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 it would be more lifelike.
* * *
R. P. Tyler, only ten minutes away from the village, paused, while Shutzi attempted another of its wide range of eliminatory functions. He gazed over the fence.
His knowledge of country lore was a little hazy, but he felt fairly sure that if the cows lay down, it meant rain. If they were standing it would probably be fine. These cows were taking it in turns to execute slow and solemn somersaults; and Tyler wondered what it presaged for the weather.
He sniffed. Something was burning.. there was an unpleasant smell of scorched metal and rubber and leather.
“Excuse me,” said a voice from behind him. R. P. Tyler turned around.
There was a large once.. black car on fire in the lane and a man in sunglasses was leaning out of one window, saying through the smoke, “I'm sorry, I've managed to get a little lost. Can you direct me to Lower Tadfield Air Base? I know it's around here somewhere.”
Your car is on fire.
No. Tyler just couldn't bring himself to say it. I mean, the man had to know that, didn't he? He was sitting in the middle of it. Possibly it was some kind of practical joke.
So instead he said, “I think you must have taken a wrong turn about a mile back. A signpost has blown down.”
The stranger smiled, “That must be it,” he said. The orange flames flickering below him gave him an almost infernal appearance.
The wind blew towards Tyler, across the car, and he felt his eyebrows frizzle.
Excuse me, young man, but your car is on fire and you're sitting in it without burning and incidentally it's red hot in place
No.
Should he ask the man if he wanted him to phone the A.A.?
Instead he explained the route carefully, trying not to stare.
“That's terrific. Much obliged,” said Crowley, as he began to wind up the window.
R. P. Tyler had to say something.
“Excuse me, young man,” he said.
“Yes?”
"I mean, it's not the kind of thing you don't notice, your car being on fire.
A tongue of flame licked across the charred dashboard.
“Funny weather we're having, isn't it?” he said, lamely.
“Is it?” said Crowley. “I honestly hadn't noticed.” And he reversed back down the country lane in his burning car.
“That's probably because your car is on fire,” said R. P. Tyler sharply. He jerked Shutzi's lead, dragged the little dog to heel.
To The Editor
Sir,
I would like to draw your attention to a recent tendency I have noticed for today's young people to ignore perfectly sensible safety precautions while driving. This evening I was asked for directions by a gentleman whose car was ...
No.
Driving a car that ...
No.
It was on fire ...
His temper getting worse, R. P. Tyler stomped the final stretch back into the village.
* * *
“Hoy!” shouted R. P. Tyler. “Young!”
Mr. Young was in his front garden, sitting on his deck chair, smoking his pipe.
This had more to do with Deirdre's recent discovery of the menace of passive smoking and banning of smoking in the house than he would care to admit to his neighbors. It did not improve his temper. Neither did being addressed as Young by Mr. Tyler.
“Yes?”
“Your son, Adam.”
Mr. Young sighed. “What's he done now?”
“Do you know where he is?”
Mr. Young checked his watch. “Getting ready for bed, I would assume.”
Tyler grinned, tightly, triumphantly. “I doubt it. I saw him and his little fiends, and that appalling mongrel, not half an hour ago, cycling towards the air base.”
Mr. Young puffed on his pipe.
“You know how strict they are up there,” said Mr. Tyler, in case Mr. Young hadn't got the message.
“You know what a one your son is for pressing buttons and things,” he added.
Mr. Young took his pipe out of his mouth and examined the stem thoughtfully.
“Hmp,” he said. “I see,” he said.
“Right,” he said.
And he went inside.
* * *
At exactly that same moment, four motorbikes swished to a halt a few hundred yards from the main gate. The riders switched off their engines and raised their helmet visors. Well, three of them did.
“I was rather hoping we could crash through the barriers,” said War wistfully.
“That'd only cause trouble,” said Famine.
“Good.”
“Trouble for us, I mean. The power and phone lines must be down, but they're bound to have generators and they'll certainly have radio. If someone starts reporting that terrorists have invaded the base then people'll start acting logically and the whole Plan collapses.”
“Huh.”
WE GO IN, WE DO THE JOB, WE GO OUT, WE LET HUMAN NATURE TAKE ITS COURSE, said Death.
“This isn't how I imagined it, chaps,” said War. “I haven't been waiting for thousands of years just to fiddle around with bits of wire. It's not what you'd call dramatic. Albrecht Durer didn't waste his time doing woodcuts of the Four Button.. Pressers of the Apocalypse, I do know that.”
“I thought there'd be trumpets,” said Pollution.
“Look at it like this,” said Famine. “It's just groundwork. We get to do the riding forth afterwards. The proper riding forth. Wings of the storm and so on. You've got to be flexible.”
“Weren't we supposed to meet ... someone?” said War.
There was no sound but the metallic noises of cooling motorbike engines.
Then Pollution said, slowly, “You know, I can't say I imagined it'd be somewhere like this, either. I thought it'd be, well, a big city. Or a big country. New York, perhaps. Or Moscow. Or Armageddon itself.”
There was another pause.
Then War said, “Where is Armageddon, anyway?”
“Funny you should ask,” said Famine. “I've always meant to look it up.”
“There's an Armageddon, Pennsylvania,” said Pollution. “Or maybe it's Massachusetts, or one of them places. Lots of guys in heavy beards and seriously black hats.”
“Nah,” said Famine. “It's somewhere in Israel, I think.”
MOUNT CARMEL.
“I thought that was where they grow avocados.”
AND THE END OF THE WORLD.
“Is that right? That's one big avocado.”
“I think I went there once,” said Pollution. “The old city of Megiddo. Just before it fell down. Nice place. Interesting royal gateway.”