It was one of the things Harry liked about the valley. Not the threat of violence, because Harry hated violence; but that it was only a threat. The rifles came off their racks only for deer (in season or out, if the ranchers were hungry or the deer got into the crops).

Mrs. Cox brought in rolls. Half the people on Harry’s route offered him coffee and eats, on days when he ignored regulations and brought the mail up to their houses. Mrs. Cox didn’t make the best coffee on the route, but the cup was definitely the finest in the valley: thin bone china, much too good for a half-hippie mailman. The first time Harry had been to the house he’d drunk water from a tin cup and stood at the door. Now he sat at the fine table and drank coffee from bone china Another reason to stay out of cities.

He sipped hurriedly. There was another blonde girl, this one over eighteen and legal, and it would be Trash Day for her house, too. She’d be home. Donna Adams was always home for Harry. “Lot here for the Senator,” Harry said.

“Yes. He’s back in Washington,” Mrs. Cox answered.

“But he’s coming soon,” Alice piped.

“Wish he’d hurry,” Mrs. Cox said. “It’s nice here when the Senator’s in residence. People coming and going. Important people. The President stayed at the big house one night. Secret Service made a big fuss. Men wandering all over the ranch.” She laughed, and Alice giggled. Harry looked puzzled. “As if anybody in this valley would harm the President of the United States,” Mrs. Cox said.

“I still think your Senator Jellison’s a myth,” Harry said. “I’ve been on this route eight months, and I haven’t seen him yet.”

Mrs. Cox looked him up and down. He seemed a nice enough boy, although Mrs. Adams said her daughter paid him entirely too much attention. Harry’s long, flowing, curly brown hair would have looked good on a girl. His beard was beautiful. The real masterpiece was the mustache. It came to long points which, on formal occasions, Harry could curl and wax into circles like small spectacles.

He can grow hair, Mrs. Cox thought, but he’s little and skinny, not as big as I am. She wondered again what Donna Adams saw in him. Car, maybe. Harry had a sports car, and all the local boys drove pickups like their fathers.

“You’ll likely meet the Senator soon enough,” Mrs. Cox said. It was a sign of ultimate approval, although Harry didn’t know that. Mrs. Cox was very careful about who the Senator met.

Alice had been sifting through the mound of multicolored paper on the table. “Lot of it this time. How much is this?”

“Two weeks,” Harry said.

“Well, we do thank you, Harry,” Mrs. Cox said.

“So do I,” Alice added. “If you didn’t bring it up to the house, I’d have to carry all of it.”

Back in the truck, and down the long drive, with another stop to look at the High Sierra. Then on to the next ranch, a good half-mile away. The Senator kept a big spread, although a lot of it was dry pasture, shot through with ground-squirrel holes. It was good land, but there wasn’t enough water to irrigate it.

At the next gate George Christopher was doing something incomprehensible in the orange groves. Probably setting up to smudge, Harry decided. Christopher came plodding up as Harry opened the gate. He was a bull of a man, Harry’s height and two or three times Harry’s width, with a thick neck. His head was bald and tanned, but Christopher couldn’t be a lot over thirty. He wore a checkered flannel shirt and dark trousers, muddy boots.

Harry set the bag down and got out beside it. Christopher frowned. “Trash Day again, Harry?” He studied the long hair and extravagantly trimmed beard and the frown deepened.

Harry grinned in return. “Yup, Happy Trash Day, every two weeks, like clockwork. I’ll take it up to the house for you.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I like to.” There wasn’t a Mrs. Christopher, but George had a sister about Alice Cox’s age, and she liked to talk to Harry. A very bright little girl, pleasant to talk to and full of news about Harry’s valley.

“All right. Mind the dog.”

“Sure will.” Harry never worried about dogs.

“Ever wonder what the advertising industry would give for your head?” Christopher asked.

“I’ll trade ’em question for question,” Harry said. “Why does the government give them a lower rate so they can waste more of our time? And your taxes?”

Christopher’s frown faded and he almost smiled. “Have at ’em, Harry. Lost causes are the only ones worth fighting for. And the taxpayer’s cause is about as lost as they come. I’ll close the gate behind you.”

Day’s end. Clockout time. Harry went into the sorting rooms behind the Post Office. There was a note pinned to his station.

“Hairy the Wolf wants to see you. Gina XXX”

Gina — tall, black, erect of posture and large of bone, the only black in the valley as far as Harry knew — was at the counter. Harry winked at her, then knocked at the supervisor’s door.

When he entered, Mr. Wolfe regarded him coldly. “Harry. Happy Trash Day,” Wolfe said.

Oops! But Harry smiled. “Thank you, and a Happy Trash Day to you, sir.”

“Not funny, Harry. Why do you do it? Why do you separate out the commercial mail and reserve it for one day every two weeks?”

Harry shrugged. He could have explained: Sorting junk mail took so much of his time that he didn’t have a chance to chat with his customers, so he’d started letting it pile up. It had begun that way, but it had become popular with his people. “Everybody’s happy with it,” Harry said defensively. “People can go through the stuff or just drop it in the fireplace.”

“It is illegal to withhold a citizen’s mail,” Wolfe said.

“If someone has complained, I’ll take him off the list,” Harry said. “I like to keep my customers happy.”

“Mrs. Adams,” Wolfe said.

“Oh.” Too bad. Without Trash Day he wouldn’t have an excuse to go up to the Adams house and talk to Donna.

“You will deliver the commercial mail according to regulations,” Wolfe was saying. “As it comes in. Not in batches Trash Day will cease.”

“Yes, sir. Any other way I can be obliging?”

“Shave your beard. Cut your hair.”

Harry shook his head. That part of the regulations he knew.

Wolfe sighed. “Harry, you just don’t have the right attitude to be a mailman.”

Eileen Susan Hancock’s office was small and cramped, but it was an office; she had worked for years to get an office of her own, away from the area behind the counter. It proved that she was more than a secretary.

She was poking at the buttons on her calculator, frowning, when a sudden thought made her burst into rippling laughter. A moment later she realized that Joe Corrigan was standing in her doorway.

Corrigan came into the office. He had unbuttoned the top button of his trousers again, and it showed. His wife wouldn’t let him buy larger sizes. She hadn’t given up hope that he would reduce. He put his thumbs into the waistband and regarded her quizzically.

Eileen’s laughter cut off. She went back to the calculator, and now she wasn’t even smiling.

“Okay,” Corrigan said. “What’s the punch line?”

Eileen looked up with wide eyes. “What? Oh, no. I couldn’t possibly tell you.”

“If you drive me nuts, you think you can gain control of the company, right? Because it won’t work. I’ve covered that.” Corrigan liked to see her like this. Eileen was all-or-nothing: very serious and hard at work, or enjoying herself to the full. “Okay,” Corrigan sighed. “I’ll give away my secret for yours. I’ve had the decorators in. You see, Robin Geston signed up for the Marina deal.”

“Oh? That’s good.”

“Yup. Means we’ll need more help. As of the first, you’re Assistant General Manager, if you want the job.”

“Oh, I want it. Thank you.” She smiled flickeringly (like a flashbulb, on and off almost before you saw it) and turned back to the desk calculator.