firing out from here...
...into the Grand Trunk.
Then...
Jam.
But before it jams,
it's already passed the code on.
So...
Jam.
The problem started at this tower.
And I think one of you
has been meddling.
Was it him?
Was this his idea of a joke?
No, sir. He didn't do anything.
Then it must have been you.
You with a juvenile sense of humour.
Stay back. I'll have to drop
every employee until someone -
I've got it. I know what's happened.
One moment, Mr Pony.
I'm just disposing of some assets.
Hey! That's my niece.
Oh, that is useful to know.
It's a strange aperture.
It's jumping off
the elliptical bearing.
I can fix it.
If you hit Q and then K,
and the resonant frequency
to sent it to Genua,
when the pressure
is higher than ours -
Spare me the details.
Can you trace it?
Well, there's over
10,000 messages here.
I might be able to find it.
Thank you.
There, there.
Better stop down now.
When the sun comes up,
they can see us. Shh.
See?
We can do to the clacks
what my stiletto did to your foot.
It's not a bad start.
Not bad?
As long as we're sending, Reacher
Gilt doesn't earn a single dollar.
Ah, but if we worked together
while you're stabbing his foot,
I can be picking his pocket.
The great thing about the Post Office
is we don't rely
on complicated machines.
We have hands and feet.
And...
...strong ones at that.
Heave away, Mr Pump.
Ladies, gentlemen,
don't get caught in the clacks.
Come join us at the Post Office.
We'II get your message delivered.
You see, the clacks system works
at the cutting edge of technology.
And in the white heat of progress
there are sometimes complications.
But I can assure you
there are now all resolved.
Some people are saying -
And we'll be providing refunds for
any messages that have been lost.
All you have to do is
fill in the claim form.
But I do urge your readers
not to do anything as rash
as writing a letter
and sending it by post.
Wouldn't you -
You might as well tear it up
and scatter it to the four winds.
Mr Gilt, this claim form
is 50 pages long.
A help desk will be provided.
But, please, don't get bogged down
in the details.
What really matters is
we fly high above the bandits.
I will wager my hat of office
that the clacks will have broken down
by sunset tonight.
And when we win, I'll burn his
ludicrous hat of office in this.
Now to collect on that wager.
Ready to stick the stiletto in?
The pleasure's all ours.
So, how long does it take?
It should have got
to the first tower already.
I must say, it's looking
distinctly underwhelming.
It's alright leaving us.
So much for iterative beta testing.
Don't shout at me.
I'm not shouting.
I'm just calmly stating.
Well, just don't.
Is it possible they could have...
...cracked our code?
Just as I was beginning
to like the hat.
Stop whining, Lipwig.
I'm not whining, I'm just -
I'd like to know why
the GNU isn't smoking.
I'm sure you've talked your way
out of worse situations before.
That was the old Lipwig, remember?
I'm a changed man now.
Mr Lipwig, sir. Mr... oh.
Mr Lipwig, sir.
Mr Groat.
I imagine Gilt's demanding the hat.
You're not gonna let them have it,
are you?
What's that I hear?
Nothing.
Moist Von Lipwig has nothing to say.
Have we lost everything?
Relax, Mr Groat.
I'm not done yet.
All I have to do...
...is attempt the impossible.
As you can see, the sun has set
and the clacks system
is working perfectly.
All that remains is for
the Postmaster to admit defeat.
But where is he?
Another empty promise.
Now, don't get me wrong.
I have a fondness
for the quaint old Post Office.
It's part of our history.
But, really,
that is where it belongs.
Did someone ask for me?
Ah, Postmaster.
Just in time.
The fire was getting low.
Well...
...if you're too scared
to rise to the challenge.
Have it.
Challenge?
An overnight race
from here to Uberwald.
The clacks versus the post.
That's over a thousand miles away.
1,700 miles, to be precise,
Miss Cripslock.
Mr Gilt,
do you accept the challenge?
Accept?
How could the clacks possibly lose?
Well, you've made quite a splash.
As the fish said to the man with
the lead weight tied to his feet.
Perhaps I'm missing something.
No, my lord, it's a straight race.
But you can't possibly win.
I agree, it won't be easy.
And I must insist
that the race is run fairly
with strict rules.
I have no intention of cheating.
And I ask for no favours.
All I ask is that when I win,
Reacher Gilt hands over
the entire clacks network.
Very well.
But I have a condition of my own.
If you lose, Mr Lipwig, you hang.
Really?
It seems a little harsh.
But fair.
If you lose, you will have
outlived your usefulness.
Having second thoughts, Postmaster?
Let's race.
Very good, sir.
The worried look. Very convincing.
Throws them off the scent.
Yes.
