Good Omens

by Terry David John Pratchett

  "I didn't say it drove over it unharmed," corrected the policeman, who was thinking seriously about leaving the Metropolitan Police and going into business with his brother, who was resigning his job with the Electricity Board, and was going to start breeding chickens. "It burst into flames. It just kept on going."

  "Do you seriously expect any of us to believe . . ." began somebody.

  A high‑pitched keening noise, haunting and strange. Like a thou­sand glass harmonicas being played in unison, all slightly off‑key; like the sound of the molecules of the air itself wailing in pain.

  And Vrooosh.

  Over their heads it sailed, forty feet in the air, engulfed in a deep blue nimbus which faded to red at the edges: a little white motor scooter, and riding it, a middle‑aged woman in a pink helmet, and holding tightly to her, a short man in a mackintosh and a day‑glo green crash helmet (the motor scooter was too far up for anyone to see that his eyes were tightly shut, but they were). The woman was screaming. What she was screaming was this: "Gerrrronnnimooooo!"

  – – -

  One of the advantages of the Wasabi, as Newt was always keen to point out, was that when it was badly damaged it was very hard to tell. Newt had to keep driving Dick Turpin onto the shoulder to avoid fallen branches.

  "You've made me drop all the cards on the floor!"

  The car thumped back onto the road; a small voice from some­where under the glove compartment said, "Oil plessure arert."

  "I'll never be able to sort them out now," she moaned.

  "You don't have to," said Newt manically, "Just pick one. Any one. It won't matter."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Well, if Agnes is right, and we're doing all this because she's pre­dicted it, then any card picked right now has got to be relevant. That's logic."

  "It's nonsense."

  "Yeah? Look, you're even here because she predicted it. And have you thought what we're going to say to the colonel? If we get to see him, which of course we won't."

  "If we're reasonable‑"

  "Listen, I know these kinds of places. They have huge guards made out of teak guarding the gates, Anathema, and they have white helmets and real guns, you understand, which fire real bullets made of real lead which can go right into you and bounce around and come out of the same hole before you can even say 'Excuse me, we have reason to believe that World War Three is due any moment and they're going to do the show right here,' and then they have serious men in suits with bulging jackets who take you into a little room without windows and ask you questions like are you now, or have you ever been, a member of a pinko subversive organization such as any British political party? And='

  "We're nearly there."

  "Look, it's got gates and wire fences and everything! And probably the kind of dogs that eat people!"

  "I think you're getting rather overexcited," said Anathema quietly, picking the last of the file cards up from the floor of the car.

  "Overexcited? No! I'm getting very calmly worried that someone might shoot me!"

  "I'm sure Agnes would have mentioned it if we were going to be shot. She's very good at that sort of thing." She began absentmindedly to shuffle the file cards.

  "You know," she said, carefully cutting the cards and riffling the two piles together, "I read somewhere that there's a sect that believes that computers are the tools of the Devil. They say that Armageddon will come about because of the Antichrist being good with computers. Apparently it's mentioned somewhere in Revelations. I think I must have read about it in a newspaper recently . . ."

  "Daily Mail. 'Letter From America.' Um, August the third," said Newt. "Just after the story about the woman in Worms, Nebraska, who taught her duck to play the accordion."

  "Mm," said Anathema, spreading the cards face down on her lap.

  So computers are tools of the Devil? thought Newt. He had no problem believing it. Computers had to be the tools of somebody, and all he knew for certain was that it definitely wasn't him.

  The car jerked to a halt.

  The air base looked battered. Several large trees had fallen down near the entrance, and some men with a digger were trying to shift them. The guard on duty was watching them disinterestedly, but he half turned and looked coldly at the car.

  "All right," said Newt. "Pick a card."

  3001. Behinde the Eagle's

  Neste a grate Ash hath fallen.

  "Is that all?"

  "Yes. We always thought it was something to do with the Russian Revolution. Keep going along this road and turn left."

  The turning led to a narrow lane, with the base's perimeter fence on the left‑hand side.

  "And now pull in here. There's often cars here, and no one takes any notice," said Anathema.

  "What is this place?"

  "It's the local Lovers' Lane."

  "Is that why it appears to be paved with rubber?"

  They walked along the hedge‑shaded lane for a hundred yards until they reached the ash tree. Agnes had been right. It was quite grate. It had fallen right across the fence.

  A guard was sitting on it, smoking a cigarette. He was black. Newt always felt guilty in the presence of black Americans, in case they blamed him for two hundred years of slave trading.

  The man stood up when they approached, and then sagged into an easier stance.

  "Oh, hi, Anathema," he said.

  "Hi, George. Terrible storm, wasn't it."

  "Sure was."

  They walked on. He watched them out of sight.

  "You know him?" said Newt, with forced nonchalance.

