Good Omens

"I'm thinking," said Adam.

It was hard. The bit of his mind that he knew as himselfwas still there, but it was trying to stay afloat on a fountain of tumultuous darkness. What he was aware of, though, was that his three companions were one­-hundred percent human. He'd got them into trouble before, in the way of torn clothes, docked pocket money, and so on, but this one was almost certainly going to involve a lot more than being confined to the house and made to tidy up your room.

On the other hand, there wasn't anyone else.

"All right," he said. "We need some stuff, I think. We need a sword, a crown, and some scales."

They stared at him.

"What, just here?" said Brian. "There's nothin' like that here."

"I dunno," said Adam. "When you think about the games and that, you know, we've played . . ."

– – -

Just to make Sgt. Deisenburger's day, a car pulled up and it was floating several inches off the ground because it had no tires. Or paintwork. What it did have was a trail of blue smoke, and when it stopped it made the pingingnoises made by metal cooling down from a very high tempera­ture.

It looked as if it had smoked glass windows, although this was just an effect caused by it having ordinary glass windows but a smoke‑filled interior.

The driver's door opened, and a cloud of choking fumes got out. Then Crowley followed it.

He waved the smoke away from his face, blinked, and then turned the gesture into a friendly wave.

"Hi," he said. "How's it going? Has the world ended yet?"

"He won't let us in, Crowley, " said Madame Tracy.

"Aziraphale? Is that you? Nice dress," said Crowley vaguely. He wasn't feeling very well. For the last thirty miles he had been imagining that a ton of burning metal, rubber, and leather was a fully‑functioning automobile, and the Bentley had been resisting him fiercely. The hard part had been to keep the whole thing rolling after the all‑weather radials had burned away. Beside him the remains of the Bentley dropped suddenly onto its distorted wheel rims as he stopped imagining that it had tires.

He patted a metal surface hot enough to fry eggs on.

"You wouldn't get that sort of performance out of one of these modern cars," he said lovingly.

They stared at him.

There was a little electronic click.

The gate was rising. The housing that contained the electric motor gave a mechanical groan, and then gave up in the face of the unstoppable force acting on the barrier.

"Hey!" said Sgt. Deisenburger, "Which one of you yo‑yos did that?"

Zip. Zip. Zip. Zip. And a small dog, its legs a blur.

They stared at the four ferociously pedaling figures that ducked under the barrier and disappeared into the camp.

The sergeant pulled himself together.

"Hey," he said, but much more weakly this time, "did any of them kids have some space alien with a face like a friendly turd in a bike bas­ket?"

"Don't think so," said Crowley.

"Then," said Sgt. Deisenburger, "they're in real trouble." He raised his gun. Enough of this pussyfooting around; he kept thinking of soap. "And so," he said, "are you."

"I warns ye‑" Shadwell began.

"This has gone on too long " said Aziraphale. " Sort it out, Crowley, there's a dear chap."

"Hmm?" said Crowley.

"I'm the nice one, " said Aziraphale. "You can't expect me to‑oh, blast it. You try to do the decent thing, and where does it get you?"He snapped his fingers.

There was a pop like an old‑fashioned flashbulb, and Sgt. Thomas A. Deisenburger disappeared.

"Er, " said Aziraphale.

"See?" said Shadwell, who hadn't quite got the hang of Madame Tracy's split personality, "nothing to it. Ye stick by me, yell be all right."

"Well done," said Crowley. "Never thought you had it in you."

"No," said Aziraphale. "Nor did I, in fact. I do hope I haven't sent him somewhere dreadful."

"You'd better get used to it right now," said Crowley. "You just send 'em. Best not to worry about where they go." He looked fascinated. "Aren't you going to introduce me to your new body?"

"Oh? Yes. Yes, of course. Madame Tracy, this is Crowley. Crowley, Madame Tracy. Charmed, I'm sure."

"Let's get on in," said Crowley. He looked sadly at the wreckage of the Bentley, and then brightened. A jeep was heading purposefully to­wards the gate, and it looked as though it was crowded with people who were about to shout questions and fire guns and not worry about which order they did this in.

He brightened up. This was more what you might call his area of competence.

He took his hands out of his pockets and he raised them like Bruce Lee and then he smiled like Lee van Cleef. "Ah," he said, "here comes transport."

– – -

They parked their bikes outside one of the low buildings. Wensley­dale carefully locked his. He was that kind of boy.

"So what will these people look like?" said Pepper.

"They could look like all sorts," said Adam doubtfully.

"They're grownups, are they?" said Pepper.

"Yes," said Adam. "More grown‑up than you've ever seen before, I reckon."

"Fightin' grownups is never any use," said Wensleydale gloomily. "You always get into trouble."

"You don't have to fight 'em," said Adam. "You just do what I told you.

The Them looked at the things they were carrying. As far as tools to mend the world were concerned, they did not look incredibly efficient.

"How'll we find 'em, then?" said Brian, doubtfully. "I remember when we came to the Open Day, it's all rooms and stuff. Lots of rooms and flashing lights."

Adam stared thoughtfully at the buildings. The alarms were still yodelling.

"Well," he said, "it seems to me‑"

"Hey, what are you kids doing here?"

It wasn't a one hundred percent threatening voice, but it was near the end of its tether and it belonged to an officer who'd spent ten minutes trying to make sense of a senseless world where alarms went off and doors didn't open. Two equally harassed soldiers stood behind him, slightly at a loss as to how to deal with four short and clearly Caucasian juveniles, one of them marginally female.

"Don't you worry about us," said Adam airily. "We're jus' lookin' around."

"Now you just‑" the lieutenant began.

"Go to sleep," said Adam. "You just go to sleep. All you soldiers here go to sleep. Then you won't get hurt. You all just go to sleep now. "

The lieutenant stared at him, his eyes trying to focus. Then he pitched forward.

"Coo," said Pepper, as the others collapsed, "how did you do that?"

"Well," said Adam cautiously, "you know that bit about hypnotism in the Boy's Own Book of 101 Things To Dothat we could never make work?"

"Yes?"

"Well, it's sort of like that, only now I've found how to do it." He turned back to the communications building.

He pulled himself together, his body unfolding from its habitual comfortable slouch into an upright bearing Mr. Tyler would have been proud of.

"Right," he said.

He thought for a while.

Then he said, "Come and see."

– – -

If you took the world away and just left the electricity, it would look like the most exquisite filigree ever made‑a ball of twinkling silver lines with the occasional coruscating spike of a satellite beam. Even the dark areas would glow with radar and commercial radio waves. It could be the nervous system of a great beast.

Here and there cities make knots in the web but most of the elec­tricity is, as it were, mere musculature, concerned only with crude work. But for fifty years or so people had been giving electricity brains.

And now it was alive, in the same way that fire is alive. Switches were welding shut. Relays fused. In the heart of silicon chips whose micro­scopic architecture looked like a street plan of Los Angeles fresh pathways opened up, and hundreds of miles away bells rang in underground rooms and men stared in horror at what certain screens were telling them. Heavy steel doors shut firmly in secret hollow mountains, leaving people on the other side to pound on them and wrestle with fuse boxes which had melted. Bits of desert and tundra slid aside, letting fresh air into air‑condi­tioned tombs, and blunt shapes ground ponderously into position.

And while it flowed where it should not, it ebbed from its normal beds. In cities the traffic lights went, then the street lights, then all the lights. Cooling fans slowed, flickered, and stopped. Heaters faded into darkness. Lifts stuck. Radio stations choked off, their soothing music si­lenced.

It has been said that civilization is twenty‑four hours and two meals away from barbarism.

Night was spreading slowly around the spinning Earth. It should have been full of pinpricks of light. It was not.

There were five billion people down there. What was going to hap­pen soon would make barbarism look like a picnic‑hot, nasty, and even­tually given over to the ants.

* * * * *

D eath 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 beginning to be drowned out by the ancient, horrible static of his basic personality. War's skin glistened with sweat. Pollution's skin just glistened.

"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 likewinter. 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'tknow what's happening and I can'tstop 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 mightslip 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.

IT HAS BEEN DONE, said Death. He leaned forward a little and stared eyelessly at Adam. It was hard to tell if he was surprised.

"Yes, well," said Adam. "The thing is, I don't want it done. I never askedfor it to be done."

Death looked at the other three, and then back to Adam.

Behind them a jeep skewed to a halt. They ignored it.

I DO NOT UNDERSTAND, he said. SURELY YOUR VERY EXISTENCE REQUIRES THE ENDING OF THE WORLD. IT IS WRITTEN.

"I dunt see why anyone has to go an' write things like that," said Adam calmly. "The world is full of all sorts of brilliant stuff and I haven't found out all about it yet, so I don't want anyone messing it about or endin' it before I've had a chance to find out about it. So you can all just go away."

("That's the one, Mr. Shadwell," said Aziraphale, his words trail­ing into uncertainty even as he uttered them, "the one with T‑shirt . . . ")

Death stared at Adam.

"You . . . are part . . . of us," said War, between teeth like beautiful bullets.

"It is done. We make . . . the . . . world . . . anew," said Pol­lution, his voice as insidious as something leaking out of a corroded drum into a water table.

"You . . . lead . . . us," said Famine.

And Adam hesitated. Voices inside him still cried out that this was true, and that the world was his as well, and all he had to do was turn and lead them out across a bewildered planet. They were his kind of people.

In tiers above, the hosts of the sky waited for the Word.

("Ye canna want me to shoot him! He's but a bairn!"

"Er," said Aziraphale. "Er. Yes. Perhaps we'd just better wait a bit, what do you think?"

"Until he grows up, do you mean?" said Crowley.)

Dog began to growl.

Adam looked at the Them. Theywere his kind of people, too.

You just had to decide who your friends really were.

He turned back to the Four.

"Get them," said Adam, quietly.

The slouch and slur was gone from his voice. It had strange har­monics. No one human could disobey a voice like that.

War laughed, and looked expectantly at the Them.

"Little boys," she said, "playing with your toys. Think of all the toys I can offer you . . . think of all the games. Ican make you fall in love with me, little boys. Little boys with your little guns."

She laughed again, but the machine‑gun stutter died away as Pep­per stepped forward and raised a trembling arm.

It wasn't much of a sword, but it was about the best you could do with two bits of wood and a piece of string. War stared at it.

