Good Omens
particularly sought after by the more discerning duck, while the head of MI9âs soggy Hovis with Marmite is relished by the connoisseurs.
Aziraphale tossed a crust to a scruffy-looking drake, which caught it and sank immediately.
The angel turned to Crowley.
âReally, my dear,â he murmured.
âSorry,â said Crowley. âI was forgetting myself.â The duck bobbed angrily to the surface.
âOf course, we knew something was going on,â Aziraphale said. âBut one somehow imagines this sort of thing happening in America. They go in for that sort of thing over there.â
âIt might yet do, at that,â said Crowley gloomily. He gazed thoughtfully across the park to the Bentley, the back wheel of which was being industriously clamped.
âOh, yes. The American diplomat,â said the angel. âRather showy , one feels. As if Armageddon was some sort of cinematographic show that you wish to sell in as many countries as possible.â
âEvery country,â said Crowley. âThe Earth and all the kingdoms thereof.â
Aziraphale tossed the last scrap of bread at the ducks, who went off to pester the Bulgarian naval attaché and a furtive-looking man in a Cambridge tie, and carefully disposed of the paper bag in a wastepaper bin.
He turned and faced Crowley.
âWeâll win, of course,â he said.
âYou donât want that,â said the demon.
âWhy not, pray?â
âListen ,â said Crowley desperately, âhow many musicians do you think your side have got, eh? First grade, I mean.â
Aziraphale looked taken aback.
âWell, I should thinkââ he began.
âTwo,â said Crowley. âElgar and Liszt. Thatâs all . Weâve got the rest. Beethoven, Brahms, all the Bachs, Mozart, the lot. Can you imagine eternity with Elgar?â
Aziraphale shut his eyes. âAll too easily,â he groaned.
âThatâs it, then,â said Crowley, with a gleam of triumph. He knew Aziraphaleâs weak spot all right. âNo more compact discs. No more Albert Hall. No more Proms. No more Glyndbourne. Just celestial harmonies all day long.â
âIneffable,â Aziraphale murmured.
âLike eggs without salt, you said. Which reminds me. No salt, no eggs. No gravlax with dill sauce. No fascinating little restaurants where they know you. No Daily Telegraph crossword. No small antique shops. No bookshops, either. No interesting old editions. NoââCrowley scraped the bottom of Aziraphaleâs barrel of interestsââRegency silver snuffboxes ⦠â
âBut after we win life will be better!â croaked the angel.
âBut it wonât be as interesting. Look, you know Iâm right. Youâd be as happy with a harp as Iâd be with a pitchfork.â
âYou know we donât play harps.â
âAnd we donât use pitchforks. I was being rhetorical.â
They stared at one another.
Aziraphale spread his elegantly manicured hands.
âMy people are more than happy for it to happen, you know. Itâs what itâs all about, you see. The great final test. Flaming swords, the Four Horsemen, seas of blood, the whole tedious business.â He shrugged.
âAnd then Game Over, Insert Coin?â said Crowley.
âSometimes I find your methods of expression a little difficult to follow.â
âI like the seas as they are. It doesnât have to happen. You donât have to test everything to destruction just to see if you made it right.â
Aziraphale shrugged again.
âThatâs ineffable wisdom for you, Iâm afraid.â The angel shuddered, and pulled his coat around him. Gray clouds were piling up over the city.
âLetâs go somewhere warm,â he said.
âYouâre asking me?â said Crowley glumly.
They walked in somber silence for a while.
âItâs not that I disagree with you,â said the angel, as they plodded across the grass. âItâs just that Iâm not allowed to disobey. You know that.â
âMe too,â said Crowley.
Aziraphale gave him a sidelong glance. âOh, come now,â he said, âyouâre a demon, after all.â
âYeah. But my people are only in favor of disobedience in general terms. Itâs specific disobedience they come down on heavily.â
âSuch as disobedience to themselves?â
âYouâve got
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