Good Omens

* * * **

Death straightened up. He appeared to be listen­ing intently. It was anyone's guess what he listened with.

HE IS HERE, he said.

The other three looked up. There was a barely perceptible change in the way they stood there. A moment before Death had spoken they, the part of them that did not walk and talk like human beings, had been wrapped around the world. Now they were back.

More or less.

There was a strangeness about them. It was as if, instead of ill-­fitting suits, they now had ill‑fitting bodies. Famine looked as though he had been tuned slightly off‑station, so that the hitherto dominant signal ­of a pleasant, thrusting, successful businessman‑was begi

"It's all . . . taken care of," said War, speaking with some effort. "It'll . . , take its course."

"It's not just the nuclear," Pollution said. "It's the chemical. Thou­sands of gallons of stuff in . . , little tanks all over the world. Beautiful liquids . . . with eighteen syllables in their names. And the . . . old standbys. Say what you like. Plutonium may give you grief for thousands of years, but arsenic is forever."

"And then . . . winter," said Famine. "I like winter. There's something . . . clean about winter."

"Chickens coming . . . home to roost," said War.

"No more chickens," said Famine, flatly.

Only Death hadn't changed. Some things don't.

– – -

The Four left the building. It was noticeable that Pollution, while still walking, nevertheless gave the impression of oozing.

And this was noticed by Anathema and Newton Pulsifer.

It had been the first building they'd come to. It had seemed much safer inside than out, where there seemed to be a lot of excitement. Anath­ema had pushed open a door covered in signs that suggested that this would be a terminally dangerous thing to do. It had swung open at her touch. When they'd gone inside, it had shut and locked itself.

There hadn't been a lot of time to discuss this after the Four had walked in.

"What were they?" said Newt. "Some kind of terrorists?"

"In a very nice and accurate sense," said Anathema, "I think you're right."

"What was all that weird talk about?"

"I think possibly the end of the world," said Anathema. "Did you see their auras?"

"I don't think so," said Newt.

"Not nice at all."

"Oh."

"Negative auras, in fact."

"Oh?"

"Like black holes."

"That's bad, is it?"

"Yes."

Anathema glared at the rows of metal cabinets. For once, just now, because it wasn't just for play but was for real, the machinery that was going to bring about the end of the world, or at least that part of it that occupied the layers between about two meters down and all the way to the ozone layer, wasn't operating according to the usual script. There were no big red canisters with flashing lights. There were no coiled wires with a "cut me" look about them. No suspiciously large numeric displays were counting down toward a zero that could be averted with seconds to spare. Instead, the metal cabinets looked solid and heavy and very resistant to last‑minute heroism.

"What takes its course?" said Anathema. "They've done some­thing, haven't they?"

"Perhaps there's an off switch?" said Newt helplessly. "I'm sure if we looked around‑"

"These sort of things are wired in. Don't be silly. I thought you knew about this sort of thing."

Newt nodded desperately. This was a long way from the pages of Easy Electronics. For the look of the thing, he peered into the back of one of the cabinets.

"Worldwide communications," he said indistinctly. "You could do practically anything. Modulate the mains power, tap into satellites. Abso­lutely anything. You could"-zhip‑"argh, you could" zhap‑"ouch, make things do" zipt‑"uh, just about"‑zzap‑"ooh."

"How are you getting on in there?"

Newt sucked his fingers. So far he hadn't found anything that re­sembled a transistor. He wrapped his hand in his handkerchief and pulled a couple of boards out of their sockets.

Once, one of the electronics magazines to which he subscribed had published a joke circuit which was guaranteed not to work. At last, they'd said in an amusing way, here's something all you ham‑fisted hams out there can build in the certain knowledge that if it does nothing, it's work­ing. It had diodes the wrong way round, transistors upside down, and a flat battery. Newt had built it, and it picked up Radio Moscow. He'd written them a letter of complaint, but they never replied.

"I really don't know if I'm doing any good," he said.

"James Bond just unscrews things," said Anathema.

"Not just unscrews," said Newt, his temper fraying. "And I'm not" zhip‑"James Bond. If I was"‑whizzle‑"the bad guys would have shown me all the megadeath levers and told me how they bloody well worked, wouldn't they?"‑Fwizzpt‑"Only it doesn't happen like that in real life? I don't know what's happening and I can't stop it."

- – -

Clouds churned around the horizon. Overhead the sky was still clear, the air torn by nothing more than a light breeze. But it wasn't normal air. It had a crystallized look to it, so that you might feel that if you turned your head you might see new facets. It sparkled. If you had to find a word to describe it, the word thronged might slip insidiously into your mind. Thronged with insubstantial beings awaiting only the right moment to become very substantial.

Adam glanced up. In one sense there was just clear air overhead. In another, stretching off to infinity, were the hosts of Heaven and Hell, wingtip to wingtip. If you looked really closely, and had been specially trained, you could tell the difference.

Silence held the bubble of the world in its grip.

The door of the building swung open and the Four stepped out. There was no more than a hint of human about three of them now‑they seemed to be humanoid shapes made up of all the things they were or represented. They made Death seem positively homely. His leather great­coat and dark‑visored helmet had become a cowled robe, but these were mere details. A skeleton, even a walking one, is at least human; Death of a sort lurks inside every living creature.

"The thing is," said Adam urgently, "they're not really real. They're just like nightmares, really."

"B‑but we're not asleep," said Pepper.

Dog whined and tried to hide behind Adam.

"That one looks as if he's meltin'," said Brian, pointing at the advancing figure, if such it could still be called, of Pollution.

"There you are, then," said Adam, encouragingly. "It can't be real, can it? It's common sense. Something like that can't be reelly real."

The Four halted a few meters away.