"They could still be down there now," said Pepper.
They thought about the Atlanteans, clad in flowing mystic robes and goldfish bowls, enjoying themselves deep under the choppy waters of the ocean.
"Huh," said Pepper, summing up their feelings.
"What shall we do now?" said Brian. "It's brightened up a bit."
In the end they played Charles Fort Discovering Things. This consisted of one of the Them walking around with the ancient remains of an umbrella, while the others treated him to a rain of frogs or, rather, frog. They could only find one in the pond. It was an elderly frog, who knew the Them of old, and tolerated their interest as the price it paid for a pond otherwise free of moorhens and pike. It put up with things good‑naturedly for a while before hopping off to a secret and so‑far‑undiscovered hideout in an old drainpipe.
Then they went home for lunch.
Adam felt very pleased about the morning's work. He'd always known that the world was an interesting place, and his imagination had peopled it with pirates and bandits and spies and astronauts and similar. But he'd also had a nagging suspicion that, when you seriously got right down to it, they were all just things in books and didn't properly exist any more.
Whereas this Aquarium Age stuff was really real. Grown‑up people wrote lots of books about it (New Aquarian was full of adverts for them) and Bigfoots and Mothmen and Yetis and sea monsters and Surrey pumas really existed. If Cortez, on his peak in Darien, had had slightly damp feet from efforts at catching frogs, he'd have felt just like Adam at that moment.
The world was bright and strange and he was in the middle of it.
He bolted his lunch and retired to his room. There were still quite a few New Aquarians he hadn't read yet.
– – -
The cocoa was a congealed brown sludge half filling the cup.
Certain people had spent hundreds of years trying to make sense of the prophecies of Agnes Nutter. They had been very intelligent, in the main. Anathema Device, who was about as close to being Agnes as genetic drift would allow, was the best of the bunch. But none of them had been angels.
Many people, meeting Aziraphale for the first time, formed three impressions: that he was English, that he was intelligent, and that he was gayer than a tree full of monkeys on nitrous oxide. Two of these were wrong; Heaven is not in England, whatever certain poets may have thought, and angels are sexless unless they really want to make an effort. But he was intelligent. And it was an angelic intelligence which, while not being particularly higher than human intelligence, is much broader and has the advantage of having thousands of years of practice.
Aziraphale was the first angel ever to own a computer. It was a cheap, slow, plasticky one, much touted as ideal for the small businessman. Aziraphale used it religiously for doing his accounts, which were so scrupulously accurate that the tax authorities had inspected him five times in the deep belief that he was getting away with murder somewhere.
But these other calculations were of a kind no computer could ever do. Sometimes he would scribble something on a sheet of paper by his side. It was covered in symbols which only eight other people in the world would have been able to comprehend; two of them had won Nobel prizes, and one of the other six dribbled a lot and wasn't allowed anything sharp because of what he might do with it.
– – -
Anathema lunched on miso soup and pored over her maps. There was no doubt the area around Tadfield was rich in ley lines; even the famous Rev. Watkins had identified some. But unless she was totally wrong, they were beginning to shift position.
She'd spent the week taking soundings with theodolite and pendulum, and the Ordinance Survey map of the Tadfield area was now covered with little dots and arrows.
She stared at them for some time. Then she picked up a felt‑tip pen and, with occasional references to her notebook, began to join them up.
The radio was on. She wasn't really listening. So quite a lot of the main news item passed right by her unheeding ears, and it wasn't until a couple of key words filtered down into her consciousness that she began to take notice.
Someone called A Spokesman sounded close to hysteria.
". . . danger to employees or the public," he was saying.
"And precisely how much nuclear material has escaped?" said the interviewer.
There was a pause. "We wouldn't say escaped," said the spokesman. "Not escaped. Temporarily mislaid."
"You mean it is still on the premises?"
"We certainly cannot see how it could have been removed from them," said the spokesman.
"Surely you have considered terrorist activity?"
