Good Omens

by Terry David John Pratchett

  R. P. Tyler had composed a lengthy mental letter on the failings of the youth of today. It covered falling educational standards, the lack of respect given to their elders and betters, the way they always seemed to slouch these days instead of walking with a proper upright bearing, juve­nile delinquency, the return of compulsory National Service, birching, flogging, and dog licenses.

  He was very satisfied with it. He had a sneaking suspicion that it would be too good for the Tadfield Advertiser, and had decided to send it to the Times.

  Putputput putputput

  "Excuse me, love," said a warm female voice. "I think we're lost."

  It was an aging motor scooter, and it was being ridden by a middle­aged woman. Clutching her tightly, his eyes screwed shut, was a raincoated little man with a bright green crash helmet on. Sticking up between them was what appeared to be an antique gun with a funnel­shaped muzzle.

  "Oh. Where are you going?"

  "Lower Tadfield. I'm not sure of the exact address, but we're look­ing for someone," said the woman, then, in a totally different voice she said, "His name is Adam Young."

  R. P. Tyler boggled. "You want that boy?" he asked. "What's he done now‑no, no, don't tell me. I don't want to know."

  "Boy?" said the woman. "You didn't tell me he was a boy. How old is he?" Then she said, "He's eleven. Well, I do wish you'd mentioned this before. It puts a completely different complexion on things."

  R. P. Tyler just stared. Then he realized what was going on. The woman was a ventriloquist. What he had taken for a man in a green crash helmet, he now saw was a ventriloquist's dummy. He wondered how he could ever have assumed it was human. He felt the whole thing was in vaguely bad taste.

  "I saw Adam Young not five minutes ago," he told the woman. "He and his little cronies were on their way to the American air base."

  "Oh dear," said the woman, paling slightly. "I've never really liked the Yanks. They're really very nice people, you know. Yes, but you can't trust people who pick up the ball all the time when they play football."

  "Ahh, excuse me," said R. P. Tyler, "I think it's very good. Very impressive. I'm deputy chairman of the local Rotary club, and I was won­dering, do you do private functions?"

  "Only on Thursdays," said Madame Tracy, disapprovingly. "And I charge extra. And I wonder if you could direct us to‑"

  Mr. Tyler had been here before. He wordlessly extended a finger.

  And the little scooter went putputputputputput down the narrow country lane.

  As it did so, the gray dummy in the green helmet turned around and opened one eye. "Ye great southern pillock," it croaked.

  R. P. Tyler was offended, but also disappointed. He'd hoped it would be more lifelike.

  – – -

  R. P. Tyler, only ten minutes away from the village, paused, while Shutzi attempted another of its wide range of eliminatory functions. He gazed over the fence.

  His knowledge of country lore was a little hazy, but he felt fairly sure that if the cows lay down, it meant rain. If they were standing it would probably be fine. These cows were taking it in turns to execute slow and solemn somersaults; and Tyler wondered what it presaged for the weather.

  He sniffed. Something was burning‑there was an unpleasant smell of scorched metal and rubber and leather.

  "Excuse me," said a voice from behind him. R. P. Tyler turned around.

  There was a large once‑black car on fire in the lane and a man in sunglasses was leaning out of one window, saying through the smoke, "I'm sorry, I've managed to get a little lost. Can you direct me to Lower Tadfield Air Base? I know it's around here somewhere."

  Your car is on fire.

  No. Tyler just couldn't bring himself to say it. I mean, the man had to know that, didn't he? He was sitting in the middle of it. Possibly it was some kind of practical joke.

  So instead he said, "I think you must have taken a wrong turn about a mile back. A signpost has blown down."

  The stranger smiled, "That must be it," he said. The orange flames flickering below him gave him an almost infernal appearance.

  The wind blew towards Tyler, across the car, and he felt his eye­brows frizzle.

  Excuse me, young man, but your car is on fire and you're sitting in it without burning and incidentally it's red hot in place

  No.

  Should he ask the man if he wanted him to phone the A.A.?

  Instead he explained the route carefully, trying not to stare.

