Good Omens

by Terry David John Pratchett

  He was aware that Aziraphale had stood up.

  "Excuse me," said the angel.

  The trio looked at him.

  "This Great Plan," he said, "this would be the ineffable Plan, would it?"

  There was a moment's silence.

  "It's the Great Plan," said the Metatron flatly. "You are well aware. There shall be a world lasting six thousand years and it will con­clude with‑"

  "Yes, yes, that's the Great Plan all right," said Aziraphale. He spoke politely and respectfully, but with the air of one who has just asked an unwelcome question at a political meeting and won't go away until he gets an answer. "I was just asking if it's ineffable as well. I just want to be clear on this point."

  "It doesn't matter!" snapped the Metatron. "It's the same thing, surely!"

  Surely? thought Crowley. They don't actually know. He started to grin like an idiot.

  "So you're not one hundred percent clear on this?" said Aziraphale.

  "It's not given to us to understand the ineffable Plan," said the Metatron, "but of course the Great Plan‑"

  "But the Great Plan can only be a tiny part of the overall ineffabil­ity," said Crowley. "You can't be certain that what's happening right now isn't exactly right, from an ineffable point of view."

  "It izz written!" bellowed Beelzebub.

  "But it might be written differently somewhere else," said Crowley.

  "Where you can't read it."

  "In bigger letters," said Aziraphale.

  "Underlined," Crowley added.

  "Twice," suggested Aziraphale.

  "Perhaps this isn't just a test of the world," said Crowley. "It might be a test of you people, too. Hmm?"

  "God does not play games with His loyal servants," said the Meta­tron, but in a worried tone of voice.

  "Whoop‑eee," said Crowley. "Where have you been?"

  Everyone found their eyes turning toward Adam. He seemed to be thinking very carefully.

  Then he said: "I don't see why it matters what is written. Not when it's about people. It can always be crossed out."

  A breeze swept across the airfield. Overhead, the assembled hosts rippled, like a mirage.

  There was the kind of silence there might have been on the day before Creation.

  Adam stood smiling at the two of them, a small figure perfectly poised exactly between Heaven and Hell.

  Crowley grabbed Aziraphale's arm. "You know what happened?" he hissed excitedly. "He was left alone! He grew up human! He's not Evil Incarnate or Good Incarnate, he's just . . . a human incarnate‑"

  Then:

  "I think," said the Metatron, "that I shall need to seek further instructions."

  "I alzzo," said Beelzebub. His raging face turned to Crowley. "And I shall report of your part in thizz, thou hast better believe it." He glared at Adam. "And I do not know what thy Father will say . . ."

  There was a thundering explosion. Shadwell, who had been fidget­ing with horrified excitement for some minutes, had finally got enough control of his trembling fingers to pull the trigger.

  The pellets passed through the space where Beelzebub had been. Shadwell never knew how lucky he had been that he'd missed.

  The sky wavered, and then became just sky. Around the horizon, the clouds began to unravel.

  – – -

  Madame Tracy broke the silence.

  "Weren't they odd," she said.

  She didn't mean "weren't they odd"; what she did mean she proba­bly could never hope to express, except by screaming, but the human brain has amazing recuperative powers and saying "weren't they odd" was part of the rapid healing process. Within half an hour, she'd be thinking she'd just had too much to drink.

  "Is it over, do you think?" said Aziraphale.

  Crowley shrugged. "Not for us, I'm afraid."

  "I don't think you need to go worryin'," said Adam gnomically. "I know all about you two. Don't you worry."

  He looked at the rest of the Them, who tried not to back away. He seemed to think for a while, and then he said, "There's been too much messin' around anyway. But it seems to me everyone's goin' to be a lot happier if they forget about this. Not actually forget, just not remember exactly. An' then we can go home."

  "But you can't just leave it at that!" said Anathema, pushing for­ward. "Think of all things you could do! Good things."

  "Like what?" said Adam suspiciously.

  "Well . . . you could bring all the whales back, to start with."

  He put his head on one side. "An' that'd stop people killing them?"

  She hesitated. It would have been nice to say yes.

  "An' if people do start killing 'em, what would you ask me to do about 'em?" said Adam. "No. I reckon I'm getting the hang of this now. Once I start messing around like that, there'd be no stoppin' it. Seems to me, the only sensible thing is for people to know if they kill a whale, they've got a dead whale."

  "That shows a very responsible attitude," said Newt.

  Adam raised an eyebrow.

  "It's just sense," he said.

  Aziraphale patted Crowley on the back. "We seem to have sur­vived," he said. "Just imagine how terrible it might have been if we'd been at all competent."

  "Um," said Crowley.

  "Is your car operational?"

  "I think it might need a bit of work," Crowley admitted.

  "I was thinking that we might take these good people into town," said Aziraphale. "I owe Madame Tracy a meal, I'm sure. And her young man, of course."

  Shadwell looked over his shoulder, and then up at Madame Tracy.

  "Who's he talking about?" he asked her triumphant expression.

  Adam rejoined the Them.

  "I reckon we'll just be gettin' home," he said.

  "But what actually happened?" said Pepper. "I mean, there was all this‑"

  "It doesn't matter any more," said Adam.

