Good Omens

IS THAT ALL YOU CAN SAY, CROWLEY? OUR TROOPS ARE ASSEMBLED, THE FOUR BEASTS HAVE BEGUN TO RIDE—BUT WHERE ARE THEY RIDING TO? SOMETHING HAS GONE WRONG, CROWLEY. AND IT IS YOUR RESPONSIBILITY. AND, IN ALL PROBABILITY, YOUR FAULT. WE TRUST YOU HAVE A PERFECTLY REASONABLE EXPLANATION FOR ALL THIS …

“Oh, yes,” agreed Crowley, readily. “Perfectly reasonable.”

. . . BECAUSE YOU ARE GOING TO HAVE YOUR CHANCE TO EXPLAIN IT ALL TO US. YOU ARE GOING TO HAVE ALL THE TIME THERE IS TO EXPLAIN. AND WE WILL LISTEN WITH GREAT INTEREST TO EVERYTHING YOU HAVE TO SAY. AND YOUR CONVERSATION, AND THE CIRCUMSTANCES THAT WILL ACCOMPANY IT, WILL PROVIDE A SOURCE OF ENTERTAINMENT AND PLEASURE FOR ALL THE DAMNED OF HELL, CROWLEY. BECAUSE NO MATTER HOW RACKED WITH TORMENT, NO MATTER WHAT AGONIES THE LOWEST OF THE DAMNED ARE SUFFERING, CROWLEY, YOU WILL HAVE IT WORSE—

With a gesture, Crowley turned the set off.

The dull gray-green screen continued enunciating; the silence formed itself into words.

DO NOT EVEN THINK ABOUT TRYING TO ESCAPE US, CROWLEY. THERE IS NO ESCAPE. STAY WHERE YOU ARE. YOU WILL BE … COLLECTED …

Crowley went to the window and looked out. Something black and car-shaped was moving slowly down the street toward him. It was car-shaped enough to fool the casual observer. Crowley, who was observing very carefully, noticed that not only were the wheels not going round, but they weren’t even attached to the car. It was slowing down as it passed each house; Crowley assumed that the car’s passengers (neither of them would be driving; neither of them knew how) were peering out at the house numbers.

He had a little time. Crowley went into the kitchen, and got a plastic bucket from under the sink. Then he went back into the lounge.

The Infernal Authorities had ceased communicating. Crowley turned the television to the wall, just in case.

He walked over to the Mona Lisa.

Crowley lifted the picture down from the wall, revealing a safe. It was not a wall safe; it had been bought from a company that specialized in servicing the nuclear industry.

He unlocked it, revealing an inner door with a dial tumble lock. He spun the dial (4-0-0-4 was the code, easy to remember, the year he had slithered onto this stupid, marvelous planet, back when it was gleaming and new).

Inside the safe were a thermos flask, two heavy PVC gloves, of the kind that covered one’s entire arms, and some tongs.

Crowley paused. He eyed the flask nervously.

(There was a crash from downstairs. That had been the front door … )

He pulled on the gloves and gingerly took the flask, and the tongs, and the bucket—and, as an afterthought, he grabbed the plant mister from beside a luxuriant rubber plant—and headed for his office, walking like a man carrying a thermos flask full of something that might cause, if he dropped it or even thought about dropping it, the sort of explosion that impels graybeards to make statements like “And where this crater is now, once stood the City of Wah-Shing-Ton,” in SF B-movies.

He reached his office, nudged open the door with his shoulder. Then he bent his legs, and slowly put things down on the floor. Bucket … tongs … plant mister … and finally, deliberately, the flask.

A bead of sweat began to form on Crowley’s forehead, and trickled down into one eye. He flicked it away.

Then, with care and deliberation, he used the tongs to unscrew the top of the flask … carefully … carefully … that was it …

(A pounding on the stairs below him, and a muffled scream. That would have been the little old lady on the floor below.)

He could not afford to rush.

He gripped the flask with the tongs, and taking care not to spill the tiniest drop, he poured the contents into the plastic bucket. One false move was all it would take.

There.

Then he opened the office door about six inches, and placed the bucket on top.

He used the tongs to replace the top of the flask, then (—a crash from his outer hallway—) pulled off the PVC gloves, picked up the plant mister, and settled himself behind his desk.

“Crawlee … ?” called a guttural voice. Hastur.

“He’s through there,” hissed another voice. “I can feel the slimy little creep.” Ligur.

Hastur and Ligur.

Now, as Crowley would be the first to protest, most demons weren’t deep down evil. In the great cosmic game they felt they occupied the same position as tax inspectors—doing an unpopular job, maybe, but essential to the overall operation of the whole thing. If it came to that, some angels weren’t paragons of virtue; Crowley had met one or two who, when it came to righteously smiting the ungodly, smote a good deal harder than was strictly necessary. On the whole, everyone had a job to do, and just did it.

And on the other hand, you got people like Ligur and Hastur, who took such a dark delight in unpleasantness you might even have mistaken them for human.