  "That's terrific. Much obliged," said Crowley, as he began to wind up the window.

  R. P. Tyler had to say something.

  "Excuse me, young man," he said.

  "Yes?"

  "I mean, it's not the kind of thing you don't notice, your car being on fire.

  A tongue of flame licked across the charred dashboard.

  "Funny weather we're having, isn't it?" he said, lamely.

  "Is it?" said Crowley. "I honestly hadn't noticed." And he reversed back down the country lane in his burning car.

  "That's probably because your car is on fire," said R. P. Tyler sharply. He jerked Shutzi's lead, dragged the little dog to heel.

  To The Editor

  Sir,

  I would like to draw your attention to a recent tendency I have noticed for today's young people to ignore perfectly sensible safety precautions while driving. This evening I was asked for directions by a gentleman whose car was . . .

  No.

  Driving a car that . . .

  No.

  It was on fire . . .

  His temper getting worse, R. P. Tyler stomped the final stretch back into the village.

  – – -

  "Hoy!" shouted R. P. Tyler. "Young!"

  Mr. Young was in his front garden, sitting on his deck chair, smok­ing his pipe.

  This had more to do with Deirdre's recent discovery of the menace of passive smoking and banning of smoking in the house than he would care to admit to his neighbors. It did not improve his temper. Neither did being addressed as Young by Mr. Tyler.

  "Yes?"

  "Your son, Adam."

  Mr. Young sighed. "What's he done now?"

  "Do you know where he is?"

  Mr. Young checked his watch. "Getting ready for bed, I would assume."

  Tyler grinned, tightly, triumphantly. "I doubt it. I saw him and his little fiends, and that appalling mongrel, not half an hour ago, cycling towards the air base."

  Mr. Young puffed on his pipe.

  "You know how strict they are up there," said Mr. Tyler, in case Mr. Young hadn't got the message.

  "You know what a one your son is for pressing buttons and things," he added.

  Mr. Young took his pipe out of his mouth and examined the stem thoughtfully.

  "Hmp," he said. "I see," he said.

  "Right," he said.

  And he went inside.

  – – -

  At exactly that same moment, four motorbikes swished to a halt a few hundred yards from the main gate. The riders switched off their en­gines and raised their helmet visors. Well, three of them did.

  "I was rather hoping we could crash through the barriers," said War wistfully.

  "That'd only cause trouble," said Famine.

  "Good."

  "Trouble for us, I mean. The power and phone lines must be down, but they're bound to have generators and they'll certainly have radio. If someone starts reporting that terrorists have invaded the base then peo­ple'll start acting logically and the whole Plan collapses."

  "Huh."

  WE GO IN, WE DO THE JOB, WE GO OUT, WE LET HU­MAN NATURE TAKE ITS COURSE, said Death.

  "This isn't how I imagined it, chaps," said War. "I haven't been waiting for thousands of years just to fiddle around with bits of wire. It's not what you'd call dramatic. Albrecht Durer didn't waste his time doing woodcuts of the Four Button‑Pressers of the Apocalypse, I do know that."

  "I thought there'd be trumpets," said Pollution.

  "Look at it like this," said F
amine. "It's just groundwork. We get to do the riding forth afterwards. The proper riding forth. Wings of the storm and so on. You've got to be flexible."

  "Weren't we supposed to meet . . . someone?" said War.

  There was no sound but the metallic noises of cooling motorbike engines.

  Then Pollution said, slowly, "You know, I can't say I imagined it'd be somewhere like this, either. I thought it'd be, well, a big city. Or a big country. New York, perhaps. Or Moscow. Or Armageddon itself."

  There was another pause.

  Then War said, "Where is Armageddon, anyway?"

  "Funny you should ask," said Famine. "I've always meant to look it up."

  "There's an Armageddon, Pennsylvania," said Pollution. "Or maybe it's Massachusetts, or one of them places. Lots of guys in heavy beards and seriously black hats."

  "Nah," said Famine. "It's somewhere in Israel, I think."

  MOUNT CARMEL.

  "I thought that was where they grow avocados."