But how do you know
I'm not really worried?
Because you're the man
who got money out of the gods, sir.
Ah. Yeah.
Supposing I did that with a trick?
Damn good trick, sir, damn good.
A man who can trick money out of the
gods is capable of anything, sir.
Mr Groat.
Hmm?
What if I told you that, er...
There's no way a coach
can get to Uberwald
faster than the clacks machines?
Of course you have to say that, sir.
Because the walls have ears, eh?
Mum's the word.
Everything?
Everything.
But there's 15 years of work here.
He's grown out of pins.
Sir, pins are for life.
They stick with you.
He's starting a new life.
Isn't that right, Stanley?
So. How much?
Dave, what do you think
about stamps?
So... what's the plan?
How can you possibly win?
Hmm?
Friction.
The coach will be so shiny
it'II glide through the air.
Meanwhile back in the real world
The Post Office
is a hopeless underdog.
Ah, but the underdog can always
find somewhere soft to bite.
This is no time for witty banter.
We're not on a date.
Do you have a plan?
Do you trust me?
No.
Do you have a plan?
Of course.
We got 50-1. 50-1, sir.
You haven't done anything silly,
I hope.
No, no, no. I took all me savings,
Stanley here sold his pin collection
and we put the whole lot
on you to win the race.
The whole lot?
Erm...
Perhaps that wasn't so wise.
50-1.
But we don't want to appear greedy.
Do we?
I mean, we want to keep
the moral high ground.
Bugger the moral high ground.
We'll be rich.
It's all thanks
to your inspired plan, sir.
Mr Groat.
What?
Let's go and see if the golems
want to cash in. Good idea, lad.
Oh, my God.
There is no inspired plan.
There.
Right between your eyes.
The next time I see you,
that's where I'm aiming.
Messages can be blocked.
I trust you have
discovered Lipwig's plan.
I'm afraid not, sir.
Only a fool would challenge
the clacks with a horse and cart.
He must have a trick up his sleeve.
Now...
...what is it?
All I can promise you, sir,
is the clacks won't let you down.
We're clearing all messages off the
system, running double bandwidth,
I'm putting all my best operators -
You just remember,
if I'm made to look a fool,
your pretty little niece
will rue the day
her Uncle Pony
got her a job at the clacks!
Archchancellor Ridcully, my lord.
This had better be important,
I'm in the middle of an experiment.
Involving a knife and fork,
no doubt.
I wouldn't expect a layman
to understand the pressures
of university life.
Incredible though it may seem,
we have found a practical use
for one of your magical devices.
Have you?
The object in question is...
An Omniscope, my lord.
Enabling us to see things
at a distance, I believe.
The Omniscope is a highly complex,
very unstable piece of equipment.
You mean, it doesn't work?
Well...
Relatively speaking, it works.
Excellent, kindly have it
up and running by dawn tomorrow.
Now, listen,
magic is not some workmen's tool
that you can hire out by the hour.
Just as well, because
I wasn't intending to pay you.
Can I help?
Mr Pony.
Miss Adora.
How have you been?
It's nice to see you
after all these years.
I'm sorry I never came
to your father's funeral.
It didn't seem right.
What happened wasn't your fault.
You must hate me
for staying on at the clacks.
You're just doing your job, Mr Pony.
The truth is,
clacks is run on blood now.
There's not a day goes by
when I wouldn't like
to throw my resignation
in Reacher Gilt's face.
I'm 58.
Twinges in my knuckles,
a sick wife and a bad back.
You have to think twice, don't you,
before such gestures?
My father always said
you were a good man.
And a great engineer.
I'm sure he was right.
No.
Your father was a great engineer.
Gilt tried to burn these.
I'm sure you'll know
what to do with them.
I'm sorry.
Stand by to repel borders.
Adora?
If this is about
what I said earlier...
They killed him.
They killed John and they put
his name in a debit column.
These people, they...
...they get away with murder and
everyone just looks the other way.
No, not everyone.
Just because you were right,
doesn't mean you have to gloat.
Forget gloating.
Now I really do have a plan.
Go away!
All you do is talk of plans.
Crazy, non-existent plans.
What sort of man are you?
Adora, just listen to me.
Give me the crossbow.
Those ledgers
are the key to everything!
Just hear me out.
If you don't like the plan,
be my guest. Shoot.
This had better be good.
Now then, boys, you take the message
and ride hell-for-leather
to Uberwald.
But how are we going to get
to Uberwald overnight, sir?
You're not, Mr Groat.
Does that mean you're going to hang,
Mr Lipwig?
Not if I can help it.
I have a plan, Stan.
I need you to take a little detour.
There is a derelict clacks tower
and I need you to deliver
some canvas and ropes and rigging.
