Good Omens

“He’s my serg—he’s this amazing old man, you’d never believe it … I’ve got to help him!”

“Help him?” said Anathema.

“I took an oath and everything.” Newt hesitated. “Well, sort of an oath. And he gave me a month’s wages in advance!”

“Who’re those other two, then? Friends of yours—” Anathema began, and stopped. Aziraphale had half turned, and the profile had finally clicked into place.

“I know where I’ve seen him before!” she shouted, pulling herself upright against Newt as the ground bounced up and down. “Come on!”

“But something dreadful’s going to happen!”

“If he’s damaged the book, you’re bloody well right!”

Newt fumbled in his lapel and found his official pin. He didn’t know what they were going up against this time, but a pin was all he had.

They ran …

Adam looked around. He looked down.

His face took on an expression

of calculated innocence.

There was a moment of conflict.

But Adam was on his own ground.

Always, and ultimately, on his own ground.

He moved one hand around

in a blurred

half circle.

. . . Aziraphale and Crowley felt the world change.

There was no noise. There were no cracks. There was just that where there had been the beginnings of a volcano of Satanic power, there was just clearing smoke, and a car drawing slowly to a halt, its engine loud in the evening hush.

It was an elderly car, but well preserved. Not using Crowley’s method, though, where dents were simply wished away; this car looked like it did, you knew instinctively, because its owner had spent every weekend for two decades doing all the things the manual said should be done every weekend. Before every journey he walked around it and checked the lights and counted the wheels. Serious-minded men who smoked pipes and wore mustaches had written serious instructions saying that this should be done, and so he did it, because he was a serious-minded man who smoked a pipe and wore a mustache and did not take such injunctions lightly, because if you did, where would you be? He had exactly the right amount of insurance. He drove three miles below the speed limit, or forty miles per hour, whichever was the lower. He wore a tie, even on Saturdays.

Archimedes said that with a long enough lever and a solid enough place to stand, he could move the world.

He could have stood on Mr. Young.

The car door opened and Mr. Young emerged.

“What’s going on here?” he said. “Adam? Adam!”

But the Them were streakin

g towards the gate.

Mr. Young looked at the shocked assembly. At least Crowley and Aziraphale had had enough self-control left to winch in their wings.

“What’s he been getting up to now?” he sighed, not really expecting an answer.

“Where’s that boy got to? Adam! Come back here this instant!”