Good Omens

possessed by people who were never able to fit children into their household budgets, was being menaced by Dog.
    "Master Young," ordered R. P. Tyler, "please get your.. your mutt away from my Shutzi." Tyler did not trust Dog. When he had first met the dog, three days ago, it had snarled at him, and glowed its eyes red. This had impelled Tyler to begin a letter pointing out that Dog was undoubtedly rabid, certainly a danger to the community, and should be put down for the General Good, until his wife had reminded him that glowing red eyes weren't a symptom of rabies, or, for that matter, anything seen outside of the kind of film that neither of the Tylers would be caught dead at but knew all they needed to know about, thank you very much.
    Adam looked astounded. "Dog's not a mutt. Dog's a remarkable dog. He's clever. Dog, you get off Mr. Tyler's horrible of poodle."
    Dog ignored him. He'd got a lot of dog catching.. up still to do.
    "Dog," said Adam, ominously. His dog slunk back to his master's bicycle.
    "I don't believe you have answered my question. Where are you four off to?"
    "To the air base," said Brian.
    "If that's all right with you," said Adam, with what he hoped was bitter and scathing sarcasm. "I mean, we won't want to go there if it wasn't all right with you."
    "You cheeky little monkey," said R. P. Tyler. "When I see your father, Adam Young, I will inform him in no uncertain terms that ..."
    But the Them were already pedalling off down the road, in the direction of Lower Tadfield Air Base.. travelling by the Them's route, which was shorter and simpler and more scenic than the route suggested by Mr. Tyler.
    * * *

        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