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“Worldwide communications,” he said indistinctly. “You could do practically anything. Modulate the mains power, tap into satellites. Absolutely anything. You could”—zhip—“argh, you could”—zhap—“ouch, make things do”—zipt—“uh, just about”—zzap—“ooh.”
“How are you getting on in there?”
Newt sucked his fingers. So far he hadn’t found anything that resembled a transistor. He wrapped his hand in his handkerchief and pulled a couple of boards out of their sockets.
Once, one of the electronics magazines to which he subscribed had published a joke circuit which was guaranteed not to work. At last, they’d said in an amusing way, here’s something all you ham-fisted hams out there can build in the certain knowledge that if it does nothing, it’s working. It had diodes the wrong way round, transistors upside down, and a flat battery. Newt had built it, and it picked up Radio Moscow. He’d written them a letter of complaint, but they never replied.
“I really don’t know if I’m doing any good,” he said.
“James Bond just unscrews things,” said Anathema.
“Not just unscrews,” said Newt, his temper fraying. “And I’m not”—zhip—“James Bond. If I was”—whizzle—“the bad guys would have shown me all the megadeath levers and told me how they bloody well worked, wouldn’t they?”—Fwizzpt—“Only it doesn
’t happen like that in real life! I don’t know what’s happening and I can’t stop it.”
CLOUDS CHURNED around the horizon. Overhead the sky was still clear, the air torn by nothing more than a light breeze. But it wasn’t normal air. It had a crystallized look to it, so that you might feel that if you turned your head you might see new facets. It sparkled. If you had to find a word to describe it, the word thronged might slip insidiously into your mind. Thronged with insubstantial beings awaiting only the right moment to become very substantial.
Adam glanced up. In one sense there was just clear air overhead. In another, stretching off to infinity, were the hosts of Heaven and Hell, wingtip to wingtip. If you looked really closely, and had been specially trained, you could tell the difference.
Silence held the bubble of the world in its grip.
The door of the building swung open and the Four stepped out. There was no more than a hint of human about three of them now—they seemed to be humanoid shapes made up of all the things they were or represented. They made Death seem positively homely. His leather greatcoat and dark-visored helmet had become a cowled robe, but these were mere details. A skeleton, even a walking one, is at least human; Death of a sort lurks inside every living creature.
“The thing is,” said Adam urgently, “they’re not really real. They’re just like nightmares, really.”
“B-but we’re not asleep,” said Pepper.
Dog whined and tried to hide behind Adam.
“That one looks as if he’s meltin’,” said Brian, pointing at the advancing figure, if such it could still be called, of Pollution.
“There you are, then,” said Adam, encouragingly. “It can’t be real, can it? It’s common sense. Something like that can’t be reelly real.”
The Four halted a few meters away.
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 asked for 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 … the … 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.
