There was a newcomer in the village.

New people were always a source of interest and speculation among the Them, [It didn't matter what the four had called their gang over the years, the frequent name changes usually being prompted by whatever Adam had happened to have read or viewed the previous day (the Adam Young Squad; Adam and Co.; The Hole-in-the-Chalk Gang; The Really Well-Known Four; The Legion of Really Super-Heroes; The Quarry Gang; The Secret Four; The Justice Society of Tadfield; The Galaxatrons; The Four Just Persons; The Rebels). Everyone else always referred to them darkly as Them, and eventually they did too.] but this time Pepper had impressive news.

"My father says there's no such thing as witches," said Wensleydale, who had fair, wavy hair, and peered seriously out at life through thick black-rimmed spectacles. It was widely believed that he had once been christened Jeremy, but no one ever used the name, not even his parents, who called him Youngster. They did this in the subconscious hope that he might take the hint; Wensleydale gave the impression of having been born with a mental age of forty-seven.

"She's moved into Jasmine Cottage and she's a witch," she said. "I know, because Mrs. Henderson does the cleaning and she told my mother she gets a witches' newspaper. She gets loads of ordinary newspapers, too, but she gets this special witches' one."

"That's not witches," said Wensleydale. "My aunt has that. That's just spoon-bending and fortune-telling and people thinking they were Queen Elizabeth the First in another life. There's no witches any more, actually. People invented medicines and that and told 'em they didn't need 'em any more and started burning 'em."

"Don't see why not," said Brian, who had a wide, cheerful face, under an apparently permanent layer of grime. "I don't see why witches shouldn't have their own newspaper. With stories about all the latest spells and that. My father gets Anglers' Mail, and I bet there's more witches than anglers."

"It's called Psychic News," volunteered Pepper.

"Anyway, your aunt could be a witch," said Pepper. "In secret. She could be your aunt all day and go witching at night."

"An' recipes," said Brian. "New uses for leftover toad."

"It could have pictures of frogs and things," said Brian, who was reluctant to let a good idea go to waste. "An'-- an' road tests of broomsticks. And a cats' column."

"Not my aunt," said Wensleydale darkly.

Brian snorted. If it had been Wensley who had said that, there'd have been a half-hearted scuffle, as between friends. But the other Them had long ago learned that Pepper did not consider herself bound by the informal conventions of brotherly scuffles. She could kick and bite with astonishing physiological accuracy for a girl of eleven. Besides, at eleven years old the Them were beginning to be bothered by the dim conception that laying hands on good ole Pep moved things into blood-thumping categories they weren't entirely at home with yet, besides earning you a snake-fast blow that would have floored the Karate Kid.

"Oh, shut up," said Pepper.

But she was good to have in your gang. They remembered with pride the time when Greasy Johnson and his gang had taunted them for playing with a girl. Pepper had erupted with a fury that had caused Greasy's mother to come round that evening and complain.

[Greasy Johnson was a sad and oversized child. There's one in every school; not exactly fat, but simply huge and wearing almost the same size clothes as his father. Paper tore under his tremendous fingers, pens shattered in his grip. Children whom he tried to play with in quiet, friendly games ended up getting under his huge feet, and Greasy Johnson had become a bully almost in self-defense. After all, it was better to be called a bully, which at least implied some sort of control and desire, than to be called a big clumsy oaf. He was the despair of the sports master, because if Greasy Johnson had taken the slightest interest in sport, then the school could have been champions. But Greasy Johnson had never found a sport that suited him. He was instead secretly devoted to his collection of tropical fish, which won him prizes. Greasy Johnson was the same age as Adam Young, to within a few hours, and his parents had never told him he was adopted. See? You were right about the babies.]

Pepper's given first names were Pippin Galadriel Moonchild. She had been given them in a naming ceremony in a muddy valley field that contained three sick sheep and a number of leaky polythene teepees. Her mother had chosen the Welsh valley of Pant-y-Gyrdl as the ideal site to Return to Nature. (Six months later, sick of the rain, the mosquitoes, the men, the tent-trampling sheep who ate first the whole commune's marijuana crop and then its antique minibus, and by now beginning to glimpse why almost the entire drive of human history has been an attempt to get as far away from Nature as possible, Pepper's mother returned to Pepper's surprised grandparents in Tadfield, bought a bra, and enrolled in a sociology course with a deep sigh of relief.)

