Good Omens

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.
    â€œWhat were they?” said Newt. “Some kind of terrorists?”
    â€œIn a very nice and accurate sense,” said Anathema, “I think you’re right.”
    â€œWhat was all that weird talk about?”
    â€œI think possibly the end of the world,” said Anathema. “Did you see their auras?”
    â€œI don’t think so,” said Newt.
    â€œNot nice at all.”
    â€œOh.”
    â€œNegative auras, in fact.”
    â€œOh?”
    â€œLike black holes.”
    â€œThat’s bad, is it?”
    â€œYes.”
    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.
    â€œWhat takes its course?” said Anathema. “They’ve done something, haven’t they?”
    â€œPerhaps there’s an off switch?” said Newt helplessly. “I’m sure if we looked around—”
    â€œThese 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.
    â€œWorldwide 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.”
    â€œHow 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.
    â€œI really don’t know if I’m doing any good,” he said.
    â€œJames Bond just unscrews things,” said Anathema.
    â€œNot 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