"I see," she said. "Mano a mano,eh?" She drew her own blade and brought it up so that it made a noise like a finger being dragged around a wineglass.

There was a flash as they connected.

Death stared into Adam's eyes.

There was a pathetic jingling noise.

"Don't touch it!" snapped Adam, without moving his head.

The Them stared at the sword rocking to a standstill on the concrete path.

" 'Little boys,' " muttered Pepper, disgustedly. Sooner or later ev­eryone has to decide which gang they belong to.

"But, but," said Brian, "she sort of got sucked up the sword‑"

The air between Adam and Death began to vibrate, as in a heatwave.

Wensleydale raised his head and looked Famine in the sunken eye. He held up something that, with a bit of imagination, could be considered to be a pair of scales made of more string and twigs. Then he whirled it around his head.

Famine stuck out a protective arm.

There was another flash, and then the jingle of a pair of silver scales bouncing on the ground.

"Don't . . . touch . . . them," said Adam.

Pollution had already started to run, or at least to flow quickly, but Brian snatched the circle of grass stalks from his own head and flung it. It shouldn't have handled like one, but a force took it out of his hands and it whirred like a discus.

This time the explosion was a red flame inside a billow of black smoke, and it smelled of oil.

With a rolling, tinny little sound a blackened silver crown bowled out of the smoke and then spun round with a noise like a settling penny.

At least they needed no warning about touching it. It glistened in a way that metal should not.

"Where'd they go?" said Wensley.

WHERE THEY BELONG, said Death, still holding Adam's gaze. WHERE THEY HAVE ALWAYS BEEN. BACK IN THE MINDS OF MAN.

He grinned at Adam.

There was a tearing sound. Death's robe split and his wings un­folded. Angel's wings. But not of feathers. They were wings of night, wings that were shapes cut through the matter of creation into the darkness underneath, in which a few distant lights glimmered, lights that may have been stars or may have been something entirely else.

BUT I, he said, AM NOT LIKE THEM. I AM AZRAEL, CRE­ATED TO BE CREATION'S SHADOW. YOU CANNOT DESTROY ME. THAT WOULD DESTROY THE WORLD.

The heat of their stare faded. Adam scratched his nose.

"Oh, I don't know," he said. "There might be a way." He grinned back.

"Anyway, it's going to stop now," he said. "All this stuff with the machines. You've got to do what I say just for now, and I say it's got to stop."

Death shrugged. IT IS STOPPING ALREADY, he said. WITH­OUT THEM, he indicated the pathetic remnants of the other three Horse­persons, IT CANNOT PROCEED. NORMAL ENTROPY TRIUMPHS. Death raised a bony hand in what might have been a salute.

THEY'LL BE BACK, he said. THEY'RE NEVER FAR AWAY.

The wings flapped, just once, like a thunderclap, and the angel of Death vanished.

"Right, then," said Adam, to the empty air. "All right. It's not going to happen. All the stuff they started‑it must stop now. "

* * * * *

N ewt stared desperately at the equipment racks.

"You'd think there'd be a manual or something," he said.

"We could see if Agnes has anything to say," volunteered Anathema.

"Oh, yes," said Newt bitterly. "That makes sense, does it? Sabotag­ing twentieth‑century electronics with the aid of a seventeenth‑century workshop manual? What did Agnes Nutter know of the transistor?"

"Well, my grandfather interpreted prediction 3328 rather neatly in 1948 and made some very shrewd investments," said Anathema. "She didn't know what it was going to be called, of course, and she wasn't very sound about electricity in general, but‑"

"I was speaking rhetorically."

"You don't have to make it work, anyway. You have to stop it working. You don't need knowledge for that, you need ignorance."

Newt groaned.

"All right," he said wearily. "Let's try it. Give me a prediction."

Anathema pulled out a card at random.

" 'He is Not that Which He Says he Is,"' she read. "It's number 1002. Very simple. Any ideas?"

"Well, look," said Newt, wretchedly, "this isn't really the time to say it but,"‑he swallowed‑"actually I'm not very good with electronics. Not very good at all."

"You said you were a computer engineer, I seem to remember."

"That was an exaggeration. I mean, just about as much of an exag­geration as you can possibly get, in fact, really, I suppose it was more what you might call an an overstatement. I might go so far as to say that what it really was," Newt closed his eyes, "was a prevarication."

"A lie, you mean?" said Anathema sweetly.

"Oh, I wouldn't go thatfar," said Newt. "Although," he added, "I'm not actually a computer engineer. At all. Quite the opposite."

"What's the opposite?"

"If you must know, every time I try and make anything electronic work, it stops."

Anathema gave him a bright little smile, and posed theatrically, like that moment in every conjurer's stage act when the lady in the sequins steps back to reveal the trick.

"Tra‑la," she said.

"Repair it," she said.

"What?"

"Make it work better," she said.

"I don't know," said Newt. "I'm not sure I can." He laid a hand on top of the nearest cabinet.

There was the noise of something he hadn't realized he'd been hearing suddenly stopping, and the descending whine of a distant genera­tor. The lights on the panels flickered, and most of them went out.

All over the world, people who had been wrestling with switches found that they switched. Circuit breakers opened. Computers stopped planning World War III and went back to idly scanning the stratosphere. In bunkers under Novya Zemla men found that the fuses they were franti­cally trying to pull out came away in their hands at last; in bunkers under Wyoming and Nebraska, men in fatigues stopped screaming and waving guns at one another, and would have had a beer if alcohol had been al­lowed in missile bases. It wasn't, but they had one anyway.

The lights came on. Civilization stopped its slide into chaos, and started writing letters to the newspapers about how people got overexcited about the least little thing these days.

In Tadfield, the machines ceased radiating menace. Something that had been in them was gone, quite apart from the electricity.

"Gosh," said Newt.

"There you are," said Anathema. "You fixed it good. You can trust old Agnes, take it from me. Now let's get out of here."

– – -

"He didn't want to do it!" said Aziraphale. "Haven't I always told you, Crowley? If you take the trouble to look, deep down inside anyone, you'll find that at bottom they're really quite‑"

"It's not over," said Crowley flatly.

Adam turned and appeared to notice them for the first time. Crow­ley was not used to people identifying him so readily, but Adam stared at him as though Crowley's entire life history was pasted inside the back of his skull and he, Adam, was reading it. For an instant he knew real terror. He'd always thought the sort he'd felt before was the genuine article, but that was mere abject fear beside this new sensation. Those Below could make you cease to exist by, well, hurting you in unbearable amounts, but this boy could not only make you cease to exist merely by thinking about it, but probably could arrange matters so that you never had existed at all.

Adam's gaze swept to Aziraphale.

"'Scuse me, why're you two people?" said Adam.

" Well," said Aziraphale, "it's a long‑"

"It's not right, being two people," said Adam. "I reckon you'd better go back to being two sep'rate people."

There were no showy special effects. There was just Aziraphale, sitting next to Madame Tracy.

"Ooh, that felt tingly," she said. She looked Aziraphale up and down. "Oh," she said, in a slightly disappointed voice. "Somehow, I thought you'd be younger."

Shadwell glowered jealously at the angel and thumbed the Thundergun's hammer in a pointed sort of way.

Aziraphale looked down at his new body which was, unfortunately, very much like his old body, although the overcoat was cleaner.

"Well, that's over," he said.

"No," said Crowley. "No. It isn't, you see. Not at all."

Now there wereclouds overhead, curling like a pot of tagliatelli on full boil.

"You see," said Crowley, his voice leaden with fatalistic gloom, "it doesn't really work that simply. You think wars get started because some old duke gets shot, or someone cuts off someone's ear, or someone's sited their missiles in the wrong place. It's not like that. That's just, well, just reasons,which haven't got anything to do with it. What really causes wars is two sides that can't stand the sight of one another and the pressure builds up and up and then anything will cause it. Anything at all. What's your name . . . er . . . boy?"

"That's Adam Young," said Anathema, as she strode up with Newt trailing after her.

"That's right. Adam Young," said Adam.

"Good effort. You've saved the world. Have a half‑holiday," said Crowley. "But it won't really make any difference."

"I think you're right," said Aziraphale. "I'm sure my people wantArmageddon. It's very sad."

"Would anyone mind telling us what's going on?" said Anathema sternly, folding her arms.

Aziraphale shrugged. "It's a very long story," he began.

Anathema stuck out her chin. "Go on, then," she said.

"Well. In the Beginning‑"

The lightning flashed, struck the ground a few meters from Adam, and stayed there, a sizzling column that broadened at the base, as though the wild electricity was filling an invisible mold. The humans pressed back against the jeep.

The lightning vanished, and a young man made out of golden fire stood there.

"Oh dear," said Aziraphale. "It's him."

"Him who?" said Crowley.

"The Voice of God," said the angel. "The Metatron."

The Them stared.

Then Pepper said, "No, it isn't. The Metatron's made of plastic and it's got laser cannon and it can turn into a helicopter."

"That's the Cosmic Megatron," said Wensleydale weakly. "I had one, but the head fell off. I think this one is different."

The beautiful blank gaze fell on Adam Young, and then turned sharply to look at the concrete beside it, which was boiling.

A figure rose from the churning ground in the manner of the de­mon king in a pantomime, but if this one was ever in a pantomime, it was one where no one walked out alive and they had to get a priest to burn the place down afterwards. It was not greatly different to the other figure, except that its flames were blood‑red.

"Er," said Crowley, trying to shrink into his seat. "Hi . . . er."

The red thing gave him the briefest of glances, as though marking him for future consumption, and then stared at Adam. When it spoke, its voice was like a million flies taking off in a hurry.

It buzzed a word that felt, to those humans who heard it, like a file dragged down the spine.

It was talking to Adam, who said, "Huh? No. I said already. My name's Adam Young." He looked the figure up and down. "What's yours?"

"Beelzebub," Crowley supplied. "He's the Lord of‑"

"Thank you, Crowzley," said Beelzebub. "Later we muzzed have a seriouzz talk. I am sure thou hazzt muzzch to tell me."

"Er," said Crowley, "well, you see, what happened was‑"

"Silenzz!"

"Right. Right," said Crowley hurriedly.

"Now then, Adam Young," said the Metatron, "while we can of course appreciate your assistance at this point, we must add that Arma­geddon should take place now.There may be some temporary inconve­nience, but that should hardly stand in the way of the ultimate good."