Rigging? Is this about boats, sir.
Only I can't do boats.
I get very seasick.
Not boats, Mr Groat. Sails.
We are going to block out
their message with a sail.
Block it out? Won't they notice?
Not if we put our own message
in its place.
Sorry, sir,
could you run that by me again?
Yeah. I got a bit lost at... sail.
Hello!
Hello, Ankh-Morpork!
Welcome to the great race!
Lovely to see you all!
Hello!
Hello.
Nice entrance.
It will make up
for your ignominious exit.
Hello, sir.
Citizens of Ankh-Morpork.
As per Lord Vetinari's directive
number P1500-
We know why we are here.
To witness a great race!
The Postmaster has challenged
the clacks.
Two identical messages
must be delivered to Uberwald.
The wizard's Omniscope
will show us the finish line.
Get it ready by sunrise, Ridcully,
which is when I expect to win.
And to show the spirit of fair play,
we have graciously allowed the
Post Office to choose the message.
I thought long and hard
about an appropriate message.
And then, I remembered
how nice it is to receive a parcel.
So, why not a book?
The authorised, illustrated
biography of Lord Vetinari.
You think yourself so clever,
lt'll buy you a few hours at best.
Our message
will still be there by dawn,
while your lumbering coach
will get bogged down
in some godforsaken marsh.
Maybe.
Maybe not.
Ready when you are, my lord.
Get clacksing!
Come on, move it!
If we win this race...
...you can have a half-day holiday!
Come on!
Get on with it.
You took a while.
I had to stop a couple of times,
all that bumping and jolting,
my bladder's not what it used to be.
If we don't get this sail rigged
before they start sending,
we're done for.
Yeah, alright.
OK!
Ready?
Hoist it up, lads.
Quick as you can.
Alright!
Come on,
let's get a wriggle on here!
Where are ya?
Here, look, stick your boot
in there, will you?
Still here, Mr Groat?
I'm not built for parcel post, sir.
Now, you know what to do?
Ride like the clappers, sir.
Good man, stop for nothing.
The mail must get through!
No gloom of night.
Hey, Mr Lipwig.
Exactly, Stanley, no gloom of night.
C- C-Can I say, sir, even if we
lose and the Post Office collapses,
and all this was in vain -
And you get hanged.
Yes, sir, even dead,
you are still the best
Postmaster we have ever had.
That's very touching, Mr Groat.
But I'm not dead yet.
Good luck, boys.
Why aren't we sending?!
I want to see those lights flashing!
Where's Mr Pony?
Get me Pony!
That's what I love
about the Dearhearts.
Perfect alignment.
Any message coming out of there
comes straight through us.
Time to create some interference.
OK, 14!
Number 14!
14's good.
Number 15?
OK, there is a snag on 15!
It's stuck! It's stuck!
Where's the hammer?
I put it back in the toolbox.
It's not here!
It's in there!
In the spanner drawer!
Yeah, it's still the toolbox!
And who would look for a hammer
in the spanner drawer?
Boys!
We haven't got time for this!
A place for everything
and everything in its place!
If you say that one more time, I'll
find another place for the hammer!
Oh, for God's sake, look!
They're sending!
Let's go, come on!
Grand Trunk are sending the message.
Hurry up!
Pull it up!
Come on boys, pull!
It's stuck!
Pull it! Keep pulling!
It's stuck on something!
If you want something done
properly...
Oh no, up we go!
Strange. The signal's stopped.
No, it can't have,
this is top priority.
Send! Send!
For God's sake, start sending!
It's OK. They're sending again.
Yes! Yes! They've taken the bait!
They're passing it on!
Adora!
I'm coming for you!
What kept you?
Adora...
I don't suppose...
...now would be a good time
to ask you something?
Well, I can hardly walk away.
Will you marry me?
You are forgetting...
...we still have a race to win.
That's not exactly a rejection.
Not exactly.
< Hang on!
Down you get, Mr Lipwig.
You're under arrest.
What for now?
Same as last time. Doing a runner.
But- but I've come back.
Let's keep it that way.
Lord Vetinari's orders.
Listen.
Nice you have you with us again,
sir. Same last words as before?
I'm rather hoping there'll be
a different outcome this time.
Keep your hands off.
Let's see some magic, please.
It'll come in a moment.
Please don't touch it.
There we are.
We need to read the ticker-tape,
Archchancellor.
Nobody said anything about
a close-up.
Can't you just move it in?
Just move it in? This is a highly
sophisticated magical apparatus.
There we are.
I think we have a winner, my lord.
Mm-hmm.
Uberwald receiving station,
message as follows.