Pepper looked upon him, a giant male, as a natural enemy.

She herself had short red hair and a face which was not so much freckled as one big freckle with occasional areas of skin.

There are only two ways a child can go with a name like Pippin Galadriel Moonchild, and Pepper had chosen the other one: the three male Them had learned this on their first day of school, in the playground, at the age of four.

Adam drummed his heels on the edge of the milk crate that was doing the office of a seat, listening to this bickering with the relaxed air of a king listening to the idle chatter of his courtiers.

They had asked her her name, and, all innocent, she had told them.

He chewed lazily on a straw. It was a Thursday morning. The holidays stretched ahead, endless and unsullied. They needed filling up.

He let the conversation float around him like the buzzing of grasshoppers or, more precisely, like a prospector watching the churning gravel for a glint of useful gold.

Subsequently a bucket of water had been needed to separate Pippin Galadriel Moonchild's teeth from Adam's shoe. Wensleydale's first pair of spectacles had been broken, and Brian's sweater needed five stitches.

The Them were together from then on, and Pepper was Pepper forever, except to her mother, and (when they were feeling especially courageous, and the Them were almost out of earshot) Greasy Johnson and the Johnsonites, the village's only other gang.

"That's what it said."

"What, by worshipin' Nature and eatin' health food?" said Wensleydale.

"Andit said they dance round with no clothes on," he added. "They go up on hills and Stonehenge and stuff, and dance with no clothes on."

Brian leaned forward conspiratorially.

"In our Sunday paper it said there was thousands of witches in the country," said Brian. "Worshiping Nature and eating health food an' that. So I don't see why we shouldn't have one round here. They were floodin' the country with a Wave of Mindless Evil, it said."

This time the consideration was more thoughtful. The Them had reached that position where, as it were, the roller coaster of Life had almost completed the long haul to the top of the first big humpback of puberty so that they could just look down into the precipitous ride ahead, full of mystery, terror, and exciting curves.

The Them gave this due consideration. They had once -- at Adam's instigation -- tried a health food diet for a whole afternoon. Their verdict was that you could live very well on healthy food provided you had a big cooked lunch beforehand.

"That's necromancy, that is," said Brian. "It's in the Bible. She ought to stop it. God's dead against necromancy. And witches. You can go to Hell for it."

"Huh," said Pepper.

"Not my aunt," said Wensleydale, breaking the spell. "Definitely not my aunt. She just keeps trying to talk to my uncle."

"She says he still moves a glass about," said Wensleydale defensively. "My father says it was moving glasses about the whole time that made him dead in the first place. Don't know why she wants to talk to him," he added, "they never talked much when he was alive."

There was a lazy shifting of position on the milk crate throne. Adam was going to speak.

"Your uncle's dead," said Pepper.

The Them fell silent. Adam was always worth listening to. Deep in their hearts, the Them knew that they weren't a gang of four. They were a gang of three, which belonged to Adam. But if you wanted excitement, and interest, and crowded days, then every Them would prize a lowly position in Adam's gang above leadership of any other gang anywhere.

The Them glanced at one another. This sounded promising.

"And they can make you be ill just by looking at you," said Pepper. "It's called the Evil Eye. They give you a look, and then you get ill and no one knows why. And they make a model of you and stick it full of pins and you get ill where all the pins are," she added cheerfully.

"Well, they blight crops," said Pepper. "And sink ships. And tell you if you're going to be king and stuff. And brew up stuff with herbs."

"That sort of thing doesn't happen any more," reiterated Wensleydale, the rational thinking person. "'Cos we invented Science and all the vicars set fire to the witches for their own good. It was called the Spanish Inquisition."

"My mother uses herbs," said Adam. "So does yours."

"Don't see why everyone's so down on witches," Adam said.