"Ah," whispered Crowley to Aziraphale, "what he means is, we have to destroy the world in order to save it."

"Azz to what it standz in the way of, that hazz yet to be decided," buzzed Beelzebub. "But it muzzt be decided now, boy. That izz thy dez­tiny. It is written."

Adam took a deep breath. The human watchers held theirs. Crow­ley and Aziraphale had forgotten to breathe some time ago.

"I just don't see why everyone and everything has to be burned up and everything," Adam said. "Millions of fish an' whales an' trees an', an' sheep and stuff. An' not even for anything important. Jus' to see who's got the best gang. It's like us an' the Johnsonites. But even if you win, you can't really beat the other side, because you don't really want to. I mean, not for good. You'll just start all over again. You'll just keep on sending people like these two," he pointed to Crowley and Aziraphale, "to mess people around. It's hard enough bein' people as it is, without other people coming and messin' you around."

Crowley turned to Aziraphale.

"Johnsonites?" he whispered.

The angel shrugged. "Early breakaway sect, I think," he said. "Sort of Gnostics. Like the Ophites." His forehead wrinkled. "Or were they the Sethites? No, I'm thinking of the Collyridians. Oh dear. I'm sorry, there were hundreds of them, it's so hard to keep track."

"People bein' messed around," murmured Crowley.

"It doesn't matter!" snapped the Metatron. "The whole point of the creation of the Earth and Good and Evil‑"

"I don't see what's so triflic about creating people as people and then gettin' upset 'cos they act like people," said Adam severely. "Any­way, if you stopped tellin' people it's all sorted out after they're dead, they might try sorting it all out while they're alive. If I was in charge, I'd try makin' people live a lot longer, like ole Methuselah. It'd be a lot more interestin' and they might start thinkin' about the sort of things they're doing to all the enviroment and ecology, because they'll still be around in a hundred years' time."

"Ah," said Beelzebub, and he actually began to smile. "You wizzsh to rule the world. That'z more like thy Fath‑"

"I thought about all that an' I don't want to," said Adam, half turning and nodding encouragingly at the Them. "I mean, there's some stuff could do with alt'rin', but then I expect peopled keep comin' up to me and gettin' me to sort out everythin' the whole time and get rid of all the rubbish and make more trees for 'em, and where's the good in all that? It's like havin' to tidy up people's bedrooms for them."

"You never tidy up even your bedroom," said Pepper, behind him.

"I never said anythin' about my bedroom," said Adam, referring to a room whose carpet had been lost to view for several years. "It's general bedrooms I mean. I dint mean my personal bedroom. It's an analoggy. That's jus' what I'm sayin'."

Beelzebub and the Metatron looked at one another.

"Anyway," said Adam, "it's bad enough having to think of things for Pepper and Wensley and Brian to do all the time so they don't get bored, so I don't want any more world than I've got. Thank you all the same."

The Metatron's face began to take on the look familiar to all those subjected to Adam's idiosyncratic line of reasoning.

"You can't refuse to be who you are," it said eventually. "Listen. Your birth and destiny are part of the Great Plan. Things haveto happen like this. All the choices have been made."

"Rebellion izz a fine thing," said Beelzebub, "but some thingz are beyond rebellion. You muzzt understand!"

"I'm not rebelling against anything," said Adam in a reasonable tone of voice. "I'm pointin' out things. Seems to me you can't blame people for pointin' out things. Seems to me it'd be a lot better not to start fightin' and jus' see what people do. If you stop messin' them about they might start thinkin' properly an' they might stop messin' the world around. I'm not sayin' they would, " he added conscientiously, "but they might."

"This makes no sense," said the Metatron. "You can't run counter to the Great Plan. You must think.It's in your genes. Think."

Adam hesitated.

The dark undercurrent was always ready to flow back, its reedy whisper saying yes, that was it, that was what it was all about, you have to follow the Plan because you were part of it‑

It had been a long day. He was tired. Saving the world took it out of an eleven‑year‑old body.

Crowley stuck his head in his hands. "For a moment there, just for a moment, I thought we had a chance," he said. "He had them worried. Oh, well, it was nice while‑"

He was aware that Aziraphale had stood up.

"Excuse me," said the angel.

The trio looked at him.

"This Great Plan," he said, "this would be the ineffablePlan, would it?"

There was a moment's silence.

"It's the Great Plan," said the Metatron flatly. "You are well aware. There shall be a world lasting six thousand years and it will con­clude with‑"

"Yes, yes, that's the Great Plan all right," said Aziraphale. He spoke politely and respectfully, but with the air of one who has just asked an unwelcome question at a political meeting and won't go away until he gets an answer. "I was just asking if it's ineffable as well. I just want to be clear on this point."

"It doesn't matter!" snapped the Metatron. "It's the same thing, surely!"

Surely? thought Crowley. They don't actually know.He started to grin like an idiot.

"So you're not one hundred percent clear on this?" said Aziraphale.

"It's not given to us to understand the ineffablePlan," said the Metatron, "but of course the Great Plan‑"

"But the Great Plan can only be a tiny part of the overall ineffabil­ity," said Crowley. "You can't be certain that what's happening right now isn't exactly right, from an ineffable point of view."

"It izz written!" bellowed Beelzebub.

"But it might be written differently somewhere else," said Crowley.

"Where you can't read it."

"In bigger letters," said Aziraphale.

"Underlined," Crowley added.

"Twice," suggested Aziraphale.

"Perhaps this isn't just a test of the world," said Crowley. "It might be a test of you people, too. Hmm?"

"God does not play games with His loyal servants," said the Meta­tron, but in a worried tone of voice.

"Whoop‑eee," said Crowley. "Where have you been?"

Everyone found their eyes turning toward Adam. He seemed to be thinking very carefully.

Then he said: "I don't see why it matters what is written. Not when it's about people. It can always be crossed out."

A breeze swept across the airfield. Overhead, the assembled hosts rippled, like a mirage.

There was the kind of silence there might have been on the day before Creation.

Adam stood smiling at the two of them, a small figure perfectly poised exactly between Heaven and Hell.

Crowley grabbed Aziraphale's arm. "You know what happened?" he hissed excitedly. "He was left alone! He grew up human! He's not Evil Incarnate or Good Incarnate, he's just . . . a humanincarnate‑"

Then:

"I think," said the Metatron, "that I shall need to seek further instructions."

"I alzzo," said Beelzebub. His raging face turned to Crowley. "And I shall report of your part in thizz, thou hast better believe it." He glared at Adam. "And I do not know what thy Father willsay . . ."

There was a thundering explosion. Shadwell, who had been fidget­ing with horrified excitement for some minutes, had finally got enough control of his trembling fingers to pull the trigger.

The pellets passed through the space where Beelzebub had been. Shadwell never knew how lucky he had been that he'd missed.

The sky wavered, and then became just sky. Around the horizon, the clouds began to unravel.

– – -

Madame Tracy broke the silence.

"Weren't they odd," she said.

She didn't mean "weren't they odd"; what she did mean she proba­bly could never hope to express, except by screaming, but the human brain has amazing recuperative powers and saying "weren't they odd" was part of the rapid healing process. Within half an hour, she'd be thinking she'd just had too much to drink.

"Is it over, do you think?" said Aziraphale.

Crowley shrugged. "Not for us, I'm afraid."

"I don't think you need to go worryin'," said Adam gnomically. "I know all about you two. Don't you worry."

He looked at the rest of the Them, who tried not to back away. He seemed to think for a while, and then he said, "There's been too much messin' around anyway. But it seems to me everyone's goin' to be a lot happier if they forget about this. Not actually forget, just not remember exactly. An' then we can go home."

"But you can't just leave it at that!" said Anathema, pushing for­ward. "Think of all things you could do! Good things."

"Like what?" said Adam suspiciously.

"Well . . . you could bring all the whales back, to start with."

He put his head on one side. "An' that'd stop people killing them?"

She hesitated. It would have been nice to say yes.

"An' if people do start killing 'em, what would you ask me to do about 'em?" said Adam. "No. I reckon I'm getting the hang of this now. Once I start messing around like that, there'd be no stoppin' it. Seems to me, the only sensible thing is for people to know if they kill a whale, they've got a dead whale."

"That shows a very responsible attitude," said Newt.

Adam raised an eyebrow.

"It's just sense," he said.

Aziraphale patted Crowley on the back. "We seem to have sur­vived," he said. "Just imagine how terrible it might have been if we'd been at all competent."

"Um," said Crowley.

"Is your car operational?"

"I think it might need a bit of work," Crowley admitted.

"I was thinking that we might take these good people into town," said Aziraphale. "I owe Madame Tracy a meal, I'm sure. And her young man, of course."

Shadwell looked over his shoulder, and then up at Madame Tracy.

"Who's he talking about?" he asked her triumphant expression.

Adam rejoined the Them.

"I reckon we'll just be gettin' home," he said.

"But what actually happened?"said Pepper. "I mean, there was all this‑"

"It doesn't matter any more," said Adam.

"But you could help so much‑" Anathema began, as they wan­dered back to their bikes. Newt took her gently by the arm.

"That's not a good idea," he said. "Tomorrow is the first day of the rest of our lives."

"Do you know," she said, "of all the trite sayings I've ever really hated, that comes top?"

"Amazing, isn't it," said Newt happily.

"Why've you got 'Dick Turpin' painted on the door of your car?"

"It's a joke, really," said Newt.

"Hmm?"

"Because everywhere I go, I hold up traffic," he mumbled wretchedly.

Crowley looked glumly at the controls of the jeep.

"I'm sorry about the car," Aziraphale was saying. "I know how much you liked it. Perhaps if you concentrated really hard‑"

"It wouldn't be the same," said Crowley.

"I suppose not."

"I had it from new, you know. It wasn't a car, it was more a sort of whole body glove."

He sniffed.

"What's burning?" he said.

A breeze swept up the dust and dropped it again. The air became hot and heavy, imprisoning those within it like flies in syrup.

He turned his head, and looked into Aziraphale's horrified expression.

"But it's over," he said. "It can'thappen now! The‑the thing, the correct moment or whatever‑it's gone past! It's over!"

The ground began to shake. The noise was like a subway train, but not one passing under. It was more like the sound of one coming up.

Crowley fumbled madly with the gear shift.