"Havelock Vetinari was born into
a wealthy and influential family."
There we have it, my lord.
The message has arrived, delivered
on time by clacks technology.
The clacks has won.
Never mind, sir. It could be worse.
How, exactly?
Well, we've got a good crowd,
lots of press.
They'd even promised me
a review in "What Gallows?".
Pull the lever, Mr Trooper.
No, wait.
The message hasn't finished yet.
They're playing for time!
My Lord, it's clear the race
is over. I demand my prize.
My last words!
I haven't had my last words.
If he must.
Strange as it may seem,
as I stand here on
the verge of oblivion
I have a great sense of relief.
I no longer fear the worst because,
frankly, the worst has happened.
And although I may not have always
been a model citizen,
finally I've been made
to see the error of my ways.
Not by the heavy hand of the law,
but by the gentle touch of...
...well.
By the gentlest touch of all.
Very nice, sir. Stand by.
No, there's more.
Where's it gone?
It's not coming back.
Give it a moment.
Don't breathe on it.
The man who has never known love
has never really lived.
Get on with it.
But worst is the man
who avoids love.
Too true. Well said, sir. Now...
Because the man who runs from love
and all its trials and tribulations,
that man is just conning himself,
swindling himself out of true...
Ah. There we are.
...happiness.
Sorry to interrupt, my lord.
I wish someone would.
I'm not quite sure what this means
but I think you ought to hear it.
Message continues.
"We are the voice of the dead."
"The ghosts of those
who met a bloody end."
That's enough. The race is finished.
"Postmaster Mutable pushed
from the fifth floor."
"Postmaster Sideburn,
his neck broken."
Pack it all away!
Touch nothing.
"John Dearheart,
flung to his death from a tower."
"And Crispin Horsefry,
clubbed to death by Reacher Gilt."
Turn it off!
"Here follow the facts and figures
proving fraud,
embezzlement and murder."
"The full record of the clandestine
dealings of Reacher Gilt."
My Lord, they're lying. Lying.
Who are they, exactly?
They're only reading
what has been delivered by you.
The message has originated
from your own company
which makes it a confession.
I confess nothing!
Lipwig!
Your safety is my concern,
Mr Lipwig.
Your safety is my concern.
Arrest Reacher Gilt.
He appears to have vanished,
my lord.
Find him.
An ingenious plan, Mr Lipwig.
And most effective.
Which is why I have agreed to your
request to hand over ownership
of the clacks back
to the Dearheart family.
Just sign here.
And here.
No need to thank me.
However, as the two of you now run
all communications
in and out of this city,
should I find that my long-range
game of thud is interrupted
I shall come looking
for one of you to blame.
I wonder which one it will be.
By the way, you look great.
Colour really suits you.
Thank you.
Is that as sore as it looks?
Oh, it's not the first time
I've been hanged.
A bad habit to get into.
I'll tell you what, I'll give up
hanging if you give up smoking.
Too late.
I already quit.
You did that for me?
Why on earth would you think that?
Adora...
...those things I said on the gallows
when I was staring death in the face
about the gentlest touch of all.
You do know I meant every word?
Yes.
It's amazing the rubbish
some people spout
when they're trying
to save their lives.
Or trying to get a kiss.
Of course, we can't do this.
What now?
Conflict of interest.
You're the Post Office,
I'm the clacks.
We're rivals.
Which throws up some very interesting
possibilities of a corporate merger,
don't you think?
Maybe.
Well, I'd certainly like
to get my hands on your assets.
Keep your hands as far away
from my assets as humanly possibly.
Ah, Mr Gilt.
I see you are awake.
I don't know what you're
talking about.
My name is Merryforth Truman and...
...l've got papers to prove it.
Some wonderful papers
they are too, Mr Gilt.
But enough of that.
I've brought you here because
I want to talk to you about angels.
Come.
Excuse me, my lord. I've got a letter
here for Merryforth Truman.
Strewth.
He was here, but sadly
he didn't believe in angels.
Oh.
Well, that's a bit
of an embuggerance.
We did it, Mr Groat.
Home sweet home.
Stanley,
it's not only the race we won.
The bet, remember.
50-1. Blimey, we're rich.
Let's have the betting slip, then.
I gave it to you, Mr Groat.
Hey?
Oh, yes. I've got it here somewhere.
You can't have lost it, Mr Groat.
50-1.
50-1.
No, of course.
I remember now.
I've put it somewhere safe.
I, erm...
...I hid it under the mattress.
Which mattress?
The one in that tavern.
Which tavern, Mr Groat?
You remember, that...
...that nice one in Uberwald.
Oh!
Uberwald...
Mr Groat, Mr Groat!
Get in the carriage, Mr Groat!