"Oh, those are all right," said Brian, determined not to lose his position as occult expert. "I expect God said it was all right to use mint and sage and so on. Stands to reason there's nothing wrong with mint and sage."

"It's all right if you're religious," said Brian reassuringly. "And it stops the witches from goin' to Hell, so I expect they'd be quite grateful if they understood it properly."

"I don't reckon it's allowed, going round setting fire to people," said Adam. "Otherwise peopled be doin' it all the time."

"Can't see Picky setting fire to anyone," said Pepper.

"Not actually setting them on actual fire," sniffed Pepper. "He's more likely to tell their parents, and leave it up to them if anyone's goin' to be set on fire or not."

"Then I reckon we should find out if her at Jasmine Cottage is a witch and if she is we should tell Mr. Pickersgill," said Brian. Mr. Pickersgill was the vicar. Currently he was in dispute with the Them over subjects ranging from climbing the yew tree in the churchyard to ringing the bells and running away.

"Oh, I dunno," said Brian, meaningfully.

The Them shook their heads in disgust at the current low standards of ecclesiastical responsibility. Then the other three looked expectantly at Adam.

"Neighborhood Witch," said Pepper.

There was silence.

"No," said Adam coldly.

Lunchtime came and went. The new Spanish Inquisition reconvened.

"P'raps we ought to do it ourselves," he said. "Someone ought to be doing something if there's all these witches about. It's -- it's like that Neighborhood Watch scheme."

"I've got a bullfight poster with my name on it," said Brian, slowly.

They always looked expectantly at Adam. He was the one that had the ideas.

"I bet you don't have to be Spanish to be the Spanish Inquisition," said Adam. "I bet it's like Scottish eggs or American hamburgers. It just has to look Spanish. We've just got to make it look Spanish. Then everyone would know it's the Spanish Inquisition."

It was broken by the crackling of one of the empty crisp packets that accumulated wherever Brian was sitting. They looked at him.

"What're those?" he demanded.

"But we can't be the Spanish Inquisition," said Wensleydale. "We're not Spanish."

"You click them together when you dance," said Wensleydale, a shade defensively. "My aunt brought them back from Spain years ago. They're called maracas, I think. They've got a picture of a Spanish dancer on them, look."

The Head Inquisitor inspected it critically.

"That's to show it's Spanish," said Wensleydale. Adam let it pass.

"What's she dancing with a bull for?" said Adam.

"It's for putting wine in," she said defiantly. "My mother brought it back from Spain."

The bullfight poster was everything Brian had promised.

Pepper had something rather like a gravy boat made out of raffia.

"It hasn't got a bull on it," said Adam severely.

"It doesn't have to," Pepper countered, moving just ever so slightly into a fighting stance.

Adam hesitated. His sister Sarah and her boyfriend had also been to Spain. Sarah had returned with a very large purple toy donkey which, while definitely Spanish, did not come up to what Adam instinctively felt should be the tone of the Spanish Inquisition. The boyfriend, on the other hand, had brought back a very ornate sword which, despite its tendency to bend when picked up and go blunt when asked to cut paper, proclaimed itself to be made of Toledo steel. Adam had spent an instructive half-hour with the encyclopedia and felt that this was just what the Inquisition needed. Subtle hints had not worked, however.

"You certain they're Spanish onions?" said Pepper, relaxing.

"Very good," he said.

In the end Adam had taken a bunch of onions from the kitchen. They might well have been Spanish. But even Adam had to concede that, as decor for the Inquisitorial premises, they lacked that certain something. He was in no position to argue too vehemently about raffia wine holders.

"It doesn't matter," said Adam, who was getting fed up with onions. "France is nearly Spanish, an' I don't expect witches know the difference, what with spendin' all their time flyin' around at night. It all looks like the Continong to witches. Anyway, if you don't like it you can jolly well go and start your own Inquisition, anyway."

"'Course," said Adam. "Spanish onions. Everyone knows that."

"They could be French," said Pepper doggedly. "France is famous for onions."

For once, Pepper didn't push it. She'd been promised the post of Head Torturer. No one doubted who was going to be Chief Inquisitor.

