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eyes or light, it was also a brilliant red. The profligacy of life in these matters never ceased to amaze him.
    He reached inside his robe and pulled out a small roll of black material, like a jeweler’s tool kit. With great care he took from one of its pouches a scythe about an inch long, and held it expectantly between thumb and forefinger.
    Somewhere overhead a shard of rock was dislodged by a stray current and tumbled down, raising little puffs of silt as it bounced off the tubes.
    It landed just beside the living flower and then rolled, wrenching it from the rock.
    Death flicked the tiny scythe just as the bloom faded…
    The omnipotent eyesight of various supernatural entities is often remarked upon. It is said they can see the fall of every sparrow.
    And this may be true. But there is only one who is always there when it hits the ground.
    The soul of the tube worm was very small and uncomplicated. It wasn’t bothered about sin. It had never coveted its neighbor’s polyps. It had never gambled or drunk strong liquor. It had never bothered itself with questions like “Why am I here?” because it had no concept at all of “here” or, for that matter, of “I.”
    Nevertheless, something was cut free under the surgical edge of the scythe and vanished in the roiling waters.
    Death carefully put the instrument away and stood up. All was well, things were functioning satisfactorily, and—
    —but they weren’t.
    In the same way that the best of engineers can hear the tiny change that signals a bearing going bad long before the finest of instruments would detect anything wrong, Death picked up a discord in the symphony of the world. It was one wrong note among billions but all the more noticeable for that, like a tiny pebble in a very large shoe.
    He waved a finger in the waters. For a moment a blue, door-shaped outline appeared. He stepped through it and was gone.
    The tube creatures didn’t notice him go. They hadn’t noticed him arrive. They never ever noticed anything. A cart trundled through the freezing foggy streets, the driver hunched in his seat. He seemed to be all big thick brown overcoat.
    A figure darted out of the swirls and was suddenly on the box next to him.
    “Hi!” it said. “My name’s Teatime. What’s yours?”
    “’ere, you get down, I ain’t allowed to give li—”
    The driver stopped. It was amazing how Teatime had been able to thrust a knife through four layers of thick clothing and stop it just at the point where it pricked the flesh.
    “Sorry?” said Teatime, smiling brightly.
    “Er—there ain’t nothing valuable, y’know, nothing valuable, only a few bags of—”
    “Oh dear,” said Teatime, his face a sudden acre of concern. “Well, we’ll just have to see, won’t we…What is your name, sir?”
    “Ernie. Er. Ernie,” said Ernie. “Yes. Ernie. Er…”
    Teatime turned his head slightly.
    “Come along, gentlemen. This is my friend Ernie. He’s going to be our driver for tonight.”
    Ernie saw half a dozen figures emerge from the fog and climb into the cart behind him. He didn’t turn to look at them. By the pricking of his kidneys he knew this would not be an exemplary career move. But it seemed that one of the figures, a huge shambling mound of a creature, was carrying a long bundle over its shoulder. The bundle moved and made muffled noises.
    “Do stop shaking, Ernie. We just need a lift,” said Teatime, as the cart rumbled over the cobbles.
    “Where to, mister?”
    “Oh, we don’t mind. But first, I’d like you to stop in Sator Square, near the second fountain.”
    The knife was withdrawn. Ernie stopped trying to breathe through his ears.
    “Er…”
    “What is it? You do seem tense, Ernie. I always find a neck massage helps.”
    “I ain’t rightly allowed to carry passengers, see. Charlie’ll give me a right telling-off…”
    “Oh, don’t you worry about that ,” said Teatime, slapping him on the back. “We’re all friends