There was another pause. Then the spokesman said, in the quiet tones of someone who has had enough and is going to quit after this and raise chickens somewhere, "Yes, I suppose we must. All we need to do is find some terrorists who are capable of taking an entire nuclear reactor out of its can while it's running and without anyone noticing. It weighs about a thousand tons and is forty feet high. So they'll be quite strong terrorists. Perhaps you'd like to ring them up, sir, and ask them questions in that supercilious, accusatory way of yours."
"But you said the power station is still producing electricity," gasped the interviewer.
"It is."
"How can it still be doing that if it hasn't got any reactors?"
You could see the spokesman's mad grin, even on the radio. You could see his pen, poised over the "Farms for Sale" column in Poultry World. "We don't know," he said. "We were hoping you clever buggers at the BBC would have an idea."
Anathema looked down at her map.
What she had been drawing looked like a galaxy, or the type of carving seen on the better class of Celtic monolith.
The ley‑lines were shifting. They were forming a spiral.
It was centered‑loosely, with some margin for error, but nevertheless centered‑on Lower Tadfield.
– – -
Several thousand miles away, at almost the same moment as Anathema was staring at her spirals, the pleasure cruiser Morbilli was aground in three hundred fathoms of water.
For Captain Vincent, this was just another problem. For example, he knew he should contact the owners, but he never knew from day to day ‑or from hour to hour, in this computerized world‑actually who the current owners were.
Computers, that was the bloody trouble. The ship's papers were computerized and it could switch to the most currently advantageous flag of convenience in microseconds. Its navigation had been computerized as well, constantly updating its position by satellites. Captain Vincent had explained patiently to the owners, whoever they were, that several hundred square meters of steel plating and a barrel of rivets would be a better investment, and had been informed that his recommendation did not accord with current cost/benefit flow predictions.
Captain Vincent strongly suspected that despite all its electronics the ship was worth more sunk than afloat, and would probably go down as the most perfectly pinpointed wreck in nautical history.
By inference, this also meant that he was more valuable dead than alive.
He sat at his desk quietly leafing through International Maritime Codes, whose six hundred pages contained brief yet pregnant messages designed to transmit the news of every conceivable nautical eventuality across the world with the minimum of confusion and, above all, cost.
What he wanted to say was this: Was sailing SSW at position 33°N 47° 72'W. First Mate, who you may recall was appointed in New Guinea against my wishes and is probably a head‑hunter, indicated by signs that something was amiss. It appears that quite a vast expanse of seabed has risen up in the night. It contains a large number of buildings, many of which appeared pyramid‑like in structure. We are aground in the courtyard of one of these. There are some rather unpleasant statues. Amiable old men in long robes and diving helmets have come aboard the ship and are mingling happily with the passengers, who think we organized this. Please advise.
His questing finger moved slowly down the page, and stopped. Good old International Codes. They'd been devised eighty years before, but the men in those days had really thought hard about the kind of perils that might possibly be encountered on the deep.
He picked up his pen and wrote down: "XXXV QVVX."
Translated, it meant: "Have found Lost Continent of Atlantis. High Priest has just won quoits contest."
– – -
"It jolly well isn't!"
"It jolly well is!"
"It isn't, you know!"
"It jolly well is!"
"It isn't‑all right, then, what about volcanoes?" Wensleydale sat back, a look of triumph on his face.
"What about 'em?" said Adam.
"All that lather comes up from the center of the Earth, where it's all hot," said Wensleydale. "I saw a program. It had David Attenborough, so it's true."
The other Them looked at Adam. It was like watching a tennis match.
The Hollow Earth Theory was not going over well in the quarry. A beguiling idea that had stood up to the probings of such remarkable thinkers as Cyrus Read Teed, Bulwer‑Lytton, and Adolf Hitler was bending dangerously in the wind of Wensleydale's searingly bespectacled logic.
"I dint say it was hollow all the way through," said Adam. "No one said it was hollow all the way through. It prob'ly goes down miles and miles to make room for all the lather and oil and coal and Tibetan tunnels and suchlike. But then it's hollow after that. That's what people think. And there's a hole at the North Pole to let the air in."