"That's not Beelzebub!" he shouted, above the noise of the wind. "That's Him.His Father! This isn't Armageddon, this is personal.Start, you bloody thing!"

The ground moved under Anathema and Newt, flinging them onto the dancing concrete. Yellow smoke gushed from between the cracks.

"It feels like a volcano!" shouted Newt. "What is it?"

"Whatever it is, it's pretty angry," said Anathema.

In the jeep, Crowley was cursing. Aziraphale laid a hand on his shoulder.

"There are humans here," he said.

"Yes," said Crowley. "Andme."

"I mean we shouldn't let this happen to them."

"Well, what‑" Crowley began, and stopped.

"I mean, when you think about it, we've got them into enough trouble as it is. You and me. Over the years. What with one thing and another."

"We were only doing our jobs," muttered Crowley.

"Yes. So what? Lots of people in history have only done their jobs and look at the trouble theycaused."

"You don't mean we should actually try to stop Him?"

"What have you got to lose?"

Crowley started to argue, and realized that he hadn't anything. There was nothing he could lose that he hadn't lost already. They couldn't do anything worse to him than he had coming to him already. He felt free at last.

He also felt under the seat and found a tire iron. It wouldn't be any good, but then, nothing would. In fact it'd be much more terrible facing the Adversary with anything like a decent weapon. That way you might have a bit of hope, which would make it worse.

Aziraphale picked up the sword lately dropped by War, and hefted its weight thoughtfully.

"Gosh, it's been years since I used this," he murmured.

"About six thousand," said Crowley.

"My word, yes," said the angel. "What a day that was, and no mistake. Good old days."

"Not really," said Crowley. The noise was growing.

"People knew the difference between right and wrong in those days," said Aziraphale dreamily.

"Well, yes. Think about it."

"Ah. Yes. Too much messin' about?" "yes. "

Aziraphale held up the sword. There was a whoomphas it suddenly flamed like a bar of magnesium.

"Once you've learned how to do it, you never forget," he said.

He smiled at Crowley.

"I'd just like to say," he said, "if we don't get out of this, that . . . I'll have known, deep down inside, that there was a spark of goodness in you."

"That's right," said Crowley bitterly. "Make my day."

Aziraphale held out his hand.

"Nice knowing you," he said.

Crowley took it.

"Here's to the next time," he said. "And . . . Aziraphale?"

"Yes."

"Just remember I'll have known that, deep down inside, you were just enough of a bastard to be worth liking."

There was a scuffing noise, and they were pushed aside by the small but dynamic shape of Shadwell, waving the Thundergun purpose­fully.

"I wouldna' trust you two Southern nancy boys to kill a lame rat in a barrel," he said. "Who're we fightin' noo?"

"The Devil," said Aziraphale, simply.

Shadwell nodded, as if this hadn't come as a surprise, threw the gun down, and took off his hat to expose a forehead known and feared wher­ever street‑fighting men were gathered together.

"Ah reckoned so," he said. "In that case, I'm gonna use mah haid."

Newt and Anathema watched the three of them walk unsteadily away from the jeep. With Shadwell in the middle, they looked like a styl­ized W.

"What on earth are they going to do?" said Newt. "And what's happening‑what's happening tothem?"

The coats of Aziraphale and Crowley split along the seams. If you were going to go, you might as well go in your own true shape. Feathers unfolded towards the sky.

Contrary to popular belief, the wings of demons are the same as the wings of angels, although they're often better groomed.

"Shadwell shouldn't be going with them!" said Newt, staggering to his feet.

"What's a Shadwell?"

"He's my serg‑he's this amazing old man, you'd never believe it . . . I've got to help him!"

"Help him?" said Anathema.

"I took an oath and everything." Newt hesitated. "Well, sort of an oath. And he gave me a month's wages in advance!"

"Who're those other two, then? Friends of yours‑" Anathema began, and stopped. Aziraphale had half turned, and the profile had finally clicked into place.

"I know where I've seen him before!" she shouted, pulling herself upright against Newt as the ground bounced up and down. "Come on!"

"But something dreadful's going to happen!"

"If he's damaged the book, you're bloody well right!"

Newt fumbled in his lapel and found his official pin. He didn't know what they were going up against this time, but a pin was all he had.

They ran . . .

Adam looked around. He looked

down. His face took on an expression of

calculated innocence.

There was a moment of conflict.

But Adam was on his own ground.

Always, and ultimately, on his own ground.

He moved one hand

around in a blurred half

circle.

. . . Aziraphale and Crowley felt the world change.

There was no noise. There were no cracks. There was just that where there had been the beginnings of a volcano of Satanic power, there was just clearing smoke, and a car drawing slowly to a halt, its engine loud in the evening hush.

It was an elderly car, but well preserved. Not using Crowley's method, though, where dents were simply wished away; this car looked like it did, you knew instinctively, because its owner had spent every week­end for two decades doing all the things the manual said should be done every weekend. Before every journey he walked around it and checked the lights and counted the wheels. Serious‑minded men who smoked pipes and wore mustaches had written serious instructions saying that this should be done, and so he did it, because he was a serious‑minded man who smoked a pipe and wore a mustache and did not take such injunctions lightly, because if you did, where would you be? He had exactly the right amount of insurance. He drove three miles below the speed limit, or forty miles per hour, whichever was the lower. He wore a tie, even on Saturdays.

Archimedes said that with a long enough lever and a solid enough place to stand, he could move the world.

He could have stood on Mr. Young.

The car door opened and Mr. Young emerged.

"What's going on here?" he said. "Adam? Adam!"

But the Them were streaking towards the gate.

Mr. Young looked at the shocked assembly. At least Crowley and Aziraphale had had enough self‑control left to winch in their wings.

"What's he been getting up to now?" he sighed, not really expect­ing an answer.

"Where's that boy got to? Adam! Come back here this instant!"

Adam seldom did what his father wanted.

– – -

Sgt. Thomas A. Deisenburger opened his eyes. The only thing strange about his surroundings was how familiar they were. There was his high school photograph on the wall, and his little Stars and Stripes flag in the toothmug, next to his toothbrush, and even his little teddy bear, still in its little uniform. The early afternoon sun flooded through his bedroom window.

He could smell apple pie. That was one of the things he'd missed most about spending his Saturday nights a long way from home.

He walked downstairs.

His mother was at the stove, taking a huge apple pie out of the oven to cool.

"Hi, Tommy," she said. "I thought you was in England."

"Yes, Mom, I am normatively in England, Mom, protecting democ­ratism, Mom, sir," said Sgt. Thomas A. Deisenburger.

"That's nice, hon," said his mother. "Your Poppa's down in the Big Field, with Chester and Ted. They'll be pleased to see you."

Sgt. Thomas A. Deisenburger nodded.

He took off his military‑issue helmet and his military‑issue jacket, and he rolled up his military‑issue shirtsleeves. For a moment he looked more thoughtful than he had ever done in his life. Part of his thoughts were occupied with apple pie.

"Mom, if any throughput eventuates premising to interface with Sgt. Thomas A. Deisenburger telephonically, Mom, sir, this individual will-"

"Sorry, Tommy?"

Tom Deisenburger hung his gun on the wall, above his father's battered old rifle.

"I said, if anyone calls, Mom, I'll be down in the Big Field, with Pop and Chester and Ted."

– – -

The van drove slowly up to the gates of the air base. It pulled over. The guard on the midnight shift looked in the window, checked the cre­dentials of the driver, and waved him in.

The van meandered across the concrete.

It parked on the tarmac of the empty airstrip, near where two men sat, sharing a bottle of wine. One of the men wore dark glasses. Surpris­ingly, no one else seemed to be paying them the slightest attention.

"Are you saying," said Crowley, "that He planned it this way all along? From the very beginning?"

Aziraphale conscientiously wiped the top of the bottle and passed it back.

"Could have," he said. "Could have. One could always ask Him, I suppose."

"From what I remember," replied Crowley, thoughtfully, "‑and we were never actually on what you might call speaking terms‑He wasn't exactly one for a straight answer. In fact, in fact, he'd never answer at all. He'd just smile, as if He knew something that you didn't."

"And of course that's true," said the angel. "Otherwise, what'd be the point?"

There was a pause, and both beings stared reflectively off into the distance, as if they were remembering things that neither of them had thought of for a long time.

The van driver got out of the van, carrying a cardboard box and a pair of tongs.

Lying on the tarmac were a tarnished metal crown and a pair of scales. The man picked them up with the tongs and placed them in the box.

Then he approached the couple with the bottle.

"Excuse me, gents," he said, "but there's meant to be a sword around here somewhere as well, at least, that's what it says here at any rate, and I was wondering . . ."

Aziraphale seemed embarrassed. He looked around himself, vaguely puzzled, then stood up, to discover that he had been sitting on the sword for the last hour or so. He reached down and picked it up. "Sorry," he said, and put the sword into the box.

The van driver, who wore an International Express cap, said not to mention it, and really it was a godsend them both being there like this, since someone was going to have to sign to say that he'd duly collected what he'd been sent for, and this had certainly been a day to remember, eh?

Aziraphale and Crowley both agreed with him that it had, and Aziraphale signed the clipboard that the van driver gave him, witnessing that a crown, a pair of balances, and a sword had been received in good order and were to be delivered to a smudged address and charged to a blurred account number.

The man began to walk back to his van. Then he stopped, and turned.

"If I was to tell my wife what happened to me today," he told them, a little sadly, "she'd never believe me. And I wouldn't blame her, because I don't either." And he climbed into his van, and he drove away.

Crowley stood up, a little unsteadily. He reached a hand down to Aziraphale.

"Come on," he said. "I'll drive us back to London."

He took a Jeep. No one stopped them.

It had a cassette player. This isn't general issue, even for American military vehicles, but Crowley automatically assumed that all vehicles he drove would have cassette players and therefore this one did, within sec­onds of his getting in.

The cassette that he put on as he drove was marked Handel's WaterMusic, and it stayed Handel's Water Musicall the way home.

Sunday

(The first day of the rest of their lives)

A t around half past ten the paper boy brought the Sunday papers to the front door of Jasmine Cottage. He had to make three trips.

The series of thumps as they hit the mat woke up Newton Pulsifer.

He left Anathema asleep. She was pretty shattered, poor thing. She'd been almost incoherent when he'd put her to bed. She'd run her life according to the Prophecies and now there were no more Prophecies. She must be feeling like a train which had reached the end of the line but still had to keep going, somehow.

