The Postman by David Brin

First off, can you tell me if Oakridge has a working wireless or fiber optic facility?”
    The silence brought on by his non sequitur was long and heavy. Gordon could imagine the Mayor’s puzzlement. At last, the bossman answered.
    “We haven’t had a radio in ten years. Nothing’s workedsince then. Why? What has that to do with anythi—”
    “That’s a shame. The airwaves have been a shambles since the war, of course …” he improvised, “… all the radioactivity, you know. But I’d hoped I could try to use your transmitter to report back to my superiors.”
    He delivered the lines with aplomb. This time they brought not silence but a surge of amazed whispers up and down the parapet. Gordon guessed that most of the population of Oakridge must be up there by now. He hoped the wall was well built. It was not in his plan to enter the town like Joshua.
    He had quite another legend in mind.
    “Get a lantern over here!” the Mayor commanded. “Not that one, you idiot! The one with the reflector! Yes. Now shine it on that man. I want a look at him!”
    A bulky lamp was brought forth and there was a rattle as light speared out at Gordon. He was expecting it though and neither covered his eyes nor squinted. He shifted the leather bag and turned to bring his costume to the best angle. The letter carrier’s cap, with its polished crest, sat at a rakish angle on his head.
    The muttering of the crowd grew louder.
    “Mr. Mayor,” he called. “My patience is limited. I already will have to have words with you about the behavior of your boys this afternoon. Don’t force me to exercise my authority in ways both of us would find unpleasant. You’re on the verge of losing your privilege of communication with the rest of the nation.”
    The Mayor shifted his weight back and forth rapidly. “Communication? Nation? What is this blither? There’s just the Blakeville commune, those self-righteous twits down at Culp Creek, and Satan knows what savages beyond them. Who the hell
are
you anyway?”
    Gordon touched his cap. “Gordon Krantz, of the United States Postal Service. I’m the courier assigned to reestablish a mail route in Idaho and lower Oregon, and general federal inspector for the region.”
    And to imagine he had been embarrassed playingSanta Claus back in Pine View! Gordon hadn’t thought of the last part about being a “federal inspector” until it was out of his mouth. Was it inspiration, or a dare?
    Well, might as well be hanged for a sheep as a goat
, he thought.
    The crowd was in tumult. Several times, Gordon heard the words “outside” and “inspector”—and especially “mailman.” When the Mayor shouted for silence, it came slowly, trailing off into a rapt hush.
    “So you’re a mailman.” The sneer was sarcastic. “What kind of idiots do you take us for, Krantz? A shiny suit makes you a government official? What government? What proof can you give us? Show us you’re not a wild lunatic, raving with radiation fever!”
    Gordon pulled out the papers he had prepared only an hour before, using the seal stamp he had found in the ruins of the Oakridge Post Office.
    “I have credentials, here …” But he was interrupted at once.
    “Keep your papers to yourself, loonie. We’re not letting you come close enough to infect us with your fever!”
    The Mayor straightened and waved an arm in the air, addressing his subjects. “You all remember how crazies and imposters used to come around, during the Chaos years, claiming to be everything from the Antichrist to Porky Pig? Well, there’s one fact we can all depend on. Crazies come and crazies go, but there’s only one “government” … that’s what we got right here!”
    He turned back to Gordon. “You’re lucky this isn’t like the plague years, loonie. Back then a case like yours would’ve called for immediate cure … by cremation!”
    Gordon cursed silently. The local tyrant was slick and certainly no easy bluff. If they wouldn’t