Good Omens

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.
    â€œWhat’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.
    â€œWhat’s he been getting up to now?” he sighed, not really expecting an answer.
    â€œWhere’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.
    â€œHi, Tommy,” she said. “I thought you was in England.”
    â€œYes, Mom, I am normatively in England, Mom, protecting democratism, Mom, sir,” said Sgt. Thomas A. Deisenburger.
    â€œThat’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.
    â€œMom, if any throughput eventuates premising to interface with Sgt. Thomas A. Deisenburger telephonically, Mom, sir, this individual will be—”
    â€œSorry, Tommy?”
    Tom Deisenburger hung his gun on the wall, above his father’s battered old rifle.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œAre 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.
    â€œCould have,” he said. “Could have. One could always ask Him, I suppose.”
    â€œFrom what I remember,” replied Crowley, thoughtfully, “—and we were never actually on what you might call speaking