From now on she'd be able to go through life with everything com­ing as a surprise, just like everyone else. What luck.

The telephone rang.

Newt dashed for the kitchen and picked up the receiver on the second ring.

"Hello?" he said.

A voice of forced friendliness tinted with desperation gabbled at him.

"No," he said, "I'm not. And it's not Devissey, it's Device. As in Nice. And she's asleep."

"Well," he said, "I'm pretty sure she doesn't want any cavities insulated. Or double glazing. I mean, she doesn't own the cottage, you know. She's only renting it."

"No, I'm not going to wake her up and ask her," he said. "And tell me, Miss, uh . . . right, Miss Morrow, why don't you lot take Sundays off, like everybody else does?"

"Sunday, " he said. "Of course it's not Saturday. Why would it be Saturday? Saturday was yesterday. It's honestly Sunday today, really. What do you mean, you've lost a day? 1 haven't got it. Seems to me you've got a bit carried away with selling . . . Hello?"

He growled, and replaced the receiver.

Telephone salespeople! Something dreadful ought to happen to them.

He was assailed by a moment of sudden doubt. Today wasSunday, wasn't it? A glance at the Sunday papers reassured him. If the Sunday Times said it was Sunday, you could be sure that they'd investigated the matter. And yesterday was Saturday. Of course. Yesterday was Saturday, and he'd never forget Saturday for as long as he lived, if only he could remember what it was he wasn't meant to forget.

Seeing that he was in the kitchen, Newt decided to make breakfast.

He moved around the kitchen as quietly as possible, to avoid wak­ing the rest of the household, and found every sound magnified. The an­tique fridge had a door that shut like the crack of doom. The kitchen tap dribbled like a diuretic gerbil but made a noise like Old Faithful. And he couldn't find where anything was. In the end, as every human being who has ever breakfasted on their own in someone else's kitchen has done since nearly the dawn of time, he made do with unsweetened instant black cof­fee ^[54].

On the kitchen table was a roughly rectangular, leather‑bound cin­der. He could just make out the words 'Ni a and Ace' on the charred cover. What a difference a day made, he thought. It turns you from the ultimate reference book to a mere barbecue briquette.

Now, then. How, exactly, had they got it? He recalled a man who smelled of smoke and wore sunglasses even in darkness. And there was other stuff, all running together . . . boys on bikes . . . an unpleasant buzzing . . . a small, grubby, staring face . . . It all hung around in his mind, not exactly forgotten but forever hanging on the cusp of recollection, a memory of things that hadn't happened. How could you have that ^[55]?

He sat staring at the wall until a knock at the door brought him back to earth.

There was a small dapper man in a black raincoat standing on the doorstep. He was holding a cardboard box and he gave Newt a bright smile.

"Mr."‑he consulted a piece of paper in one hand‑"Pulzifer?"

"Pulsifer," said Newt. "It's a hard ess"

"I'm ever so sorry," said the man. "I've only ever seen it written down. Er. Well, then. It would appear that this is for you and Mrs. Pul­sifer."

Newt gave him a blank look.

"There is no Mrs. Pulsifer," he said coldly.

The man removed his bowler hat.

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry," he said.

"I mean that . . . well, there's my mother," said Newt. "But she's not dead, she's just in Dorking. I'm not married."

"How odd. The letter is quite, er, specific."

"Who are you?" said Newt. He was wearing only his trousers, and it was chilly on the doorstep.

The man balanced the box awkwardly and fished out a card from an inner pocket. He handed it to Newt.

It read:

Giles Baddicombe

Robey, Robey, Redfearn and Bychance

Solicitors

13 Demdyke Chambers,

PRESTON

"Yes?" he said politely. "And what can I do for you, Mr. Baddicombe?"

"You could let me in," said Mr. Baddicombe.

"You're not serving a writ or anything, are you?" said Newt. The events of last night hung in his memory like a cloud, constantly changing whenever he thought he could make out a picture, but he was vaguely aware of damaging things and had been expecting retribution in some form.

"No," said Mr. Baddicombe, looking slightly hurt. "We have peo­ple for that sort of thing."

He wandered past Newt and put the box down on the table.

"To be honest," he said, "we're all very interested in this. Mr. Bychance nearly came down himself, but he doesn't travel well these days."

"Look," said Newt, "I really haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about."

"This," said Mr. Baddicombe, proffering the box and beaming like Aziraphale about to attempt a conjuring trick, "is yours. Someone wanted you to have it. They were very specific."

"A present?" said Newt. He eyed the taped cardboard cautiously, and then rummaged in the kitchen drawer for a sharp knife.

"I think more a bequest," said Mr. Baddicombe. "You see, we've had it for three hundred years. Sorry. Was it something I said? Hold it under the tap, I should."

"What the hell is this all about?" said Newt, but a certain icy suspicion was creeping over him. He sucked at the cut.

"It's a funny story‑do you mind if I sit down?‑and of course I don't know the full details because I joined the firm only fifteen years ago, but . . ."

. . . It had been a very small legal firm when the box had been cautiously delivered; Redfearn, Bychance and both the Robeys, let alone Mr. Baddicombe, were a long way in the future. The struggling legal clerk who had accepted delivery had been surprised to find, tied to the top of the box with twine, a letter addressed to himself.

It had contained certain instructions and five interesting facts about the history of the next ten years which, if put to good use by a keen young man, would ensure enough finance to pursue a very successful legal career.

All he had to do was see that the box was carefully looked after for rather more than three hundred years, and then delivered to a certain address . . .

". . . although of course the firm had changed hands many times over the centuries," said Mr. Baddicombe. "But the box has always been part of the chattels, as it were."

"I didn't even know they madeHeinz Baby Foods in the seven­teenth century," said Newt.

"That was just to keep it undamaged in the car," said Mr. Bad­dicombe.

"And no one's opened it all these years?" said Newt.

"Twice, I believe," said Mr. Baddicombe. "In 1757, by Mr. George Cranby, and in 1928 by Mr. Arthur Bychance, father of the present Mr. Bychance." He coughed. "Apparently Mr. Cranby found a letter‑"

"‑addressed to himself," said Newt.

Mr. Baddicombe sat back hurriedly. "My word. How did you guess that?"

"I think I recognize the style," said Newt grimly. "What happened to them?"

"Have you heard this before?" said Mr. Baddicombe suspiciously.

"Not in so many words. They weren't blown up, were they?"

"Well . . . Mr. Cranby had a heart attack, it is believed. And Mr. Bychance went very pale and put his letter back in its envelope, I under­stand, and gave very strict instructions that the box wasn't to be opened again in his lifetime. He said anyone who opened the box would be sacked without references."

"A dire threat," said Newt, sarcastically.

"It was, in 1928. Anyway, their letters are in the box."

New pulled the cardboard aside.

There was a small ironbound chest inside. It had no lock.

"Go on, lift it out," said Mr. Baddicombe excitedly. "I must say I'd very much like to know what's in there. We've had bets on it, in the office . . ."

"I'll tell you what," said Newt, generously, "I'll make us some coffee, and you can open the box."

"Me? Would that be proper?"

"I don't see why not." Newt eyed the saucepans hanging over the stove. One of them was big enough for what he had in mind.

"Go on," he said. "Be a devil. I don't mind. You‑you could have power of attorney, or something."

Mr. Baddicombe took off his overcoat. "Well," he said, rubbing his hands together, "since you put it like that it'd be something to tell my grandchildren."

Newt picked up the saucepan and laid his hand gently on the door handle. "I hope so," he said.

"Here goes."

Newt heard a faint creak.

"What can you see?" he said.

"There's the two opened letters . . . oh, and a third one . . . addressed to . . ."

Newt heard the snap of a wax seal and the clink of something on the table. Then there was a gasp, the clatter of a chair, the sound of running feet in the hallway, the slam of a door, and the sound of a car engine being jerked into life and then redlined down the lane.

Newt took the saucepan off his head and came out from behind the door.

He picked up the letter and was not one hundred percent surprised to see that it was addressed to Mr. G. Baddicombe. He unfolded it.

It read: "Here is A Florin, lawyer; nowe, runne faste, lest thee Worlde knoe the Truth about yowe and Mistrefs Spiddon the Type Writ­inge Machine slavey."

Newt looked at the other letters. The crackling paper of the one addressed to George Cranby said: "Remove thy thievinge Hande, Master Cranby. I minde well how yowe swindled the Widdowe Plashkin this Michelmas past, yowe skinnie owlde Snatch‑pastry."

Newt wondered what a snatch‑pastry was. He would be prepared to bet that it didn't involve cookery.

The one that had awaited the inquisitive Mr. Bychance said: "Yowe left them, yowe cowarde. Returne this letter to the hocks, lest the Worlde knoe the true Events of June 7th, Nineteen Hundred and Sixteene."

Under the letters was a manuscript. Newt stared at it.

"What's that?" said Anathema.

He spun around. She was leaning against the doorframe, like an attractive yawn on legs.

Newt backed against the table. "Oh, nothing. Wrong address. Nothing. Just some old box. Junk mail. You know how‑"

"On a Sunday?" she said, pushing him aside.

He shrugged as she put her hands around the yellowed manuscript and lifted it out.

"Further Nife and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter," she read slowly, "Concerning the Worlde that Is To Com; Ye Saga Continuef l Oh, my . . ."

She laid it reverentially on the table and prepared to turn the first page.

Newt's hand landed gently on hers.

"Think of it like this," he said quietly. "Do you want to be a descendant for the rest of your life?"

She looked up. Their eyes met.

– – -

It was Sunday, the first day of the rest of the world, around eleven-thirty.

St. James' Park was comparatively quiet. The ducks, who were experts in realpolitikas seen from the bread end, put it down to a decrease in world tension. There really had been a decrease in world tension, in fact, but a lot of people were in offices trying to find out why, trying to find where Atlantis had disappeared to with three international fact‑finding delegations on it, and trying to work out what had happened to all their computers yesterday.

The park was deserted except for a member of MI9 trying to recruit someone who, to their later mutual embarrassment, would turn out to be also a member of MI9, and a tall man feeding the ducks.

And there were also Crowley and Aziraphale.

They strolled side by side across the grass.

"Same here," said Aziraphale. "The shop's all there. Not so much as a soot mark."

