“No,” he said hoarsely. “No. Come back! I command you!”
They froze in mid-dash.
Adam stared.
“No, I dint mean it—” he began. “You’re my friends—”
His body jerked. His head was thrown back. He raised his arms and pounded the sky with his fists.
His face twisted. The chalk floor cracked under his sneakers.
Adam opened his mouth and screamed. It was a sound that a merely mortal throat should not have been able to utter; it wound out of the quarry, mingled with the storm, caused the clouds to curdle into new and unpleasant shapes.
It went on and on.
It resounded around the universe, which is a good deal smaller than physicists would believe. It rattled the celestial spheres.
It spoke of loss, and it did not stop for a very long time.
And then it did.
Something drained away.
Adam’s head tilted down again. His eyes opened.
Whatever had been standing in the old quarry before, Adam Young was standing there now. A more knowledgeable Adam Young, but Adam Young nevertheless. Possibly more of Adam Young than there had ever been before.
The ghastly silence in the quarry was replaced by a more familiar, comfortable silence, the mere and simple absence of noise.
The freed Them cowered against the chalk cliff, their eyes fixed on him.
“It’s all right,” said Adam quietly. “Pepper? Wensley? Brian? Come back here. It’s all right. It’s all right. I know everything now. And you’ve got to help me. Otherwise it’s all goin’ to happen. It’s really all goin’ to happen. It’s all goin’ to happen, if we don’t do somethin’.”
THE PLUMBING IN Jasmine Cottage heaved and rattled and showered Newt with water that was slightly khaki in color. But it was cold. It was probably the coldest cold shower Newt had ever had in his life.
It didn’t do any good.
“There’s a red sky,” he said, when he came back. He was feeling slightly manic. “At half past four in the afternoon. In August. What does that mean? In terms of delighted nautical operatives, would you say? I mean, if it takes a red sky at night to delight a sailor, what does it take to amuse the man who operates the computers on a supertanker? Or is it shepherds who are delighted at night? I can never remember.”
Anathema eyed the plaster in his hair. The shower hadn’t got rid of it; it had merely dampened it down and spread it out, so that Newt looked as though he was wearing a white hat with hair in it.
“You must have got quite a bump,” she said.
“No, that was when I hit my head on the wall. You know, when you—”
“Yes.” Anathema looked quizzically out of the broken window. “Would you say it’s blood-colored?” she said. “It’s very important.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” said Newt, his train of thought temporarily derailed. “Not actual blood. More pinkish. Probably the storm put a lot of dust in the air.”
Anathema was rummaging through The Nice and Accurate Prophecies.
“What are you doing?” he said.
“Trying to cross-reference. I still can’t be—”
“I don’t think you need to bother,” said
Newt. “I know what the rest of 3477 means. It came to me when I—”