Good Omens

The other three looked up. There was a barely perceptible change in the way they stood there. A moment before Death had spoken they, the part of them that did not walk and talk like human beings, had been wrapped around the world. Now they were back.

More or less.

There was a strangeness about them. It was as if, instead of ill-fitting suits, they now had ill-fitting bodies. Famine looked as though he had been tuned slightly off-station, so that the hitherto dominant signal—of a pleasant, thrusting, successful businessman—was beginning to be drowned out by the ancient, horrible static of his basic personality. War’s skin glistened with sweat. Pollution’s skin just glistened.

“It’s all … taken care of,” said War, speaking with some effort. “It’ll … take its course.”

“It’s not just the nuclear,” Pollution said. “It’s the chemical. Thousands of gallons of stuff in … little tanks all over the world. Beautiful liquids … with eighteen syllables in their names. And the … old standbys. Say what you like. Plutonium may give you grief for thousands of years, but arsenic is forever.”

“And then … winter,” said Famine. “I like winter. There’s something … clean about winter.”

“Chickens coming … home to roost,” said War.

“No more chickens,” said Famine, flatly.

Only Death hadn’t changed. Some things 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.

“What were they?” said Newt. “Some kind of terrorists?”

“In a very nice and accurate sense,” said Anathema, “I think you’re right.”

“What was all that weird talk about?”

“I think possibly the end of the world,” said Anathema. “Did you see their auras?”

“I don’t think so,” said Newt.

“Not nice at all.”

“Oh.”

“Negative auras, in fact.”

“Oh?”

“Like black holes.”

“That’s bad, is it?”

“Yes.”

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.

“What takes its course?” said Anathema. “They’ve done something, haven’t they?”

“Perhaps there’s an off switch?” said Newt helplessly. “I’m sure if we looked around—”

“These 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.