Wensleydale and Brian were less enthralled with their roles of Inquisitorial Guards.

"Well, you don't know any Spanish," said Adam, whose lunch hour had included ten minutes with a phrase book Sarah had bought in a haze of romanticism in Alicante.

"And Spanish," said Adam firmly. "That's why it's the Spanish Inquisition."

"I don't see why it shouldn't be a British Inquisition," said Brian. "Don't see why we should of fought the Armada and everything, just to have their smelly Inquisition."

The new inhabitant of Jasmine Cottage would have to wait, they'd decided. What they needed to do was start small and work their way up.

"I reckon," he said, "that we should sort of start Spanish, and then make it the British Inquisition when we've got the hang of it. And now," he added, "the Inquisitorial Guard will go and fetch the first witch, por favor."

"That doesn't matter, because actually you have to talk in Latin," said Wensleydale, who had also been doing some slightly more accurate lunchtime reading.

This had been slightly bothering Adam's patriotic sensibilities as well.

"Art thou a witch, oh lay?" said the Chief Inquisitor.

"Yes," said Pepper's little sister, who was six and built like a small golden-haired football.

The little suspect gave the decor of the Inquisitorial headquarters a disparaging look. There was a decided odor of onions.

"You mustn't say yes, you've got to say no," hissed the Head Torturer, nudging the suspect.

"And then we torture you to make you say yes," said the Head Torturer. "I told you. It's good fun, the torturin'. It doesn't hurt. Hastar lar visa,"she added quickly.

"Huh," she said. "I want to be a witch, wiv a warty nose an' a green skin an' a lovely cat an' I'd call it Blackie, an' lots of potions an'--"

The Head Torturer nodded to the Chief Inquisitor.

"And then what?" demanded the suspect.

"Look," said Pepper, desperately, "no one's saying you can't be a witch, you jus' have to say you're not a witch. No point in us taking all this trouble," she added severely, "if you're going to go round saying yes the minute we ask you."

The suspect considered this.

"But I wants to be a witch," she wailed. The male Them exchanged exhausted glances. This was out of their league.

Adam gave a magisterial cough.

"Don't see why me and Brother Brian should have to do all the work," said Brother Wensleydale, wiping the sweat off his brow. "I reckon it's about time she got off and we had a go. Benedictine ina decanter."

"Why have we stopped?" demanded the suspect, water pouring out of her shoes.

"No," she decided.

The sister took a look at Pepper's face, and decided not to chance it.

It was a hot afternoon and the Inquisitorial guards felt that they were being put upon.

It had occurred to the Chief Inquisitor during his researches that the British Inquisition was probably not yet ready for the reintroduction of the Iron Maiden and the choke-pear. But an illustration of a medieval ducking stool suggested that it was tailor-made for the purpose. All you needed was a pond and some planks and a rope. It was the sort of combination that always attracted the Them, who never had much difficulty in finding all three.

"Art thou a witch, viva espana?" he repeated.

It was a very good torture, everyone agreed. The trouble was getting the putative witch off it.

"You have used it," snapped her sister, "I've seen it and it's all worn out and the bit where you put the hay is broke and --"

"If you just say no," said Pepper, "You can have my Sindy stable set. I've never ever used it," she added, glaring at the other Them and daring them to make a comment.

"It's not allowed for inquisitors to be tortured too," said the Chief Inquisitor sternly, but without much real feeling. It was a hot afternoon, the Inquisitorial robes of old sacking were scratchy and smelled of stale barley, and the pond looked astonishingly inviting.

"I'm going to go home unless I can have a go," muttered Brother Brian. "Don't see why evil witches should have all the fun."

"All right, all right," he said, and turned to the suspect. "You're a witch, all right, don't do it again, and now you get off and let someone else have a turn. Oh lay," he added.

Adam hesitated. Setting fire to her would probably cause no end of trouble, he reasoned. Besides, she was too soggy to burn.

The suspect was now green to the waist.

He was also distantly aware that at some future point there would be questions asked about muddy shoes and duckweed-encrusted pink dresses. But that was the future, and it lay at the other end of along warm afternoon that contained planks and ropes and ponds. The future could wait.

