when he sees one.)
Now, if you
are
going to fall off the side of a mountain and into someone’s cat dish, the one thing that might save you from serious harm is a layer of nice fresh jelly. So it was lucky for Muddlespot that he had made his landing in the crucial few seconds between Sally opening the new tin and Shades’s swift arrival for Third Supper.
Another of Shades’s rules – and this too worked in Muddlespot’s favour – was ‘Never Eat Anything You Think Might Have Something In It’. It was shocking, what the family tried to hide in his food sometimes: namely vitamins, more vitamins and worming tablets. Shades strongly disliked worming tablets. It was not just that they tasted foul. He thought they made life too easy for his humans.
And this time there
was
something in his bowl. It did not look like a worming tablet, ground up into powder. It did not smell like a worming tablet either. It smelled very largely of cat food, but with lingering traces of other things. Not bad as such (after that near miss with the incense bomb, Muddlespot probably smelled better than he ever had in his life). But Shades had not got where he was by being broad-minded. If it was In His Food, then he was Not Having It. He turned away from the cat dish and stalked off in disgust, leaving a perfectly good third supper untouched as a mark of his affront.
‘Muddlespot!’ came Corozin’s voice again. ‘Why don’t you answer?’
It was coming from inside his sack.
Still groaning, Muddlespot dragged himself and the remnants of his equipment to firmer ground. There he tipped out the contents of the sack and found the communications dish. It had somehow already filled itself with powder, and the powder was glowing a lively yellow-green. Within the glow was a pair of eyes that Muddlespot knew well.
‘Muddlespot?’ said Corozin. ‘Why have you not reported success?’
‘Er . . .’ said Muddlespot. He wondered if there was any good way of saying what he had to say.
There wasn’t.
Heaven and Hell are opposites. There is no meeting place, no middle ground, no possible compromise between them. There is no way that they can be likened to one another, brought together, put in the same box or even encompassed in the same thought. They are black and white, night and day, matter and antimatter or whatever the other stuff is. In the Long War, there is no peace. There simply cannot be.
And yet, both are organizations. Both have people who are bossed and people who do the bossing. And bosses everywhere are a bit the same.
Especially
when they somehow weren’t around when whatever it was that happened happened. And they get to tell you what
would
have happened if only they’d been there to do it themselves . . .
The agents of Pandemonium, however, do have one advantage. They may let Truth take second place to Self-Preservation. Across the cat dish floated the words, ‘But she
liked
me, Your Serenity.’
Muddlespot heard them but only with difficulty, because his ears were being scorched and blasted by the displeasure of Corozin, and because a long demonic arm (with
perfectly
beautiful fingernails) had magically reached out of the pile of glowing powder, caught him by the neck and was shaking him up and down until his sight darkened and his mind was swimming in the final cloud.
But hear them he did. And gasping, he managed to repeat them. ‘Buff – ee – ike – me – Ur – Fferen-enenenefy!’
The shaking stopped. Muddlespot dangled in the air. The beautifully manicured nails dug deep into his neck.
‘What did you say?’
‘She asked me to call again,’ said the voice softly.
‘Fee afk ee mo ’all a’ain,’ said Muddlespot, whose ability to speak was still compromised by the pressure of a giant (but very beautiful) thumb across most of his face.
‘That’s
better
! Why didn’t you say so?’ The demonic arm lowered him gently and set him on his feet.
‘I got a date and a number, boss,’ said the
Now, if you
are
going to fall off the side of a mountain and into someone’s cat dish, the one thing that might save you from serious harm is a layer of nice fresh jelly. So it was lucky for Muddlespot that he had made his landing in the crucial few seconds between Sally opening the new tin and Shades’s swift arrival for Third Supper.
Another of Shades’s rules – and this too worked in Muddlespot’s favour – was ‘Never Eat Anything You Think Might Have Something In It’. It was shocking, what the family tried to hide in his food sometimes: namely vitamins, more vitamins and worming tablets. Shades strongly disliked worming tablets. It was not just that they tasted foul. He thought they made life too easy for his humans.
And this time there
was
something in his bowl. It did not look like a worming tablet, ground up into powder. It did not smell like a worming tablet either. It smelled very largely of cat food, but with lingering traces of other things. Not bad as such (after that near miss with the incense bomb, Muddlespot probably smelled better than he ever had in his life). But Shades had not got where he was by being broad-minded. If it was In His Food, then he was Not Having It. He turned away from the cat dish and stalked off in disgust, leaving a perfectly good third supper untouched as a mark of his affront.
‘Muddlespot!’ came Corozin’s voice again. ‘Why don’t you answer?’
It was coming from inside his sack.
Still groaning, Muddlespot dragged himself and the remnants of his equipment to firmer ground. There he tipped out the contents of the sack and found the communications dish. It had somehow already filled itself with powder, and the powder was glowing a lively yellow-green. Within the glow was a pair of eyes that Muddlespot knew well.
‘Muddlespot?’ said Corozin. ‘Why have you not reported success?’
‘Er . . .’ said Muddlespot. He wondered if there was any good way of saying what he had to say.
There wasn’t.
Heaven and Hell are opposites. There is no meeting place, no middle ground, no possible compromise between them. There is no way that they can be likened to one another, brought together, put in the same box or even encompassed in the same thought. They are black and white, night and day, matter and antimatter or whatever the other stuff is. In the Long War, there is no peace. There simply cannot be.
And yet, both are organizations. Both have people who are bossed and people who do the bossing. And bosses everywhere are a bit the same.
Especially
when they somehow weren’t around when whatever it was that happened happened. And they get to tell you what
would
have happened if only they’d been there to do it themselves . . .
The agents of Pandemonium, however, do have one advantage. They may let Truth take second place to Self-Preservation. Across the cat dish floated the words, ‘But she
liked
me, Your Serenity.’
Muddlespot heard them but only with difficulty, because his ears were being scorched and blasted by the displeasure of Corozin, and because a long demonic arm (with
perfectly
beautiful fingernails) had magically reached out of the pile of glowing powder, caught him by the neck and was shaking him up and down until his sight darkened and his mind was swimming in the final cloud.
But hear them he did. And gasping, he managed to repeat them. ‘Buff – ee – ike – me – Ur – Fferen-enenenefy!’
The shaking stopped. Muddlespot dangled in the air. The beautifully manicured nails dug deep into his neck.
‘What did you say?’
‘She asked me to call again,’ said the voice softly.
‘Fee afk ee mo ’all a’ain,’ said Muddlespot, whose ability to speak was still compromised by the pressure of a giant (but very beautiful) thumb across most of his face.
‘That’s
better
! Why didn’t you say so?’ The demonic arm lowered him gently and set him on his feet.
‘I got a date and a number, boss,’ said the
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