"Never seen it on an atlas," sniffed Wensleydale.
"The goverment won't let them put it on a map in case people go and have a look in," said Adam. "The reason being, the people livin' inside don't want people lookin' down on 'em all the time."
"What do you mean, Tibetan tunnels?" said Pepper. "You said Tibetan tunnels."
"Ah. Dint I tell you about them?"
Three heads shook.
"It's amazing. You know Tibet?"
They nodded doubtfully. A series of images had risen in their minds: yaks, Mount Everest, people called Grasshopper, little old men sitting on mountains, other people learning kung fu in ancient temples, and snow.
"Well, you know all those teachers that left Atlantis when it sunk?"
They nodded again.
"Well, some of them went to Tibet and now they run the world. They're called the Secret Masters. On account of being teachers, I suppose. An' they've got this secret underground city called Shambala and tunnels that go all over the world so's they know everythin' that goes on and control everythin'. Some people reckon that they really live under the Gobby Desert," he added loftily, "but mos' competent authorities reckon it's Tibet all right. Better for the tunnelling, anyway."
The Them instinctively looked down at the grubby, dirt‑covered chalk beneath their feet.
"How come they know everything?" said Pepper.
"They just have to listen, right?" hazarded Adam. "They just have to sit in their tunnels and listen. You know what hearin' teachers have. They can hear a whisper right across the room."
"My granny used to put a glass against the wall," said Brian. "She said it was disgustin', the way she could hear everything that went on next door."
"And these tunnels go everywhere, do they?" said Pepper, still staring at the ground.
"All over the world," said Adam firmly.
"Must of took a long time," said Pepper doubtfully. "You remember when we tried digging that tunnel out in the field, we were at it all afternoon, and you had to scrunch up to get all in."
"Yes, but they've been doin' it for millions of years. You can do really good tunnels if you've got millions of years."
"I thought the Tibetans were conquered by the Chinese and the Daily Llama had to go to India," said Wensleydale, but without much conviction. Wensleydale read his father's newspaper every evening, but the prosaic everydayness of the world always seemed to melt under the powerhouse of Adam's explanations.
"I bet they're down there now," said Adam, ignoring this. "They'd be all over the place by now. Sitting underground and listenin'."
They looked at one another.
"If we dug down quickly‑" said Brian. Pepper, who was a lot quicker on the uptake, groaned.
"What'd you have to go an' say that for?" said Adam. "Fat lot of good us trying to surprise them now, isn't it, with you shoutin' out something like that. I was just thinkin' we could dig down, an' you jus' have to go an' warn 'em!"
"I don't think they'd dig all those tunnels," said Wensleydale doggedly. "It doesn't make any sense. Tibet's hundreds of miles away."
"Oh, yes. Oh, yes. An' I s'pose you know more about it than Madame Blatvatatatsky?" sniffed Adam.
"Now, if I was a Tibetan," said Wensleydale, in a reasonable tone of voice, "I'd just dig straight down to the hollow bit in the middle and then run around the inside and dig straight up where I wanted to be."
They gave this due consideration.
"You've got to admit that's more sensible than tunnels," said Pepper.
"Yes, well, I expect that's what they do," said Adam. "They'd be bound to of thought of something as simple as that."
Brian stared dreamily at the sky, while his finger probed the contents of one ear.
"Funny, reely," he said. "You spend your whole life goin' to school and learnin' stuff, and they never tell you about stuff like the Bermuda Triangle and UFOs and all these Old Masters running around the inside of the Earth. Why do we have to learn boring stuff when there's all this brilliant stuff we could be learnin', that's what I want to know."
There was a chorus of agreement.
Then they went out and played Charles Fort and the Atlantisans versus the Ancient Masters of Tibet, but the Tibetters claimed that using mystic ancient lasers was cheating.
– – -
There was a time when witchfinders were respected, although it didn't last very long.
Matthew Hopkins, for example, the Witchfinder General, found witches all over the east of England in the middle of the seventeenth century, charging each town and village nine pence a witch for every one he discovered.