"I mean, you can't just makean old Bentley," said Crowley. "You can't get the patina. But there it was, large as life. Right there in the street. You can't tell the difference."

"Well, 1 can tell the difference," said Aziraphale. "I'm sure I didn't stock books with titles like Biggles Goes To Marsand Jack Cade, Frontier Heroand 101 Things A Boy Can Doand Blood Dogs of the Skull Sea."

"Gosh, I'm sorry," said Crowley, who knew how much the angel had treasured his book collection.

"Don't be," said Aziraphale happily. "They're all mint first edi­tions and I looked them up in Skindle's Price Guide. I think the phrase you use is whop‑eee. "

"I thought he was putting the world back just as it was," said Crowley.

"Yes," said Aziraphale. "More or less. As best he can. But he's got a sense of humor, too."

Crowley gave him a sideways look.

"Your people been in touch?" he said.

"No. Yours?"

"No."

"I think they're pretending it didn't happen."

"Mine too, I suppose. That's bureaucracy for you."

"And I think mine are waiting to see what happens next," said Aziraphale.

Crowley nodded. "A breathing space," he said. "A chance to morally re‑arm. Get the defenses up. Ready for the big one."

They stood by the pond, watching the ducks scrabble for the bread.

"Sorry?" said Aziraphale. "I thought that was the big one."

"I'm not sure," said Crowley. "Think about it. For my money, the really big one will be all of Us against all of Them."

"What? You mean Heaven and Hell against humanity?"

Crowley shrugged. "Of course, if he did change everything, then maybe he changed himself, too. Got rid of his powers, perhaps. Decided to stay human."

"Oh, I do hope so," said Aziraphale. "Anyway, I'm sure the alter­ native wouldn't be allowed. Er. Would it?"

"I don't know. You can never be certain about what's really in­tended. Plans within plans."

"Sorry" said Aziraphale.

"Well," said Crowley, who'd been thinking about this until his head ached, "haven't you ever wondered about it all? You know‑your people and my people. Heaven and Hell, good and evil, all that sort of thing? I mean, why?"

"As I recall," said the angel, stiffly, "there was the rebellion and‑"

"Ah, yes. And why did it happen,eh? I mean, it didn't have to, did it?" said Crowley, a manic look in his eye. "Anyone who could build a universe in six days isn't going to let a little thing like that happen. Unless they want it to, of course."

"Oh, come on. Be sensible," said Aziraphale, doubtfully.

"That's not good advice," said Crowley. "That's not good advice at all. If you sit down and think about it sensibly,you come up with some very funny ideas. Like: why make people inquisitive, and then put some forbidden fruit where they can see it with a big neon finger flashing on and off saying 'THIS IS IT!'?"

"I don't remember any neon."

"Metaphorically, I mean. I mean, why do that if you really don't wantthem to eat it, eh? I mean, maybe you just want to see how it all turns out. Maybe it's all part of a great big ineffable plan. All of it. You, me, him, everything. Some great big test to see if what you've built all works prop­erly, eh? You start thinking: it can'tbe a great cosmic game of chess, it hasto be just very complicated Solitaire. And don't bother to answer. If we could understand, we wouldn't be us. Because it's all‑all‑"

INEFFABLE, said the figure feeding the ducks.

"Yeah. Right. Thanks."

They watched the tall stranger carefully dispose of the empty bag in a litter bin, and stalk away across the grass. Then Crowley shook his head.

"What was I saying?" he said.

"Don't know," said Aziraphale. "Nothing very important, I think."

Crowley nodded gloomily. "Let me tempt you to some lunch," he hissed.

They went to the Ritz again, where a table was mysteriously va­cant. And perhaps the recent exertions had had some fallout in the nature of reality because, while they were eating, for the first time ever, a nightin­gale sang in Berkeley Square.

No one heard it over the noise of the traffic, but it was there, right enough.

– – -

It was one o'clock on Sunday.

For the last decade Sunday lunch in Witchfinder Sergeant Shadwell's world had followed an invariable routine. He would sit at the rickety, cigarette‑burned table in his room, thumbing through an elderly copy of one of the Witchfinder Army library's ^[56]books on magic and De­monology‑the Necrotelecomniconor the Liber Fulvarum Paginarum,or his old favorite, the Malleus Malleficarum. ^[57]

Then there would be a knock on the door, and Madame Tracy would call out, "Lunch, Mr. Shadwell," and Shadwell would mutter, "Shameless hussy," and wait sixty seconds, to allow the shameless hussy time to get back into her room; then he'd open the door, and pick up the plate of liver, which was usually carefully covered by another plate to keep it warm. And he'd take it in, and he'd eat it, taking moderate care not to spill any gravy on the pages he was reading ^[58].

That was what always happened.

Except on that Sunday, it didn't.

For a start, he wasn't reading. He was just sitting.

And when the knock came on the door he got up immediately, and opened it. He needn't have hurried.

There was no plate. There was just Madame Tracy, wearing a cameo brooch, and an unfamiliar shade of lipstick. She was also standing in the center of a perfume zone.

"Aye, Jezebel?"

Madame Tracy's voice was bright and fast and brittle with uncer­tainty. "Hullo, Mister S, I was just thinking, after all we've been through in the last two days, seems silly for me to leave a plate out for you, so I've set a place for you. Come on . . ."

Mister S? Shadwell followed, warily.

He'd had another dream, last night. He didn't remember it prop­erly, just one phrase, that still echoed in his head and disturbed him. The dream had vanished into a haze, like the events of the previous night.

It was this. "Nothin' wrong with witchfinding. I'd like to be a witchfinder. It's just, weld you've got to take it in turns. Today we'll go out witchfinding, an' tomorrow we could hide, an it'd be the witches' turn to find US..."

For the second time in twenty‑four hours‑for the second time in his life‑he entered Madame Tracy's rooms.

"Sit down there," she told him, pointing to an armchair. It had an antimacassar on the headrest, a plumped‑up pillow on the seat, and a small footstool.

He sat down.

She placed a tray on his lap, and watched him eat, and removed his plate when he had finished. Then she opened a bottle of Guinness, poured it into a glass and gave it to him, then sipped her tea while he slurped his stout. When she put her cup down, it tinkled nervously in the saucer.

"I've got a tidy bit put away," she said, apropos of nothing. "And you know, I sometimes think it would be a nice thing to get a little bunga­low, in the country somewhere. Move out of London. I'd call it The Lau­rels, or Dunroamin, or, or . . ."

"Shangri‑La," suggested Shadwell, and for the life of him could not think why.

"Exactly, Mister S. Exactly. Shangri‑La." She smiled at him. "Are you comfy, love?"

Shadwell realized with dawning horror that he was comfortable. Horribly, terrifyingly comfortable. "Aye," he said, warily. He had never been so comfortable.

Madame Tracy opened another bottle of Guinness and placed it in front of him.

"Only trouble with having a little bungalow, called‑what was your clever idea, Mister S?"

"Uh. Shangri‑La."

"Shangri‑La, exactly, is that it's not right for one, isit? I mean, two people, they say two can live as cheaply as one."

(Or five hundred and eighteen, thought Shadwell, remembering the massed ranks of the Witchfinder Army.)

She giggled. "I just wonder whereI could find someone to settle down with . . ."

Shadwell realized that she was talking about him.

He wasn't sure about this. He had a distinct feeling that leaving Witchfinder Private Pulsifer with the young lady in Tadfield had been a bad move, as far as the Witchfinder Army Booke of Rules and Reggula­tionswas concerned. And this seemed even more dangerous.

Still, at his age, when you're getting too old to go crawling about in the long grass, when the chill morning dew gets into your bones . . .

(An' tomorrow we could hide, an it'd be the witches' turn to find us.)

Madame Tracy opened another bottle of Guinness, and giggled. "Oh Mister S," she said, "you'll be thinking I'm trying to get you tiddly."

He grunted. There was a formality that had to be observed in all this.

Witchfinder Sergeant Shadwell took a long, deep drink of Guin­ness, and he popped the question.

Madame Tracy giggled. "Honestly, you old silly," she said, and she blushed a deep red. "How many do you think?"

He popped it again.

"Two," said Madame Tracy.

"Ah, weel. That's all reet then," said Witchfinder Sergeant Shad­well (retired).

– – -

It was Sunday afternoon.

High over England a 747 droned westwards. In the first‑class cabin a boy called Warlock put down his comic and stared out of the window.

It had been a very strange couple of days. He still wasn't certain why his father had been called to the Middle East. He was pretty sure that his father didn't know, either. It was probably something cultural. All that had happened was a lot of funny‑looking guys with towels on their heads and very bad teeth had shown them around some old ruins. As ruins went, Warlock had seen better. And then one of the old guys had said to him, wasn't there anything he wanted to do? And Warlock had said he'd like to leave.

They'd looked very unhappy about that.

And now he was going back to the States. There had been some sort of problem with tickets or flights or airport destination‑boards or something. It was weird; he was pretty sure his father had meant to go back to England. Warlock liked England. It was a nice country to be an American in.

The plane was at that point passing right above the Lower Tadfield bedroom of Greasy Johnson, who was aimlessly leafing through a photog­raphy magazine that he'd bought merely because it had a rather good picture of a tropical fish on the cover.

A few pages below Greasy's listless finger was a spread on Ameri­can football, and how it was really catching on in Europe. Which was odd ‑‑because when the magazine had been printed, those pages had been about photography in desert conditions.

It was about to change his life.

And Warlock flew on to America. He deserved something(after all, you never forget the first friends you ever had, even if you were all a few hours old at the time) and the power that was controlling the fate of all mankind at that precise time was thinking: Well, he's going to America,isn't he? Don't see how you could have anythin' better than going to America

They've got thirty‑nine flavors of ice cream there. Maybe even more.

– – -

There were a million exciting things a boy and his dog could be doing on a Sunday afternoon. Adam could think of four or five hundred of them without even trying. Thrilling things, stirring things, planets to be conquered, lions to be tamed, lost South American worlds teeming with dinosaurs to be discovered and befriended.

He sat in the garden, and scratched in the dirt with a pebble, look­ing despondent.

His father had found Adam asleep on his return from the air base­-sleeping, to all intents and purposes, as if he had been in bed all evening. Even snoring once in a while, for verisimilitude.