"It's just like a seesaw," she said. "Whee!"

"What happens now?" said Pepper's sister.

"I don't see why we should have a hosepipe ban," Adam heard Mr. Young telling Mrs. Young. "I pay my rates like everyone else. The garden looks like the Sahara desert. I'm surprised there was any water left in the pond. I blame it on the lack of nuclear testing, myself. You used to get proper summers when I was a boy. It used to rain all the time."

Dust hung heavy on the bushes.

Now Adam slouched alone along the dusty lane. It was a good slouch. Adam had a way of slouching along that offended all right-thinking people. It wasn't that he just allowed his body to droop. He could slouch with inflections, and now the set of his shoulders reflected the hurt and bewilderment of those unjustly thwarted in their selfless desire to help their fellow men.

The future came and went in the mildly discouraging way that futures do, although Mr. Young had other things on his mind apart from muddy dresses and merely banned Adam from watching television, which meant he had to watch it on the old black and white set in his bedroom.

Dog slouched along dutifully behind his Master. This wasn't, insofar as the hell-hound had any expectations, what he had imagined life would be like in the last days before Armageddon, but despite himself he was beginning to enjoy it.

"I bet if they'd jus' let us get started properly we could of found hundreds of witches," he told himself, kicking a stone. "I bet ole Torturemada dint have to give up jus' when he was getting started just because some stupid witch got her dress dirty."

He heard his Master say: "Bet even the Victorians didn't force people to have to watch black and white television."

"Serve everyone right if the witches took over the whole country and made everyone eat health food and not go to church and dance around with no clothes on," he said, kicking a stone. He had to admit that, except perhaps for the health food, the prospect wasn't too worrying.

Form shapes nature. There are certain ways of behavior appropriate to small scruffy dogs which are in fact welded into the genes. You can't just become small-dog-shaped and hope to stay the same person; a certain intrinsic small-dogness begins to permeate your very Being.

"Serve 'em right if we're all overcome by Evil Forces," his Master grumbled.

He'd already chased a rat. It had been the most enjoyable experience of his life.

And then there were cats, thought Dog. He'd surprised the huge ginger cat from next door and had attempted to reduce it to cowering jelly by means of the usual glowing stare and deep-throated growl, which had always worked on the damned in the past. This time they earned him a whack on the nose that had made his eyes water. Cats, Dog considered, were clearly a lot tougher than lost souls. He was looking forward to a further cat experiment, which he'd planned would consist of jumping around and yapping excitedly at it. It was a long shot, but it might just work.

"They just better not come running to me when ole Picky is turned into a frog, that's all," muttered Adam.

Adam was a soft touch for tears. He hesitated a moment, and then cautiously peered over the hedge.

It was at this point that two facts dawned on him. One was that his disconsolate footsteps had led him past Jasmine Cottage. The other was that someone was crying.

"Hallo," he said, unslouching.

To Anathema, sitting in a deck chair and halfway through a packet of Kleenex, it looked like the rise of a small, dishevelled sun.

Adam doubted that she was a witch. Adam had a very clear mental picture of a witch. The Youngs restricted themselves to the only possible choice amongst the better class of Sunday newspaper, and so a hundred years of enlightened occultism had passed Adam by. She didn't have a hooked nose or warts, and she was young… well, quite young. That was good enough for him.

She blew her nose and stared at him.

What was looking over the hedge should be described at this point. What Anathema saw was, she said later, something like a prepubescent Greek god. Or maybe a Biblical illustration, one which showed muscular angels doing some righteous smiting. It was a face that didn't belong in the twentieth century. It was thatched with golden curls which glowed. Michelangelo should have sculpted it.

He probably would not have included the battered sneakers, frayed jeans, or grubby T-shirt, though.

"I'm well known around here," said Adam.

"Mrs. Henderson said I was to be sure to keep an eye out for you," she went on.

Adam grinned. Notoriety wasn't as good as fame, but was heaps better than obscurity.

"I'm Adam Young," said Adam. "I live just down the lane."

"What've you been cryin' for?" said Adam bluntly.