That was the trouble. Witchfinders didn't get paid by the hour. Any witchfinder who spent a week examining the local crones and then told the mayor, "Well done, not a pointy hat among the lot of them," would get fulsome thanks, a bowl of soup and a meaningful goodbye.
So in order to turn a profit Hopkins had to find a remarkable number of witches. This made him more than a little unpopular with the village councils, and he was himself hanged as a witch by an East Anglian village who had sensibly realized that they could cut their overheads by eliminating the middleman.
It is thought by many that Hopkins was the last Witchfinder General.
In this they would, strictly speaking, be correct. Possibly not in the way they imagine, however. The Witchfinder Army marched on, just slightly more quietly.
There is no longer a real Witchfinder General.
Nor is there a Witchfinder Colonel, a Witchfinder Major, a Witchfinder Captain, or even a Witchfinder Lieutenant (the last one was killed falling out of a very tall tree in Caterham, in 1933, while attempting to get a better view of something he believed was a satanic orgy of the most degenerate persuasion, but was, in fact, the Caterham and Whyteleafe Market Traders' Association annual dinner and dance).
There is, however, a Witchfinder Sergeant.
There is also, now, a Witchfinder Private. His name is Newton Pulsifer.
It was the advertisement that got him, in the Gazette, between a fridge for sale and a litter of not‑exactly dalmatians:
JOIN THE PROFESSIONALS. PART TIME ASSISTANT REQUIRED TO COMBAT THE FORCES OF DARKNESS. UNIFORM, BASIC TRAINING PROVIDED. FIELD PROMOTION CERTAIN. BE A MAN!
In his lunch hour he phoned the number at the bottom of the ad. A woman answered.
"Hello," he began, tentatively. "I saw your advert."
"Which one, love?"
<
br /> "Er, the one in the paper."
"Right, love. Well, Madame Tracy Draws Aside the Veil every afternoon except Thursdays. Parties welcome. When would you be wanting to Explore the Mysteries, love?"
Newton hesitated. "The advert says 'Join the Professionals,' " he said. "It didn't mention Madame Tracy."
"That'll be Mister Shadwell you'll be wanting, then. Just a sec, I'll see if he's in."
Later, when he was on nodding terms with Madame Tracy, Newt learned that if he had mentioned the other ad, the one in the magazine, Madame Tracy would have been available for strict discipline and intimate massage every evening except Thursdays. There was yet another ad in a phone box somewhere. When, much later, Newt asked her what this one involved, she said "Thursdays." Eventually there was the sound of feet in uncarpeted hallways, a deep coughing, and a voice the color of an old raincoat rumbled:
"Aye?"
"I read your advert. 'Join the professionals.' I wanted to know a bit more about it."
"Aye. There's many as would like to know more about it, an' there's many . . ." the voice trailed off impressively, then crashed back to full volume, ". . . there's many as WOULDN'T."
"Oh," squeaked Newton.
"What's your name, lad?"
"Newton. Newton Pulsifer."
"LUCIFER? What's that you say? Are ye of the Spawn of Darkness, a tempting beguiling creature from the pit, wanton limbs steaming from the fleshpots of Hades, in tortured and lubricious thrall to your stygian and hellish masters?"
"That's Pulsifer," explained Newton. "With a P. I don't know about the other stuff, but we come from Surrey."
The voice on the phone sounded vaguely disappointed.
"Oh. Aye. Well, then. Pulsifer. Pulsifer. I've seen that name afore, maybe?"
"I don't know," said Newton. "My uncle runs a toy shop in Hounslow," he added, in case this way any help.
"Is that sooo?" said Shadwell.
Mr. Shadwell's accent was unplaceable. It careered around Britain like a milk race. Here a mad Welsh drill sergeant, there a High Kirk elder who'd just seen someone doing something on a Sunday, somewhere between them a dour Daleland shepherd, or bitter Somerset miser. It didn't matter where the accent went; it didn't get any nicer.
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