At breakfast the next morning, however, it was made clear that this had not been enough. Mr. Young disliked gallivanting about of a Saturday evening on a wild‑goose chase. And if, by some unimaginable fluke, Adam was not responsible for the night's disturbances‑whatever they had been, since nobody had seemed very clear on the details, only that there had been disturbances of some sort‑then he was undoubtedly guilty of some­thing.This was Mr. Young's attitude, and it had served him well for the last eleven years.

Adam sat dispiritedly in the garden. The August sun hung high in an August blue and cloudless sky, and behind the hedge a thrush sang, but it seemed to Adam that this was simply making it all much worse.

Dog sat at Adam's feet. He had tried to help, chiefly by exhuming a bone he had buried four days earlier and dragging it to Adam's feet, but all Adam had done was stare at it gloomily, and eventually Dog had taken it away and inhumed it once more. He had done all he could.

"Adam?"

Adam turned. Three faces stared over the garden fence.

"Hi," said Adam, disconsolately.

"There's a circus come to Norton," said Pepper. "Wensley was down there, and he saw them. They're just setting up."

"They've got tents, and elephants and jugglers and pratic'ly wild animals and stuff and‑and everything!" said Wensleydale.

"We thought maybe we'd all go down there an' watch them setting up," said Brian.

For an instant Adam's mind swam with visions of circuses. Cir­cuses were boring, once they were set up. You could see better stuff on television any day. But the setting up . . . Ofcourse they'd all go down there, and they'd help them put up the tents, and wash the elephants, and the circus people would be so impressed with Adam's natural rapport with animals such that, that night, Adam (and Dog, the World's Most Famous Performing Mongrel) would lead the elephants into the circus ring and . . .

It was no good.

He shook his head sadly. "Can't go anywhere," he said. "Theysaid so."

There was a pause.

"Adam," said Pepper, a trifle uneasily, "what didhappen last night?"

Adam shrugged. "Just stuff. Doesn't matter," he said. " 'Salways the same. All you do is try to help, and people would think you'd mur­deredsomeone or something."

There was another pause, while the Them stared at their fallen leader.

"When d'you think they'll let you out, then?" asked Pepper.

"Not for years an' years. Years an' years an' years.I'll be an old man by the time they let me out," said Adam.

"How about tomorrow?" asked Wensleydale.

Adam brightened. "Oh, tomorrow'llbe all right," he pronounced. "They'll have forgotten about it by then. You'll see. They always do." He looked up at them, a scruffy Napoleon with his laces trailing, exiled to a rose‑trellissed Elba. "You all go," he told them, with a brief, hollow laugh. "Don't you worry about me. I'll be all right. I'll see you all tomorrow."

The Them hesitated. Loyalty was a great thing, but no lieutenants should be forced to choose between their leader and a circus with ele­phants. They left.

The sun continued to shine. The thrush continued to sing. Dog gave up on his master, and began to stalk a butterfly in the grass by the garden hedge. This was a serious, solid, impassable hedge, of thick and well‑trimmed privet, and Adam knew it of old. Beyond it stretched open fields, and wonderful muddy ditches, and unripe fruit, and irate but slow-­of‑foot owners of fruit trees, and circuses, and streams to dam, and walls and trees just made for climbing . . .

But there was no way through the hedge.

Adam looked thoughtful.

"Dog," said Adam, sternly, "get away from that hedge, because if you went through it, then I'd have to chase you to catch you, and I'd have to go out of the garden, and I'm not allowed to do that. But I'd have to . . . if you went an' ran away."

Dog jumped up and down excitedly, and stayed where he was.

Adam looked around, carefully. Then, even more carefully, he looked Up, and Down. And then Inside.

Then . . .

And nowthere was a large hole in the hedge‑large enough for a dog to run through, and for a boy to squeeze through after him. And it was a hole that had always been there.

Adam winked at Dog.

Dog ran through the hole in the hedge. And, shouting clearly, loudly and distinctly, "Dog, you bad dog! Stop! Come back here!" Adam squeezed through after him.

Something told him that something was coming to an end. Not the world, exactly. Just the summer. There would be other summers, but there would never be one like this. Ever again.

Better make the most of it, then.

He stopped halfway across the field. Someone was burning some­thing. He looked at the plume of white smoke above the chimney of Jas­mine Cottage, and he paused. And he listened.

Adam could hear things that other people might miss.

He could hear laughter.

It wasn't a witch's cackle; it was the low and earthy guffaw of someone who knew a great deal more than could possibly be good for them.

The white smoke writhed and curled above the cottage chimney.

For a fraction of an instant Adam saw, outlined in the smoke, a handsome, female face. A face that hadn't been seen on Earth for over three hundred years.

Agnes Nutter winked at him.

The light summer breeze dispersed the smoke; and the face and the laughter were gone.

Adam grinned, and began to run once more.

In a meadow a short distance away, across a stream, the boy caught up with the wet and muddy dog. "Bad Dog," said Adam, scratching Dog behind the ears. Dog yapped ecstatically.

Adam looked up. Above him hung an old apple tree, gnarled and heavy. It might have been there since the dawn of time. Its boughs were bent with the weight of apples, small and green and unripe.

With the speed of a striking cobra the boy was up the tree. He returned to the ground seconds later with his pockets bulging, munching noisily on a tart and perfect apple.

"Hey! You! Boy! " came a gruff voice from behind him. "You're that Adam Young! I can see you! I'll tell your father about you, you see if I don't!"

Parental retribution was now a certainty, thought Adam, as he bolted, his dog by his side, his pockets stuffed with stolen fruit.

It always was. But it wouldn't be till this evening.

And this evening was a long way off.

He threw the apple core back in the general direction of his pur­suer, and he reached into a pocket for another.

He couldn't see why people made such a fuss about people eating their silly old fruit anyway, but life would be a lot less funif they didn't. And there never was an apple, in Adam's opinion, that wasn't worth the trouble you got into for eating it.

* * * * *

I f you want to imagine the future, imagine a boy and his dog and his friends. And a summer that never ends.

And if you want to imagine the future, imagine a boot . . . no, imagine a sneaker, laces trailing, kicking a pebble; imagine a stick, to poke at interesting things, and throw for a dog that may or may not decide to retrieve it; imagine a tuneless whistle, pounding some luckless popular song into insensibility; imagine a figure, half angel, half devil, all hu­man . . .

Slouching hopefully towards Tadfield . . .

. . . forever.

notes

Notes

1

ie., everybody

2

It was custom made for Crowley. Getting just one chip custom made is incredibly expen­sive but he could afford it. This watch gave the time in twenty world capitals and in a capital city in Another Place, where it was always one time, and that was Too Late

3

Saint Beryl Articulatus of Krakow, reputed to have been martyred in the middle of the fifth century. According to legend, Beryl was a young woman who was betrothed against her will to a pagan, Prince Casimir. On their wedding night she prayed to the Lord to intercede, vaguely expecting a miraculous beard to appear, and she had in fact already laid in a small ivory handled razor, suitable for ladies, against this very eventuality; instead the Lord granted Beryl the miraculous ability to chatter continually about whatever was on her mind, however inconsequential, without pause for breath or food.

According to one version of the legend, Beryl was strangled by Prince Casimir three weeks after the wedding, with their marriage still unconsummated. She died a virgin and a martyr, chattering to the end.

According to another version of the legend, Casimir bought himself a set of earplugs, and she died in bed, with him, at the age of sixty‑two.

The Chattering Order of Saint Beryl is under a vow to emulate Saint Beryl at all times, except on Tuesday afternoons, for half an hour, when the nuns are permitted to shut up, and, if they wish, to play table tennis.

4

With a little old lady as the sleuth, and no car chases unless they're done very slowly.

5

It is possibly worth mentioning at this point that Mr. Young thought that paparazzi was a kind of Italian linoleum.

6

Although he did have to get up in 1832 to go to the lavatory.

7

Note for Americans and other aliens: Milton Keynes is a new city approximately halfway between London and Birmingham. It was built to be modern, efficient, healthy, and, all in all, a pleasant place to live. Many Britons find this amusing.

8

The Buggre Alle This Bible was also noteworthy for having twenty‑seven verses in the third chapter of Genesis, instead of the more usual twenty four. They followed verse 24, which in the King James version reads:

"So he drove out the man; and he placed at the east of the garden of Eden Cherubims, and a flaming sword which turned every way, to keep the way of the tree of life," and read:

25. And the Lord spake unto the Angel that guarded the eastern gate, saying Where is the flaming sword which was given unto thee?

26. And the Angel said, I had it here only a moment ago, I must have put it down some where, forget my own head next.

27. And the Lord did not ask him again.

It appears that these verses were inserted during the proof stage. In those days it was common practice for printers to hang proof sheets to the wooden beams outside their shops, for the edification of the populace and some free proofreading, and since the whole print run was subsequently burned anyway, no one bothered to take up this matter with the nice Mr. A. Ziraphale, who ran the bookshop two doors along and was always so helpful with the translations, and whose handwriting was instantly recognizable.

9

The other two are The Trapping of the Mouse,and Golde Diggers of 1589.

10

Who had already had a few thoughts in that direction, and spent the last years of his life in Newgate Prison when he eventually put them into practice.

11

Another master stroke of publishing genius, because Oliver Cromwell's Puritan Parlia­ment had made Christmas illegal in 1654.

12

Nominally a city. It was the size of an English county town, or, translated into American terms, a shopping mall.

13

A night school just off the Tottenham Court Road, run by an elderly actor who had played butlers and gentlemen's gentlemen in films and television and on the stage since the 1920s.

14

He avoided mentioning that Attila was nice to his mother, or that Vlad Drakula was punctil­ious about saying his prayers every day.

15

Except for the bits about syphilis.

16

A sixteenth‑century half‑wit, not related to any U.S. president.

17

Remarkably, one of these stories is indeed true.

18

The interview was done in 1983 and went as follows:

Q: You're the Secretary of the United Nations, then?

A: Si.

Q: Ever sighted Elvis?

19

Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Threlfall, of 9, The Elms, Paignton. They always maintained that one of the nice things about going on holiday was not having to read the newspapers or listen to the news, just getting away from it all really. And due to a tummy bug contracted by Mr. Threlfall, and Mrs. Threlfall rather overdoing it in the sun their first day, this was their first time out of their hotel room for a week and a half.