"I'll help you look for it, if you like," said Adam gallantly. "I know quite a lot about books, actually. I wrote a book once. It was a triffic book. It was nearly eight pages long. It was about this pirate who was a famous detective. And I drew the pictures." And then, in a flash of largess, he added, "If you like I'll let you read it. I bet it was a lot more excitin' than any book you've lost. 'Specially the bit in the spaceship where the dinosaur comes out and fights with the cowboys. I bet it'd cheer you up, my book. It cheered up Brian no end. He said he'd never been so cheered up."

"She said you were the worst of the lot of Them," said Anathema, looking a little more cheerful. Adam nodded.

"She said you were born to hang," said Anathema.

"She said, 'You watch out for Them, Miss, they're nothing but a pack of ringleaders. That young Adam's full of the Old Adam,'" she said.

"Oh. Yes. I've heard of you," said Anathema, dabbing at her eyes. Adam preened.

"Oh? Oh, I've just lost something," said Anathema. "A book."

"Who're you?" she said.

"For miles an' miles," said Adam.

"Thank you, I'm sure your book is a very good book," she said, endearing herself to Adam forever. "But I don't need you to help look for my book -- I think it's too late now."

"You haven't seen two men in a big black car?" said Anathema.

She looked thoughtfully at Adam. "I expect you know this area very well?" she said.

"Did they steal it?" said Adam, suddenly full of interest. Foiling a gang of international book thieves would make a rewarding end to the day.

"Not really. Sort of. I mean, they didn't mean to. They were looking for the Manor, but I went up there today and no one knows anything about them. There was some sort of accident or something, I believe."

She stared at Adam. There was something odd about him, but she couldn't put her finger on it. She just had an urgent feeling that he was important and shouldn't be allowed to drift away. Something about him…

"What's the book called?" said Adam.

"The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch," said Anathema.

"I saw that," said Adam. "It was really interesting, the way them kings carried on. Gosh. What's nice about 'em?"

"Nice used to mean, well, precise. Or exact." Definitely something strange. A sort of laid-back intensity. You started to feel that if he was around, then everyone else, even the landscape, was just background.

"Which what?"

She'd been here a month. Except for Mrs. Henderson, who in theory looked after the cottage and probably went through her things given half a chance, she hadn't exchanged more than a dozen real words with anyone. She let them think she was an artist. This was the kind of countryside that artists liked.

"No. Witch. Like in Macbeth," said Anathema.

And that was depressing, because this was where it was going to happen. According to Agnes, anyway. In a book which she, Anathema, had allowed to be lost. She had the file cards, of course, but they just weren't the same.

Actually, it was bloody beautiful. Just around this village it was superb. If Turner and Landseer had met Samuel Palmer in a pub and worked it all out, and then got Stubbs to do the horses, it couldn't have been better.

"No," said Anathema.

"Doesn't sound very nice to me, then," said Adam. "Don't see what the future's got in it if there's no robots and spaceships."

Anathema narrowed her eyes. So much for Mrs. Henderson poking around.

"Would you like a lemonade?" she said.

"Sorry."

"Any spaceships in it?"

"Look, 'scuse me for askin', if it's not a personal question, but are you a witch?" he said.

"Not many," said Anathema.

"Wicked!" said Adam, who had been turning over in his mind the implications of a book of nice and accurate prophecies. "It tells you who's going to win the Grand National, does it?"

"Robots?" said Adam hopefully.

About three days, thought Anathema glumly. That's what it's got in it.

Adam hesitated. Then he decided to take the bull by the horns.

If Anathema had been in full control of her own mind at that moment -- and no one around Adam was ever in full control of his or her own mind -- she'd have noticed that whenever she tried to think about him beyond a superficial level her thoughts slipped away like a duck off water.

Dog whined and gave him a pleading look. His stubby tail thumped on the floor once or twice.

"You can leave him in the garden," said Anathema.

She looked him up and down.

"You know what an occultist is, do you?" she said.

"No," said Adam. "He's got to do what he's tole. I read it in a book. Trainin' is very important. Any dog can be trained, it said. My father said I can only keep him if he's prop'ly trained. Now, Dog. Go inside."

