Good Omens

Newt looked at the otherletters. The crackling paper of the one addressed to George Cranby said: "Remove thy thievinge Hande, Master Cranby. I minde well how yowe swindled the Widdowe Plashkin this Michelmas past, yowe ski

Newt wondered what a snatch‑pastry was. He would be prepared to bet that it didn't involve cookery.

The one that had awaited the inquisitive Mr. Bychance said: "Yowe left them, yowe cowarde. Returne this letter to the hocks, lest the Worlde knoe the true Events of June 7th, Nineteen Hundred and Sixteene."

Under the letters was a manuscript. Newt stared at it.

"What's that?" said Anathema.

He spun around. She was leaning against the doorframe, like an attractive yawn on legs.

Newt backed against the table. "Oh, nothing. Wrong address. Nothing. Just some old box. Junk mail. You know how‑"

"On a Sunday?" she said, pushing him aside.

He shrugged as she put her hands around the yellowed manuscript and lifted it out.

"Further Nife and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter," she read slowly, "Concerning the Worlde that Is To Com; Ye Saga Continuef l Oh, my . . ."

She laid it reverentially on the table and prepared to turn the first page.

Newt's hand landed gently on hers.

"Think of it like this," he said quietly. "Do you want to be a descendant for the rest of your life?"

She looked up. Their eyes met.

– – -

It was Sunday, the first day of the rest of the world, around eleven-thirty.

St. James' Park was comparatively quiet. The ducks, who were experts in realpolitik as seen from the bread end, put it down to a decrease in world tension. There really had been a decrease in world tension, in fact, but a lot of people were in offices trying to find out why, trying to find where Atlantis had disappeared to with three international fact‑finding delegations on it, and trying to work out what had happened to all their computers yesterday.

The park was deserted except for a member of MI9 trying to recruit someone who, to their later mutual embarrassment, would turn out to be also a member of MI9, and a tall man feeding the ducks.

And there were also Crowley and Aziraphale.

They strolled side by side across the grass.

"Same here," said Aziraphale. "The shop's all there. Not so much as a soot mark."

"I mean, you can't just make an old Bentley," said Crowley. "You can't get the patina. But there it was, large as life. Right there in the street. You can't tell the difference."

"Well, 1 can tell the difference," said Aziraphale. "I'm sure I didn't stock books with titles like Biggles Goes To Mars and Jack Cade, Frontier Hero and 101 Things A Boy Can Do and Blood Dogs of the Skull Sea."

"Gosh, I'm sorry," said Crowley, who knew how much the angel had treasured his book collection.

"Don't be," said Aziraphale happily. "They're all mint first edi­tions and I looked them up in Skindle's Price Guide. I think the phrase you use is whop‑eee. "

"I thought he was putting the world back just as it was," said Crowley.

"Yes," said Aziraphale. "More or less. As best he can. But he's got a sense of humor, too."

Crowley gave him a sideways look.

"Your people been in touch?" he said.

"No. Yours?"

"No."

"I think they're pretending it didn't happen."

"Mine too, I suppose. That's bureaucracy for you."

"And I think mine are waiting to see what happens next," said Aziraphale.

Crowley nodded. "A breathing space," he said. "A chance to morally re‑arm. Get the defenses up. Ready for the big one."

They stood by the pond, watching the ducks scrabble for the bread.

"Sorry?" said Aziraphale. "I thought that was the big one."

"I'm not sure," said Crowley. "Think about it. For my money, the really big one will be all of Us against all of Them."

"What? You mean Heaven and Hell against humanity?"

Crowley shrugged. "Of course, if he did change everything, then maybe he changed himself, too. Got rid of his powers, perhaps. Decided to stay human."

"Oh, I do hope so," said Aziraphale. "Anyway, I'm sure the alter­ native wouldn't be allowed. Er. Would it?"

"I don't know. You can never be certain about what's really in­tended. Plans within plans."

"Sorry" said Aziraphale.

"Well," said Crowley, who'd been thinking about this until his head ached, "haven't you ever wondered about it all? You know‑your people and my people. Heaven and Hell, good and evil, all that sort of thing? I mean, why?"

"As I recall," said the angel, stiffly, "there was the rebellion and‑"

"Ah, yes. And why did it happen, eh? I mean, it didn't have to, did it?" said Crowley, a manic look in his eye. "Anyone who could build a universe in six days isn't going to let a little thing like that happen. Unless they want it to, of course."

"Oh, come on. Be sensible," said Aziraphale, doubtfully.

"That's not good advice," said Crowley. "That's not good advice at all. If you sit down and think about it sensibly, you come up with some very fu

"I don't remember any neon."

"Metaphorically, I mean. I mean, why do that if you really don't want them to eat it, eh? I mean, maybe you just want to see how it all turns out. Maybe it's all part of a great big ineffable plan. All of it. You, me, him, everything. Some great big test to see if what you've built all works prop­erly, eh? You start thinking: it can't be a great cosmic game of chess, it has to be just very complicated Solitaire. And don't bother to answer. If we could understand, we wouldn't be us. Because it's all‑all‑"

INEFFABLE, said the figure feeding the ducks.

"Yeah. Right. Thanks."

They watched the tall stranger carefully dispose of the empty bag in a litter bin, and stalk away across the grass. Then Crowley shook his head.

"What was I saying?" he said.

"Don't know," said Aziraphale. "Nothing very important, I think."

Crowley nodded gloomily. "Let me tempt you to some lunch," he hissed.

They went to the Ritz again, where a table was mysteriously va­cant. And perhaps the recent exertions had had some fallout in the nature of reality because, while they were eating, for the first time ever, a nightin­gale sang in Berkeley Square.

No one heard it over the noise of the traffic, but it was there, right enough.

– – -

It was one o'clock on Sunday.

For the last decade Sunday lunch in Witchfinder Sergeant Shadwell's world had followed an invariable routine. He would sit at the rickety, cigarette‑burned table in his room, thumbing through an elderly copy of one of the Witchfinder Army library's[56] books on magic and De­monology‑the Necrotelecomnicon or the Liber Fulvarum Paginarum, or his old favorite, the Malleus Malleficarum.[57]

56

Witchfinder Corporal Carpet, librarian, 11 pence per a

57

"A relentlefs blockbufter of a boke; heartily recommended" ‑ Pope I