20

It didn't matter what the four had called their gang over the years, the frequent name changes usually being prompted by whatever Adam had happened to have read or viewed the previous day (the Adam Young Squad; Adam and Co.; The Hole‑in‑the‑Chalk Gang; The Really Well‑Known Four; The Legion of Really Super‑Heroes; The Quarry Gang; The Secret Four; The Justice Society of Tadfield; The Galaxatrons; The Four Just Persons; The Rebels). Everyone else always referred to them darkly as Them, and eventually they did too.

21

Greasy Johnson was a sad and oversized child. There's one in every school; not exactly fat, but simply huge and wearing almost the same size clothes as his father. Paper tore under his tremendous fingers, pens shattered in his grip. Children whom he tried to play with in quiet, friendly games ended up getting under his huge feet, and Greasy Johnson had become a bully almost in self‑defense. After all, it was better to be called a bully, which at least implied some sort of control and desire, than to be called a big clumsy oaf. He was the despair of the sports master, because if Greasy Johnson had taken the slightest interest in sport, then the school could have been champions. But Greasy Johnson had never found a sport that suited him. He was instead secretly devoted to his collection of tropical fish, which won him prizes. Greasy Johnson was the same age as Adam Young, to within a few hours, and his parents had never told him he was adopted. See? You were right about the babies.

22

If Adam had been in full possession of his powers in those days, the Youngs' Christmas would have been spoiled by the discovery of a dead fat man upside down in their central­ heating duct.

23

It may be worth noting here that most human beings can rarely raise more than .3 of an alp (30 centi‑alps). Adam believed things on a scale ranging from 2 through to 15,640 Everests.

24

And hair. And skin tone. And, if you ate enough of it long enough, vital signs.

25

But not like every other Burger Lord across the world. German Burger Lords, for example, sold lager instead of root beer, while English Burger Lords managed to take any American fast food virtues (the speed with which your food was delivered, for example) and carefully remove them; your food arrived after half an hour, at room temperature, and it was only because of the strip of warm lettuce between them that you could distinguish the burger from the bun. The Burger Lord pathfinder salesmen had been shot twenty‑five minutes after setting foot in France.

26

Wensleydale's alleged comic was a 94‑week part‑work called Wonders of Nature and Sci­ence.He had every single one so far, and had asked for a set of binders for his birthday. Brian's weekly reading was anything with a lot of exclamation marks in the title, like "WhiZZ!!" or "Clang!!" So was Pepper's, although even under the most refined of tortures she still wouldn't admit to the fact that she also bought Just Seventeenunder plain covers. Adam didn't read any comics at all. They never lived up to the kind of things he could do in his head.

27

Shadwell hated all southerners and, by inference, was standing at the North Pole.

28

Note for Americans and other city‑dwelling life‑forms: the rural British, having eschewed central heating as being far too complicated and in any case weakening moral fiber, prefer a system of piling small pieces of wood and lumps of coal, topped by large, wet logs, possibly made of asbestos, into small, smoldering heaps, known as "There's nothing like a roaring open fire is there?" Since none of these ingredients are naturally inclined to burn, underneath all this they apply a small, rectangular, waxy white lump, which burns cheerfully until the weight of the fire puts it out. These little white blocks are called firelighters. No one knows why.

29

NOTE FOR YOUNG PEOPLE AND AMERICANS: One shilling = Five Pee. It helps to understand the antique finances of the Witchfinder Army if you know the original British monetary system:

Two farthings = One Ha'penny.

Two ha'pennies = One Penny.

Three pennies = A Thrupenny Bit.

Two Thrupences = A Sixpence.

Two Sixpences = One Shilling, or Bob.

Two Bob = A Florin.

One Florin and One Sixpence = Half a Crown.

Four Half Crowns = Ten Bob Note.

Two Ten Bob Notes = One Pound (or 240 pennies).

One Pound and One Shilling = One Guinea.

The British resisted decimalized currency for a long time because they thought it was too complicated

30

Actually, less so when he took of his glasses, because then he tripped over things and wore bandages a lot.

31

The Voice of God. But not the voice of God. An entity in its own right. Rather like a Presidential spokesman.

32

Along with the standard computer warranty agreement which said that if the machine 1) didn't work, 2) didn't do what the expensive advertisements said, 3) electrocuted the immedi­ate neighborhood, 4) and in fact failed entirely to be inside the expensive box when you opened it, this was expressly, absolutely, implicitly and in no event the fault or responsibility of the manufacturer, that the purchaser should consider himself lucky to be allowed to give his money to the manufacturer, and that any attempt to treat what had just been paid for as the purchaser's own property would result in the attentions of serious men with menacing briefcases and very thin watches. Crowley had been extremely impressed with the warranties offered by the computer industry, and had in fact sent a bundle Below to the department that drew up the Immortal Soul agreements, with a yellow memo form attached just saying: "Learn, guys...".

33

Leonardo had felt so too. "I got her bloody smile right in the roughs," he told Crowley' sipping cold wine in the lunchtime sun, "but it went all over the place when I painted it. Her husband had a few things to say about it when I delivered it, but, like I tell him, Signor del Giocondo, apart from you, who's going to see it? Anyway ... explain this helicopter thing again, will you?"

34

He was very proud of his collection. It had taken him ages to put together. This was real Soul music. James Brown wasn't in it.

35

Although it's not what you and I would call dancing.Not good dancing anyway. A demon moves like a white band on "Soul Train."

36

Although, unless the ineffable plan is a lot more ineffable than it's given credit for, it does not have a giant plastic snowman at the bottom.

37

The WA enjoyed a renaissance during the great days of Empire expansionism. The British army's endless skirmishes frequently brought it up against witch‑doctors, bone‑pointers, sha­mans, and other occult adversaries. This was the cue for the deployment of the likes of WA CSM Narker, whose striding, bellowing, six‑foot‑six, eighteen‑stone figure, clutching an ar­mor‑plated Book, eight‑pound Bell, and specially reinforced Candle, could clear the veldt of adversaries faster than a Gatling gun. Cecil Rhodes wrote of him: "Some remote tribes consider him to be a kind of god, and it is an extremely brave or foolhardy witch‑doctor who will stand his ground with CSM Narker bearing down on him. I would rather have this man on my side than two battalions of Gurkhas."

38

In any other place than Soho it is quite possible that spectators at a fire might have been interested.

39

There are a number of other things real Hell's Angels can't abide. These include the police, soap, Ford Cortinas, and, in Big Ted's case, anchovies and olives.

40

Magician, or priest. Voodoun is a very interesting religion for the whole family, even those members of it who are dead.

41

$12.95 per LP or cassette, $24.95 per CD, although you got a free copy of the LP with every $500 you donated to Marvin Bagman's mission.

42

It might have surprised Marvin to know there actually was a success rate. Some people would get better from anything.

43

Except for one about ten years earlier, throwing himself on the mercy of the court.

44

Formerly A Cut Above the Rest, formerly Mane Attraction, formerly Cur! Up And Dye, formerly A Snip At the Price, formerly Mister Brian's Art‑de‑Coiffeur, formerly Robinson the Barber's, formerly Fone‑a‑Car Taxis.

45

This is not actually true. The road to Hell is paved with frozen door‑to‑door salesmen. On weekends many of the younger demons go ice‑skating down it.

46

Not that Hell has any other kind.

47

Not actually an oxymoron. It's the color past ultra‑violet. The technical term for it is infra­black. It can be seen quite easily under experimental conditions. To perform the experiment simply select a healthy brick wall with a good run‑up, and, lowering your head, charge. The color that flashes in bursts behind your eyes, behind the pain, just before you die, is infra‑black.

48

She had. It read:

A street of light will screem, the black chariot of the Serpente will flayme, and a Queene wille sing quickfilveres songes no moar.

Most of the family had gone along with Gelatly Device, who wrote a brief monograph in the 1830s explaining it as a metaphor for the banishment of Weishaupt's Illuminati from Bavaria in 1785.

49

This was true. There wasn't a thermometer on earth that could have been persuaded to register both 700° C and ‑140° C at the same time; which was the correct temperature.

50

He did not have a television. Or as his wife put it, "Ronald wouldn't have one of those things in the house, would you Ronald?" and he always agreed, although secretly he would have liked to have seen some of the smut and filth and violence that the National Viewers and Listeners Association complained of. Not because he wanted to see it, of course. Just because he wanted to know what other people should be protected from

51

Although as a member (read, founder) of his local Neighborhood Watch scheme he did attempt to memorize the motorbikes' number plates.

52

Five foot six.

53

He'd slipped and fallen in a hotel shower when he took a holiday there in 1983. Now the mere sight of a bar of yellow soap could send him into near‑fatal flashbacks.

54

Except for Giovanni Jacopo Casanova (1725‑1798), famed amoutist and litterateur, who revealed in volume 12 of his Memoirsthat, as a matter of course, he carried around with him at all timesa small valise containing "a loaf of bread, a pot of choice Seville marmalade, a knife, fork, and small spoon for stirring, 2 fresh eggs packed with care in unspun wool, a tomato or love‑apple, a small frying pan, a small sauce pan, a spirit burner, a chafing dish, a tin box of salted butter of the Italian type, 2 bone china plates. Also a portion of honey comb, as a sweetener, for my breath and for my coffee. Let my readers understand me when I say to them all: A true gentleman should always be able to break his fast in the manner of a gentleman, wheresoever he may find himself".

55

And there was the matter of Dick Turpin. It looked like the same car, except that forever afterwards it seemed able to do 250 miles on a gallon of petrol, ran so quietly that you practically had to put your mouth over the exhaust pipe to see if the engine was firing, and issued its voice‑synthesized warnings in a series of exquisite and perfectly‑phrased haikus, each one original and apt . . .

Late frost burns the bloom

Would a fool not let the belt

Restrain the body?

. . . it would say. And,

The cherry blossom

Tumbles from the highest tree.

One needs more petrol

56

Witchfinder Corporal Carpet, librarian, 11 pence per annum bonus.

57

"A relentlefs blockbufter of a boke; heartily recommended" ‑ Pope Innocent VIII.

58

To the right collector, the Witchfinder Army's library would have been worth millions. The right collector would have to have been very rich, and not have minded gravy stains, cigarette burns, marginal notations, or the late Witchfinder Lance Corporal Wotling's passion for drawing mustaches and spectacles on all woodcut illustrations of witches and demons.