"Who, me?" said Adam guiltily.

"Oh, yes," said Adam confidently.

"Oh. Well. That's all right, then," said Adam, cheering up.

"Come on, you silly dog," said Adam. "It's only old Jasmine Cottage." He gave Anathema an embarrassed look. "Normally he does everything I say, right off."

"You were thinking 'Nothin' wrong with my eyes, they don't need examining,' weren't you?"

"Well, so long as you're happier now," said Anathema. "Come on in. I could do with a drink myself. And… Adam Young?"

"Yes?"

Dog was the problem. He wouldn't go in the cottage. He crouched on the doorstep, growling.

"Some people might say so," she said. "Actually, I'm an occultist."

Occasionally he would very nearly swear.

Anathema hadn't really made herself at home in the cottage. Most of her implements were piled up on the table. It looked interesting. It looked, in fact, as though a voodoo priest had just had the run of a scientific equipment store.

With extreme reluctance, as if making progress in the teeth of a gale, he slunk over the doorstep.

Every now and again there was a rattling at the door when prospective customers of Intimate Books next door mistook the entrance. He ignored it.

The only sound in the room was the occasional turning of a page.

And a little bit more of Hell burned away…

"There," said Adam proudly. "Good boy."

It was corroded and half covered with the paint of centuries. So neither Adam nor Anathema gave it a thought, or noticed how it was now cooling from a white heat.

Anathema shut the door.

Aziraphale's cocoa was stone cold.

There had always been a horseshoe over the door of Jasmine Cottage, ever since its first tenant centuries before; the Black Death was all the rage at the time and he'd considered that he could use all the protection he could get.

His Master's voice.

"Brilliant!" said Adam, prodding at it. "What's the thing with the three legs?"

"It's a theodolite," said Anathema from the kitchen. "It's for tracking ley-lines."

"All over the place?"

"What are they, then?" said Adam.

She told him.

Adam didn't often listen, but he spent the most enthralling twenty minutes of his life, or at least of his life that day. No one in the Young household so much as touched wood or threw salt over their shoulder. The only nod in the direction of the supernatural was a half-hearted pretense, when Adam had been younger, that Father Christmas came down the chimney. [If Adam had been in full possession of his powers in those days, the Youngs' Christmas would have been spoiled by the discovery of a dead fat man upside down in their central heating duct.]

"Yes."

"I've never seen 'em. Amazin', there bein' all these invisible lines of force around and me not seeing 'em."

"Yes."

"Cor," he said. "Are they?"

He'd been starved of anything more occult than a Harvest Festival. Her words poured into his mind like water into a quire of blotting paper.

Anathema didn't only believe in ley-lines, but in seals, whales, bicycles, rain forests, whole grain in loaves, recycled paper, white South Africans out of South Africa, and Americans out of practically everywhere down to and including Long Island. She didn't compartmentalize her beliefs. They were welded into one enormous, seamless belief, compared with which that held by Joan of Arc seemed a mere idle notion. On any scale of mountain moving it shifted at least point five of an alp. [It may be worth noting here that most human beings can rarely raise more than.3 of an alp (30 centi-alps). Adam believed things on a scale ranging from 2 through to 15,640 Everests.]

Dog lay under the table and growled. He was beginning to have serious doubts about himself.

The only time he interrupted her was to agree with her views on nuclear power: "I've been to a nucular power station. It was boring. There was no green smoke and bubbling stuff in tubes. Shouldn't be allowed, not having proper bubbling stuff when people have come all the way to see it, and having just a lot of men standin' around not even wearin' space suits."

No one had even used the word "environment" in Adam's hearing before. The South American rain forests were a closed book to Adam, and it wasn't even made of recycled paper.

"Huh," said Adam.

"They should be done away with this minute."

"They do all the bubbling after visitors have gone home," said Anathema grimly.

"Serve them right for not bubblin'," said Adam.

He had no aura.

Anathema nodded. She was still trying to put her finger on what was so odd about Adam, and then she realized what it was.

