Free Johnny and the Bomb by Terry Pratchett Page B

street, and stood there chatting in the middle of the road, although occasionally one of them would turn to look at Bigmac.
    He folded his arms over HEAVY MENTAL .
    And then a car pulled up, right in front of him. The driver got out, glanced at Bigmac, and walked off down the street.
    Bigmac stared at the car. He’d seen ones like it on television, normally in those costume dramas where one car and two women with a selection of different hats keep going up and down the same street to try to fool people that this isn’t really the present day.
    The keys were still in the ignition.
    Bigmac wasn’t a criminal, he was just around when crimes happened. This was because of stupidity. That is, other people’s stupidity. Mainly other people’s stupidity in designing cars that could go from 0 to 120 mph in ten seconds and then selling them to even more stupid people who were only interested in dull things like fuel consumption and what color the seats were. What was the point in that? That wasn’t what a car was for.
    The keys were still in the ignition.
    As far as Bigmac was concerned, he was practically doing people a favor by really seeing what their cars could do, and no way was that stealing, because he always put the cars back if he could and they were often nearly the same shape. You’d think people’d be proud to know their car could do 130 mph along the Blackbury bypass instead of complaining all the time.
    The keys were still in the ignition. There were a million places in the world where the keys could have been, but in the ignition was where they were.
    Old cars like this probably couldn’t go at any speed at all.
    The keys were still in the ignition. Firmly, invitingly, in the ignition.
    Bigmac shifted uncomfortably.
    He was aware that there were people in the world who considered it wrong to take cars that didn’t belong to them, but however you looked at it…
    …the keys were still in the ignition.
     
     
     
    Johnny heard Kirsty’s indrawn breath. It sounded like Concorde taking off in reverse.
    He felt the room grow bigger, rushing away on every side, with Yo-less all by himself in the middle of it.
    Then Yo-less said, “Yes, indeed. I’m with them. Lawdy, lawdy.”
    The old lady looked surprised.
    “My word, you speak English very well,” she said.
    “I learned it from my grandfather,” said Yo-less, his voice as sharp as a knife. “He ate only very educated missionaries.”
    Sometimes Johnny’s mind worked fast. Normally it worked so slowly that it embarrassed him, but just occasionally it had a burst of speed.
    “He’s a prince,” he said.
    “Prince Sega,” said Yo-less.
    “All the way from Nintendo,” said Johnny.
    “He’s here to buy a newspaper,” said Kirsty, who in some ways did not have a lot of imagination.
    Johnny reached into his own pocket and then hesitated.
    “Only we haven’t got any money,” he said.
    “Yes we have, I’ve got at least two pou—” Kirsty began.
    “We haven’t got the right money,” said Johnny meaningfully. “It was pounds and shillings and pence in those days, not pounds and pee—”
    “Pee?” said the woman. She looked from one to the other like someone who hopes that it’ll all make sense if they pay enough attention.
    Johnny craned his head. There were a few newspapers still on the counter, even though it was the afternoon. One was The Times. He could just make out the date.
    May 21, 1941.
    “Oh, you have a paper, dear,” said the old woman, giving up. “I don’t suppose I shall sell any more today.”
    “Thank you very much,” said Johnny, grabbing a paper and hurrying the other two out of the shop.
    “Sambo,” said Yo-less, when they were outside.
    “What?” said Kirsty. “Oh, that. Never mind about that. Give me that newspaper.”
    “My granddad came here in 1952,” said Yo-less in the same plonking, hollow voice. “He said little kids thought his color’d come off if he washed.”
    “Yes, well, I can see you’re