  "Oh, sure. Sometimes a few of them come down to the pub. Pleas­ant enough in a well‑scrubbed way."

  "Would he shoot us if we just walked in?" said Newt.

  "He might well point a gun at us in a menacing way," Anathema

  "That's good enough for me. What do you suggest we do, then?"

  "Well, Agnes must have known something. So I suppose we just wait. It's not too bad now the wind's gone down."

  "Oh." Newt looked at the clouds piling up on the horizon. "Good old Agnes," he said.

  – – -

  Adam pedalled steadily along the road, Dog running along behind and occasionally trying to bite his back tire out of sheer excitement.

  There was a clacking noise and Pepper swung out of her drive. You could always tell Pepper's bike. She thought it was improved by a piece of cardboard cunningly held against the wheel by a clothes peg. Cats had learned to take evasive action when she was two streets away.

  "I reckon we can cut along Drovers Lane and then up through Roundhead Woods," said Pepper.

  "'S all muddy," said Adam.

  "That's right," said Pepper nervously. "It gets all muddy up there. We ort to go along by the chalk pit. 'S always dry because of the chalk. An' then up by the sewage farm."

  Brian and Wensleydale pulled in behind them. Wensleydale's bicy­cle was black, and shiny, and sensible. Brian's might have been white, once, but its color was lost beneath a thick layer of mud.

  "It's stupid calling it a milit'ry base," said Pepper. "I went up there when they had that open day and they had no guns or missiles or anythin'. Just knobs and dials and brass bands playin'."

  "Yes," said Adam.

  "Not much milit'ry about knobs and dials," said Pepper.

  "I dunno, reely," said Adam. "It's amazin' what you can do with knobs and dials."

  "I got a kit for Christmas," Wensleydale volunteered. "All electric bits. There were a few knobs and dials in it. You could make a radio or a thing that goes beep."

  "I dunno," said Adam thoughtfully, "I'm thinkin' more of certain people patching into the worldwide milit'ry communications network and telling all the computers and stuff to start fightin'."

  "Cor," said Brian. "That's be wicked"

  "Sort of," said Adam.

  – – -

  It is a high and lonely destiny to be Chairman of the Lower Tadfield Residents' Association.

  R. P. Tyler, short
, well‑fed, satisfied, stomped down a country lane, accompanied by his wife's miniature poodle, Shutzi. R. P. Tyler knew the difference between right and wrong; there were no moral grays of any kind in his life. He was not, however, satisfied simply with being vouchsafed the difference between right and wrong. He felt it his bounden duty to tell the world.

  Not for R. P. Tyler the soapbox, the polemic.verse, the broadsheet. R. P. Tyler's chosen forum was the letter column of the Tadfield Adver­tiser. If a neighbor's tree was inconsiderate enough to shed leaves into R. P. Tyler's garden, R. P. Tyler would first carefully sweep them all up, place them in boxes, and leave the boxes outside his neighbor's front door, with a stern note. Then he would write a letter to the Tadfield Advertiser. If he sighted teenagers sitting on the village green, their portable cassette players playing, and they were enjoying themselves, he would take it upon himself to point out to them the error of their ways. And after he had fled their jeering, he would write to the Tadfield Advertiser on the Decline of Morality and the Youth of Today.

  Since his retirement last year the letters had increased to the point where not even the Tadfield Advertiser was able to print all of them. In­deed, the letter R. P. Tyler had completed before setting out on his evening walk had begun:

  Sirs,

  I note with distress that the newspapers of today no longer feel obligated to their public, we, the people who pay your wages . . .

  He surveyed the fallen branches that littered the narrow country road. I don't suppose, he pondered, they think of the cleaning up bill when they send us these storms. Parish Council has to foot the bill to clean it all up. And we, the taxpayers, pay their wages . . .

  The they in this thought were the weather forecasters on Radio Four, whom R. P. Tyler blamed for the weather.[50]

  Shutzi stopped by a roadside beech tree to cock its leg.

  R. P. Tyler looked away, embarrassed. It might be that the sole purpose of his evening constitutional was to allow the dog to relieve itself, but he was dashed if he'd admit that to himself. He stared up at the storm clouds. They were banked up high, in towering piles of smudged gray and black. It wasn't just the flickering tongues of lightning that forked through them like the opening sequence of a Frankenstein movie; it was the way they stopped when they reached the borders of Lower Tadfield. And in their center was a circular patch of daylight; but the light had a stretched, yellow quality to it, like a forced smile.

  It was so quiet.

  There was a low roaring.

  Down the narrow lane came four motorbikes. They shot past him, and turned the corner, disturbing a cock pheasant who whirred across the lane in a nervous arc of russet and green.

  "Vandals!" called R. P. Tyler after them.

  The countryside wasn't made for people like them. It was made for people like him.

  He jerked Shutzi's lead, and they marched along the road.

