If  he had a virtue, it was a tendency to pick his  time. Medium Dave's fingers tucked the tobacco into the paper and raised it to his lips.

     'No,' he said.

     Chickenwire tried to  defrost the conversation.  'He's not  what  you'd call  bright, but he's always useful. He can lift two men  in each  hand. By their necks.'

     'Yur,' said Banjo.

     'He looks like a volcano,' said Teatime.

     'Really?'  said Medium  Dave Lilywhite. Chickenwire reached out hastily and pushed him back down in his seat.

     Teatime turned and smiled at him.

     'I do so hope we're going to be friends, Mr Medium Dave,'  he said. 'It really hurts to think I might  not  be among  friends.' He  gave him another bright smile. Then he turned back to the rest of the table.

     'Are we resolved, gentlemen?'

     They nodded. There was  some reluctance, given the consensus  view that Teatime belonged in a room with soft walls, but ten thousand dollars was ten thousand dollars. possibly even more.

     'Good,' said Teatime.  He looked Banjo up and  down. 'Then I suppose we might as well make a start.'

     And he hit Banjo very hard in the mouth.

     Death  in person did not  turn up upon the cessation of  every life. It was not necessary. Governments govern, but prime ministers and presidents do not  personally turn  up in people's homes to  tell  them how  to run  their lives, because  of  the mortal  danger  this would  present. There are  laws instead.

     But  from time  to time  Death  checked  up  to  see that  things  were functioning properly or, to  put  it another and more accurate way, properly ceasing to function in the less significant areas of his jurisdiction.

     And now he walked through dark seas.

     Silt rose  in  clouds  around his  feet as  he  strode along the trench bottom. His robes floated out around him.

     There was silence,  pressure and  utter, utter darkness.  But there was life down  here, even this far below  the waves. There were giant squid, and lobsters  with  teeth on their eyelids. There were spidery things with their stomachs on their feet, and fish that made their own light.  It was a quiet, black nightmare world, but life lives everywhere  that life  can. Where life can't, this takes a little longer.

     Death's destination was a slight  rise in the trench floor. Already the water around him was getting  warmer and  more populated, by  creatures that looked as though  they had been  put together from the bits left  over  from everything else.

     Unseen but felt, a  vast column  of  scalding hot  water was welling up from  a fissure. Somewhere  below were rocks heated to near incandescence by the Disc's magical field.

     Spires of minerals had been deposited around this vent. And, in this tiny oasis, a type of life had grown up. It did not need air or light. It did not even need food  in the way that most other species would understand the term.

     It just grew at the edge of the streaming column of water, looking like a cross between a worm and a flower.

     Death kneeled down and peered at it, because it  was so small. But  for some reason,  in this world  without 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 jeweller's toolkit. 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 neighbour'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 ste pped 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?'

     'Here, 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  Tea time, slapping  him on the back. 'We're all friends here!'

     'What're we bringing the girl for?' said a voice behind them.

     ''s  not  right, hittin' girls,'  said a deep voice.  'Our mam  said no hittin' girls. Only bad boys do that, our mam said!'

     'You be quiet, Banjo.'

     'Our mam said...'

     'Shssh!  Emie  here doesn't  want  to listen  to  our  troubles,'  said Teatime, not taking his gaze off the driver.