Good Omens
Adam seldom did what his father wanted.
SGT. THOMAS A. DEISENBURGER opened his eyes. The only thing strange about his surroundings was how familiar they were. There was his high school photograph on the wall, and his little Stars and Stripes flag in the toothmug, next to his toothbrush, and even his little teddy bear, still in its little uniform. The early afternoon sun flooded through his bedroom window.
He could smell apple pie. That was one of the things he’d missed most about spending his Saturday nights a long way from home.
He walked downstairs.
His mother was at the stove, taking a huge apple pie out of the oven to cool.
“Hi, Tommy,” she said. “I thought you was in England.”
“Yes, Mom, I am normatively in England, Mom, protecting democratism, Mom, sir,” said Sgt. Thomas A. Deisenburger.
“That’s nice, hon,” said his mother. “Your Poppa’s down in the Big Field, with Chester and Ted. They’ll be pleased to see you.”
Sgt. Thomas A. Deisenburger nodded.
He took off his military-issue helmet and his military-issue jacket, and he rolled up his military-issue shirtsleeves. For a moment he looked more thoughtful than he had ever done in his life. Part of his thoughts were occupied with apple pie.
“Mom, if any throughput eventuates premising to interface with Sgt. Thomas A. Deisenburger telephonically, Mom, sir, this individual will be—”
“Sorry, Tommy?”
Tom Deisenburger hung his gun on the wall, above his father’s battered old rifle.
“I said, if anyone calls, Mom, I’ll be down in the Big Field, with Pop and Chester and Ted.”
THE VAN DROVE SLOWLY up to the gates of the air base. It pulled over. The guard on the midnight shift looked in the window, checked the credentials of the driver, and waved him in.
The van meandered across the concrete.
It parked on the tarmac of the empty airstrip, near where two men sat, sharing a bottle of wine. One of the men wore dark glasses. Surprisingly, no one else seemed to be paying them the slightest attention.
“Are you saying,” said Crowley, “that He planned it this way all along? From the very beginning?”
Aziraphale conscientiously wiped the top of the bottle and passed it back.
“Could have,” he said. “Could have. One could always ask Him, I suppose.”
“From what I remember,” replied Crowley, thoughtfully, “—and we were never actually on what you might call speaking terms—He wasn’t exactly one for a straight answer. In fact, in fact, He’d never answer at all. He’d just smile, as if He knew something that you didn’t.”
“And of course that’s true,” said the angel. “Otherwise, what’d be the point?”
There was a pause, and both beings stared reflectively off into the distance, as if they were remembering things that neither of them had thought of for a long time.
The van driver got out of the van, carrying a cardboard box and a pair of tongs.
Lying on the tarmac were a tarnished metal crown and a pair of scales. The man picked them up with the tongs and placed them in the box.
Then he approached the couple with the bottle.
“Excuse me, gents,” he said, “but there’s meant to be a sword around here somewhere as well, at least, that’s what it says here at any rate, and I was wondering … ”
Aziraphale seemed embarrassed. He looked around himself, vaguely puzzled, then stood up, to discover that he had been sitting on the sword for the last hour or so. He reached down and picked it up. “Sorry,” he said, and put the sword into the box.
The van driver, who wore an International Express cap, said not to mention it, and really it was a godsend them both being there like this, since someone was going to have to sign to say that he’d duly collected what he’d been sent for, and this had certainly been a day to remember, eh?
Aziraphale and Crowley both agreed with him that it had, and Aziraphale signed the clipboard that the van driver gave him, witnessing that a crown, a pair of balances, and a sword had been received in good order and were to be delivered to a smudged address and charged to a blurred account number.