  Five minutes later he turned the corner, to find three of the motor­cyclists standing around a fallen signpost, a victim of the storm. The fourth, a tall man with a mirrored visor, remained on his bike.

  R. P. Tyler observed the situation, and leaped effortlessly to a con­clusion. These vandals‑he had, of course been right‑had come to the countryside in order to desecrate the War Memorial and to overturn sign­posts.

  He was about to advance on them sternly, when it came to him that he was outnumbered, four to one, and that they were taller than he was, and that they were undoubtedly violent psychopaths. No one but a violent psychopath rode motorbikes in R. P. Tyler's world.

  So he raised his chin and began to strut past them, without appar­ently noticing they were there,[51] all the while composing in his head a letter (Sirs, this evening I noted with distress a large number of hooligans on motorbicycles infesting Our Fair Village. Why, oh Why, does the govern­ment do nothing about this plague of . . .)

  "Hi," said one of the motorcyclists, raising his visor to reveal a thin face and a trim black beard. "We're kinda lost."

  "Ah," said R. P. Taylor disapprovingly.

  "The signpost musta blew down," said the motorcyclist.

  "Yes, I suppose it must," agreed R. P. Taylor. He noticed with surprise that he was getting hungry.

  "Yeah. Well, we're heading for Lower Tadfield."

  An officious eyebrow raised. "You're Americans. With the air force base, I suppose." (Sirs, when I did national service I was a credit to my country. I notice with horror and dismay that airmen from the Tadfield Air Base are driving around our noble countryside dressed no better than common thugs. While I appreciate their importance in defending the free­dom of the western world . . .).

  Then his love of giving instructions took over. "You go back down that road for half a mile, then first left, it's in a deplorable state of disrepair I'm afraid, I've written numerous letters to the council about it, are you civil servants or civil master. that's what I asked them, after all, who pays your wages? then second right, only it's not exactly right, it's on the left but you'll find it bends round toward the right eventually, it's signposted Porrit's Lane, but of course it isn't Pornt's Lane, you look at the ordinance survey map, you'll see, it's simply the eastern end of Forest Hill Lane, you'll come out in the village, now you go past the Bull and Fiddle‑that's a public house‑then when you get to the church (I have pointed out to the people who compile the ordinance survey map that it's a church with a spire, not a church with a tower, indeed I have written to the Tadfield Advertiser, suggesting they mount a local campaign to get the map cor­rected, and I have every hope that once these people realize with whom they are dealing you'll see a hasty U‑turn from them) then you'll get to a crossroads, now, you go straight across that crossroads and you'll immedi­ately come to a second crossroads, now, you can take either the left‑hand fork or go straight on, either way you'll arrive at the air base (although the left‑hand fork is almost a tenth of a mile shorter) and you can't miss it."

  Famine stared at him blankly. "I, uh, I'm not sure I got that . . ." he began.

  I DID. LET US GO.

  Shutzi gave a little yelp and darted behind R. P. Tyler, where it remained, shivering.

  The strangers climbed back onto their bikes. The one in white (a hippie, by the look of him, thought R. P. Tyler) dropped an empty crisp packet onto the grass shoulder.

  "Excuse me, " barked Tyler. "Is that your crisp packet?"

  "Oh, it's not just mine," said the boy. "It's everybody's."

  R. P. Tyler drew himself up to his full height.[52] "Young man," he said, "how would you feel if I came over to your house and dropped litter everywhere?"

  Pollution smiled, wistfully. "Very, very pleased," he breathed. "Oh, that would be wonderful."

  Beneath his bike an oil slick puddled a rainbow on the wet road.

  Engines revved.

  "I missed something," said War. "Now, why are we meant to make a U‑turn by the church?"

  JUST FOLLOW ME, said the tall one in front, and the four rode off together.

  R. P. Tyler stared after them, until his attention was distracted by the sound of something going clackclackclack He turned. Four figures on bicycles shot past him, closely followed by the scampering figure of a small dog.

  "You! Stop!" shouted R. P. Tyler.

  The Them braked to a halt and looked at him.

  "I knew it was you, Adam Young, and your little, hmph, cabal. What, might I enquire, are you children doing out at this time of night? Do your fathers know you're out?"

  The leader of the cyclist turned. "I can't see how you can say it's late, " he said, "seems to me, seems to me, that if the sun's still out then it's not late."

  "It's past your bedtime, anyway," R. P. Tyler informed them, "and don't stick out your tongue at me, young lady," this was to Pepper, "or I will be writing a letter to your mother informing her of the lamentable and unladylike state of her offspring's manners."

  "Well 'scuse us, " said Adam, aggrieved. "Pepper was just looking at you. I didn't know there was any for agai
nst looking."

  There was a commotion on the grass. Shutzi, who was a particu­larly refined toy French poodle, of the kind only 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.

  – – -