Good Omens

than four thousand of them.
    â€œSteady, steady,” Aziraphale muttered to himself. He went into the little kitchenette and made himself some cocoa and took some deep breaths.
    Then he came back and read a prophecy at random.
    Forty minutes later, the cocoa was still untouched.
    THE RED-HAIRED WOMAN in the corner of the hotel bar was the most successful war correspondent in the world. She now had a passport in the name of Carmine Zuigiber; and she went where the wars were.
    Well. More or less.
    Actually she went where the wars weren’t. She’d already been where the wars were.
    She was not well known, except where it counted. Get half a dozen war correspondents together in an airport bar, and the conversation will, like a compass orienting to North, swing around to Murchison of The New York Times , to Van Horne of Newsweek , to Anforth of I.T.N. News. The war correspondents’ War Correspondents.
    But when Murchison, and Van Horne, and Anforth ran into each other in a burnt-out tin shack in Beirut, or Afghanistan, or the Sudan, after they’d admired each other’s scars and had downed a few, they would exchange awed anecdotes of “Red” Zuigiber, from the National World Weekly .
    â€œThat dumb rag,” Murchison would say, “it doesn’t goddamn know what it’s goddamn got.”
    Actually the National World Weekly did know just what it had got: it had a War Correspondent. It just didn’t know why, or what to do with one now it had her.
    A typical National World Weekly would tell the world how Jesus’ face was seen on a Big Mac bun bought by someone from Des Moines, with an artist’s impression of the bun; how Elvis Presley was recently sighted working in a Burger Lord in Des Moines; how listening to Elvis records cured a Des Moines housewife’s cancer; how the spate of werewolves infesting the Midwest are the offspring of noble pioneer women raped by Bigfoot; and that Elvis was taken by Space Aliens in 1976 because he was too good for this world. 17
    That was the National World Weekly . They sold four million copies a week, and they needed a War Correspondent like they needed an exclusive interview with the General Secretary of the United Nations. 18
    So they paid Red Zuigiber a great deal of money to go and find wars, and ignored the bulging, badly typed envelopes she sent them occasionally from around the globe to justify her—generally fairly reasonable—expense claims.
    They felt justified in this because, as they saw it, she really wasn’t a very good war correspondent although she was undoubtedly the most attractive, which counted for a lot on the National World Weekly . Her war reports were always about a bunch of guys shooting at each other, with no real understanding of the wider political ramifications, and, more importantly, no Human Interest.
    Occasionally they would hand one of her stories over to a rewrite man to fix up. (“Jesus appeared to nine-year-old Manuel Gonzalez during a pitched battle on the Rio Concorsa, and told him to go home because his mother worried about him. ‘I knew it was Jesus,’ said the brave little child, ‘because he looked like he did when his picture miraculously appeared on my sandwich box.”’)
    Mostly the National World Weekly left her alone, and carefully filed her stories in the rubbish bin.
    Murchison, and Van Horne, and Anforth didn’t care about this. All they knew was that whenever a war broke out, Ms. Zuigiber was there first. Practically before .
    â€œHow does she do it?” they would ask each other incredulously. “How the hell does she do it?” And their eyes would meet, and silently say: if she was a car she’d be made by Ferrari, she’s the kind of woman you’d expect to see as the beautiful consort to the corrupt generalissimo of a collapsing Third World country, and she hangs around with guys like us. We’re the lucky guys, right?
    Ms. Zuigiber just smiled and bought another round of drinks for everybody, on the National World Weekly . And watched the fights break out around her. And smiled.
    She had been right. Journalism suited her.
    Even so, everyone needs a holiday, and Red Zuigiber was on her first in eleven years.
    She was on a small Mediterranean island which made its money from the tourist trade, and that in itself was odd. Red looked to be the kind of woman who, if she took a holiday on any island smaller than Australia,