Good Omens

“It’s not that I disagree with you,” said the angel, as they plodded across the grass. “It’s just that I’m not allowed to disobey. You know that.”

“Me too,” said Crowley.

Aziraphale gave him a sidelong glance. “Oh, come now,” he said, “you’re a demon, after all.”

“Yeah. But my people are only in favor of disobedience in general terms. It’s specific disobedience they come down on heavily.”

“Such as disobedience to themselves?”

“You’ve got it. You’d be amazed. Or perhaps you wouldn’t be. How long do you think we’ve got?” Crowley waved a hand at the Bentley, which unlocked its doors.

“The prophecies differ,” said Aziraphale, sliding into the passenger seat. “Certainly until the end of the century, although we may expect certain phenomena before then. Most of the prophets of the past millennium were more concerned with scansion than accuracy.”

Crowley pointed to the ignition key. It turned.

“What?” he said.

“You know,” said the angel helpfully, “‘And thee Worlde Unto An Ende Shall Come, in tumpty-tumpty-tumpty One.’ Or Two, or Three, or whatever. There aren’t many good rhymes for Six, so it’s probably a good year to be in.”

“And what sort of phenomena?”

“Two-headed calves, signs in the sky, geese flying backwards, showers of fish. That sort of thing. The presence of the Antichrist affects the natural operation of causality.”

“Hmm.”

Crowley put the Bentley in gear. Then he remembered something. He snapped his fingers.

The wheel clamps disappeared.

“Let’s have lunch,” he said. “I owe you one from, when was it … ”

“Paris, 1793,” said Aziraphale.

“Oh, yes. The Reign of Terror. Was that one of yours, or one of ours?”

“Wasn’t it yours?”

“Can’t recall. It was quite a good restaurant, though.”

As they drove past an astonished traffic warden his notebook spontaneously combusted, to Crowley’s amazement.

“I’m pretty certain I didn’t mean to do that,” he said.

Aziraphale blushed.

“That was me,” he said. “I had always thought that your people invented them.”

“Did you? We thought they were yours.”

Crowley stared at the smoke in the rearview mirror.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s do the Ritz.”

Crowley had not bothered to book. In his world, table reservations were things that happened to other people.

AZIRAPHALE COLLECTED BOOKS. If he were totally honest with himself he would have to have admitted that his bookshop was simply somewhere to store them. He was not unusual in this. In order to maintain his cover as a typical second-hand bookseller, he used every means short of actual physical violence to prevent customers from making a purchase. Unpleasant damp smells, glowering looks, erratic opening hours—he was incredibly good at it.

He had been collecting for a long time, and, like all collectors, he specialized.