  AND THE END OF THE WORLD.

  "Is that right? That's one big avocado."

  "I think I went there once," said Pollution. "The old city of Me­giddo. Just before it fell down. Nice place. Interesting royal gateway."

  War looked at the greenness around them.

  "Boy," she said, "did we take a wrong turning."

  THE GEOGRAPHY IS IMMATERIAL.

  "Sorry, lord?"

  IF ARMAGEDDON IS ANYWHERE, IT IS EVERYWHERE.

  "That's right," said Famine, "we're not talking about a few square miles of scrub and goats anymore."

  There was another pause.

  LET US GO.

  War coughed. "It's just that I thought that . . . he'd be coming with us . . . ?"

  Death adjusted his gauntlets.

  THIS, he said firmly, IS A JOB FOR THE PROFESSIONALS.

  – – -

  Afterwards, Sgt. Thomas A. Deisenburger recalled events at the gate as having happened like this:

  A large staff car drew up by the gate. It was sleek and official­-looking although, afterwards, he wasn't entirely sure why he had thought this, or why it sounded momentarily as though it were powered by motor­bike engines.

  Four generals got out. Again, the sergeant was a little uncertain of why he had thought this. They had proper identification. What kind of identification, admittedly, he couldn't quite recall, but it was proper. He saluted.

  And one of them said, "Surprise inspection, soldier."

  To which Sgt. Thomas A. Deisenburger replied, "Sir, I have not been informated as to the incidence of a surprise inspection at this time, sir."

  "Of course not," said one of the generals. "That's because it's a surprise."

  The sergeant saluted again.

  "Sir, permission to confirmate this intelligence with base command, sir," he said, uneasily.

  The tallest and thinnest of the generals strolled a little way from the group, turned his back, and folded his arms.

  One of the others put a friendly arm around the sergeant's shoul­ders and leaned forward in a conspiratorial way.

  "Now see here‑" he squinted at the sergeant's name tag"‑Deisenburger, maybe I'll give you a break. It's a surprise inspection, got that? Surprise. That means no getting on the horn the moment we've gone through, understand? And no leaving your post. Career soldier like you'll understand, am I right?" he added. He winked. "Otherwise you'll find yourself busted so low you'll have to say 'sir' to an imp."

  Sgt. Thomas A. Deisenburger stared at him.

  "Private," hissed one of the other generals. According to her tag, her name was Waugh. Sgt. Deisenburger had never seen a female general like her before, but she was certainly an improvement.

  "What?"

  "Private. Not imp."

  "Yeah. That's what I meant. Yeah. Private. Okay, soldier?"

  The sergeant considered the very limited number of options at his disposal.

  "Sir, surprise inspection, sir?" he said.

  "Provisionatedly classificisioned at this time," said Famine, who had spent years learning how to sell to the federal government and could feel the language coming back to him.

  "Sir, affirmative, sir," said the sergeant.

  "Good man," said Famine, as the barrier was raised. "You'll go a long way." He glanced at his watch. "Very shortly."

  – – -

  Sometimes human beings are very much like bees. Bees are fiercely protective of their hive, provided you are outside it. Once you're in, the workers sort of assume that it must have been cleared by management and take no notice; various freeloading insects have evolved a mellifluous exis­tence because of this very fact. Humans act the same way.

  No one stopped the four as they purposefully made their way into one of the long, low buildings under the forest of radio masts. No one paid any attention to them. Perhaps they saw nothing at all. Perhaps they saw what their minds were instructed to see, because the human brain is not equipped to see War, Famine, Pollution, and Death when they don't want to be seen, and has got so good at not seeing that it often manages not to see them even when they abound on every side.

  The alarms were totally brainless and thought they saw four people where people shouldn't be, and went off like anything.

  – – -

  Newt did not smoke, because he did not allow nicotine to gain entry to the temple of his body or, more accurately, the small Welsh Meth­odist tin tabernacle of his body. If he had been a smoker, he would have choked on the cigarette that he would have been smoking at this time in order to steady his nerves.

  Anathema stood up purposefully and smoothed the creases in her skirt.