  "But you could help so much‑" Anathema began, as they wan­dered back to their bikes. Newt took her gently by the arm.

  "That's not a good idea," he said. "Tomorrow is the first day of the rest of our lives."

  "Do you know," she said, "of all the trite sayings I've ever really hated, that comes top?"

  "Amazing, isn't it," said Newt happily.

  "Why've you got 'Dick Turpin' painted on the door of your car?"

  "It's a joke, really," said Newt.

  "Hmm?"

  "Because everywhere I go, I hold up traffic," he mumbled wretchedly.

  Crowley looked glumly at the controls of the jeep.

  "I'm sorry about the car," Aziraphale was saying. "I know how much you liked it. Perhaps if you concentrated really hard‑"

  "It wouldn't be the same," said Crowley.

  "I suppose not."

  "I had it from new, you know. It wasn't a car, it was more a sort of whole body glove."

  He sniffed.

  "What's burning?" he said.

  A breeze swept up the dust and dropped it again. The air became hot and heavy, imprisoning those within it like flies in syrup.

  He turned his head, and looked into Aziraphale's horrified expression.

  "But it's over, " he said. "It can't happen now! The‑the thing, the correct moment or whatever‑it's gone past! It's over!"

  The ground began to shake. The noise was like a subway train, but not one passing under. It was more like the sound of one coming up.

  Crowley fumbled madly with the gear shift.

  "That's not Beelzebub!" he shouted, above the noise of the wind. "That's Him. His Father! This isn't Armageddon, this is personal. Start, you bloody thing!"

  The ground moved under Anathema and Newt, flinging them onto the dancing concrete. Yellow smoke gushed from between the cracks.

  "It feels like a volcano!" shouted Newt. "What is it?"

  "Whatever it is, it's pretty angry," said Anathema.

  In the jeep, Crowley was cursing. Aziraphale laid a hand on his shoulder.

  "There are humans here," he said.


  "Yes," said Crowley. "And me."

  "I mean we shouldn't let this happen to them."

  "Well, what‑" Crowley began, and stopped.

  "I mean, when you think about it, we've got them into enough trouble as it is. You and me. Over the years. What with one thing and another."

  "We were only doing our jobs," muttered Crowley.

  "Yes. So what? Lots of people in history have only done their jobs and look at the trouble they caused."

  "You don't mean we should actually try to stop Him?"

  "What have you got to lose?"

  Crowley started to argue, and realized that he hadn't anything. There was nothing he could lose that he hadn't lost already. They couldn't do anything worse to him than he had coming to him already. He felt free at last.

  He also felt under the seat and found a tire iron. It wouldn't be any good, but then, nothing would. In fact it'd be much more terrible facing the Adversary with anything like a decent weapon. That way you might have a bit of hope, which would make it worse.

  Aziraphale picked up the sword lately dropped by War, and hefted its weight thoughtfully.

  "Gosh, it's been years since I used this," he murmured.

  "About six thousand," said Crowley.

  "My word, yes," said the angel. "What a day that was, and no mistake. Good old days."

  "Not really," said Crowley. The noise was growing.

  "People knew the difference between right and wrong in those days," said Aziraphale dreamily.

  "Well, yes. Think about it."

  "Ah. Yes. Too much messin' about?" "yes. "

  Aziraphale held up the sword. There was a whoomph as it suddenly flamed like a bar of magnesium.

  "Once you've learned how to do it, you never forget," he said.

  He smiled at Crowley.

  "I'd just like to say," he said, "if we don't get out of this, that . . . I'll have known, deep down inside, that there was a spark of goodness in you."

  "That's right," said Crowley bitterly. "Make my day."

  Aziraphale held out his hand.

  "Nice knowing you," he said.

  Crowley took it.

  "Here's to the next time," he said. "And . . . Aziraphale?"

  "Yes."

  "Just remember I'll have known that, deep down inside, you were just enough of a bastard to be worth liking."

  There was a scuffing noise, and they were pushed aside by the small but dynamic shape of Shadwell, waving the Thundergun purpose­fully.

  "I wouldna' trust you two Southern nancy boys to kill a lame rat in a barrel," he said. "Who're we fightin' noo?"

  "The Devil," said Aziraphale, simply.

  Shadwell nodded, as if this hadn't come as a surprise, threw the gun down, and took off his hat to expose a forehead known and feared wher­ever street‑fighting men were gathered together.

  "Ah reckoned so," he said. "In that case, I'm gonna use mah haid."

  Newt and Anathema watched the three of them walk unsteadily away from the jeep. With Shadwell in the middle, they looked like a styl­ized W.

  "What on earth are they going to do?" said Newt. "And what's happening‑what's happening to them?"

  The coats of Aziraphale and Crowley split along the seams. If you were going to go, you might as well go in your own true shape. Feathers unfolded towards the sky.

  Contrary to popular belief, the wings of demons are the same as the wings of angels, although they're often better groomed.

  "Shadwell shouldn't be going with them!" said Newt, staggering to his feet.

  "What's a Shadwell?"

  "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 streaking 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!"

  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-"

  "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.