She was quite an expert on auras. She could see them, if she stared hard enough. They were a little glow of light around people's heads, and according to a book she'd read the color told you things about their health and general well-being. Everyone had one. In mean-minded, closed-in people they were a faint, trembling outline, whereas expansive and creative people might have one extending several inches from the body.

Maybe I'm just tired, she thought.

Anyway, she was pleased and gratified to find such a rewarding student, and even loaned him some copies of New Aquarian Digest, a small magazine edited by a friend of hers.

She'd never heard of anyone without one, but she couldn't see one around Adam at all. Yet he seemed cheerful, enthusiastic, and as wellbalanced as a gyroscope.

This wasn't Wensleydale's aunt and a wineglass. This sort of occulting was a lot more interesting.

When the batteries ran out he emerged into the darkened room and lay back with his head pillowed in his hands, apparently watching the squadron of X-wing® fighters that hung from the ceiling. They moved gently in the night breeze.

It changed his life. At least, it changed his life for that day.

Besides, he liked Anathema. Of course, she was very old, but when Adam liked someone he wanted to make them happy.

To his parents' astonishment he went to bed early, and then lay under the blankets until after midnight with a torch, the magazines, and a bag of lemon drops. The occasional "Brilliant!" emerged from his ferocious-chewing mouth.

But Adam wasn't really watching them. He was staring instead into the brightly lit panorama of his own imagination, which was whirling like a fairground.

It used to be thought that the events that changed the world were things like big bombs, maniac politicians, huge earthquakes, or vast population movements, but it has now been realized that this is a very oldfashioned view held by people totally out of touch with modern thought. The things that really change the world, according to Chaos theory, are the tiny things. A butterfly flaps its wings in the Amazonian jungle, and subsequently a storm ravages half of Europe.

He wondered how he could make Anathema happy.

It was for the same reason that people in Trafalgar Square can't see England.

It might, or might not, have helped Anathema get a clear view of things if she'd been allowed to spot the very obvious reason why she couldn't see Adam's aura.

Somewhere in Adam's sleeping head, a butterfly had emerged.

Alarms went off.

Of course, there's nothing special about alarms going off in the control room of a nuclear power station. They do it all the time. It's because there are many dials and meters and things that something important might not get noticed if it doesn't at least beep.

And the job of Shift Charge Engineer calls for a solid, capable, unflappable kind of man, the kind you can depend upon not to make a beeline for the car-park in an emergency. The kind of man, in fact, who gives the impression of smoking a pipe even when he's not.

It was 3:00 A. M. in the control room of Turning Point power station, normally a nice quiet time when there is nothing much to do but fill in the log and listen to the distant roar of the turbines.

Horace Gander looked at the flashing red lights. Then he looked at some dials. Then he looked at the faces of his fellow workers. Then he raised his eyes to the big dial at the far end of the room. Four hundred and twenty practically dependable and very nearly cheap megawatts were leaving the station. According to the other dials, nothing was producing them.

Until now.

He didn't say "That's weird." He wouldn't have said "That's weird" if a flock of sheep had cycled past playing violins. It wasn't the sort of thing a responsible engineer said.

What he did say was: "Alf, you'd better ring the station manager."

Three very crowded hours went past. They involved quite a lot of phone calls, telexes, and faxes. Twenty-seven people were got out of bed in quick succession and they got another fifty-three out of bed, because if there is one thing a man wants to know when he's woken up in a panic at 4:00 A. M., it's that he's not alone.

Anyway, you need all sorts of permissions before they let you unscrew the lid of a nuclear reactor and look inside.

A meter in his hand should have been screaming. Instead, it let out the occasional halfhearted tick.

Horace Gander said, "There's got to be a sensible reason for this. Five hundred tons of uranium don't just get up and walk away."

Right at the bottom, all alone in the center of the bright cold floor, was a lemon drop.

Where the reactor should have been was an empty space. You could have had quite a nice game of squash in it.

They got them. They unscrewed it. They had a look inside.

Outside in the cavernous turbine hall the machines roared on.

And, a hundred miles away, Adam Young turned over in his sleep.