  "Don't worry," she said. "They don't apply to us. Something's probably happening inside."

  She smiled at his pale face. "Come on," she said, "It's not the O.K. Corral."

  "No. They've got better guns, for one thing," said Newt.

  She helped him up. "Never mind," she said. "I'm sure you'll think of a way."

  – – -

  It was inevitable that all four of them couldn't contribute equally, War thought. She'd been surprised at her natural affinity for modern weap­ons systems, which were so much more efficient than bits of sharp metal, and of course Pollution laughed at absolutely foolproof, fail‑safe devices. Even Famine at least knew what computers were. Whereas . . . well, he didn't do anything much except hang around, although he did it with a certain style. It had occurred to War that there might one day be an end to War, an end to Famine, possibly even an end to Pollution, and perhaps this was why the fourth and greatest horseman was never exactly what you might call one of the lads. It was like having a tax inspector in your football team. Great to have him on your side, of course, but not the kind of person you wanted to have a drink and a chat with in the bar after­wards. You couldn't be one hundred percent at your ease.

  A couple of soldiers ran through him as he looked over Pollution's skinny shoulder.

  WHAT ARE THOSE GLITTERY THINGS? he said, in the tones of one who knows he won't be able to understand the answer but wants to be seen to be taking an interest.

  "Seven‑segment LED displays," said the boy. He laid loving hands on a bank of relays, which fused under his touch, and then introduced a swathe of self‑replicating viruses that whirred away on the electronic ether.

  "I could really do without those bloody alarms," muttered Famine.

  Death absentmindedly snapped his fingers. A dozen klaxons gurgled and died.

  "I don't know, I rather liked them," said Pollution.

  War reached inside another metal cabinet. This wasn't the way she'd expected things to be, she had to admit, but when she ran her fingers over and sometimes through the electronics there was a familiar feel. It was an echo of what you got when you held a sword, and she felt a thrill of anticipation at the thought that this sword enclosed the whole world and a certain amount of the sky above it, as well. It loved her.

  A flaming sword.

  Mankind had not been very good at learning tha
t swords are dan­gerous if left lying around, although it had done its limited best to make sure that the chances of one this size being wielded accidentally were high. A cheering thought, that. It was nice to think that mankind made a dis­tinction between blowing their planet to bits by accident and doing it by design.

  Pollution plunged his hands into another rack of expensive electronics.

  – – -

  The guard on the hole in the fence looked puzzled. He was aware of excitement back in the base, and his radio seemed to be picking up nothing but static, and his eyes were being drawn again and again to the card in front of him.

  He'd seen many identity cards in his time‑military, CIA, FBI, KGB even‑and, being a young soldier, had yet to grasp that the more insignificant an organization is, the more impressive are its identity cards.

  This one was hellishly impressive. His lips moved as he read it again, all the way from "The Lord Protector of the Common Wealth of Britain charges and demands," through the bit about commandeering all kindling, rope, and igniferous oils, right down to the signature of the WA's first Lord Adjutant, Praise‑him‑all‑Ye‑works‑of‑the‑Lord‑and‑Flye‑Forni­cation Smith. Newt kept his thumb over the bit about Nine Pence Per Witch and tried to look like James Bond.

  Finally the guard's probing intellect found a word he thought he recognized.

  "What's this here," he said suspiciously, "about us got to give you faggots?"

  "Oh, we have to have them," said Newt. "We burn them."

  "Say what?"

  "We burn them."

  The guard's face broadened into a grin. And they'd told him En­gland was soft. "Right on!" he said.

  Something pressed into the small of his back.

  "Drop your gun," said Anathema, behind him, "or I shall regret what I shall have to do next."

  Well, it's true, she thought as she saw the man stiffen in terror. If he doesn't drop the gun he'll find out this is a stick, and I shall really regret having to be shot.

  – – -

  At the main gate, Sgt. Thomas A. Deisenburger was also having problems. A little man in a dirty mack kept pointing a finger at him and muttering, while a lady who looked slightly like his mother talked to him in urgent tones and kept interrupting herself in a different voice.