He pushed aside the paper-laden desk and rolled up the threadbare bookshop carpet. There was a small circle chalked on the floorboards underneath, surrounded by suitable passages from the Cabala. The angel lit seven candles, which he placed ritually at certain points around the circle. Then he lit some incense, which was not necessary but did make the place smell nice.
And then he stood in the circle and said the Words.
Nothing happened.
He said the Words again.
Eventually a bright blue shaft of light shot down from the ceiling and filled the circle.
A well-educated voice said, "Well?"
"It's me, Aziraphale."
"We know," said the voice.
"I've got great news! I've located the Antichrist! I can give you his address and everything!"
There was a pause. The blue light flickered.
"Well?" it said again.
"But, d'you see, you can ki— can stop it all happening! In the nick of time! You've only got a few hours! You can stop it all and there needn't be the war and everyone will be saved!"
He beamed madly into the light.
"Yes?" said the voice.
"Yes, he's in a place called Lower Tadfield, and the address—"
"Well done," said the voice, in flat, dead tones.
"There doesn't have to be any of that business with one third of the seas turning to blood or anything," said Aziraphale happily.
When it came, the voice sounded slightly annoyed.
"Why not?" it said.
Aziraphale felt an icy pit opening under his enthusiasm, and tried to pretend it wasn't happening.
He plunged on: "Well, you can simply make sure that—"
"We will win, Aziraphale."
"Yes, but—"
"The forces of darkness must be beaten. You seem to be under a misapprehension. The point is not to avoid the war, it is to win it. We have been waiting a long time, Aziraphale."
Aziraphale felt the coldness envelop his mind. He opened his mouth to say, "Do you think perhaps it would be a good idea not to hold the war on Earth?" and changed his mind.
"I see," he said grimly. There was a scraping near the door, and if Aziraphale had been looking in that direction he would have seen a battered felt hat trying to peer over the fanlight.
"This is not to say you have not performed well," said the voice. "You will receive a commendation. Well done."
"Thank you," said Aziraphale. The bitterness in his voice would have soured milk. "I'd forgotten about ineffability, obviously."
"We thought you had."
"May I ask," said the angel, "to whom have I been speaking?"
The voice said, "We are the Metatron."*
"Oh, yes. Of course. Oh. Well. Thank you very much. Thank you."
Behind him the letterbox tilted open, revealing a pair of eyes.
"One other thing," said the voice. "You will of course be joining us, won't you?"
"Well, er, of course it has been simply ages since I've held a flaming sword—" Aziraphale began.
"Yes, we recall," said the voice. "You will have a lot of opportunity to relearn."
"Ah. Hmm. What sort of initiating event will precipitate the war?" said Aziraphale.
"We thought a multi-nation nuclear exchange would be a nice start."
"Oh. Yes. Very imaginative." Aziraphale's voice was flat and hopeless.
"Good. We will expect you directly, then," said the voice.
"Ah. Well. I'll just clear up a few business matters, shall I?" said Aziraphale desperately.
"There hardly seems to be any necessity," said the Metatron.
Aziraphale drew himself up. "I really feel that probity, not to say morality, demands that as a reputable businessman I should—"
"Yes, yes," said the Metatron, a shade testily. "Point taken. We shall await you, then."
The light faded, but did not quite vanish. They're leaving the line open, Aziraphale thought. I'm not getting out of this one.
"Hallo?" he said softly, "Anyone still there?"
There was silence.
Very carefully, he stepped over the circle and crept to the telephone. He opened his notebook and dialed another number.
After four rings it gave a little cough, followed by a pause, and then a voice which sounded so laid back you could put a carpet on it said, "Hi. This is Anthony Crowley. Uh. I—"
"Crowley!" Aziraphale tried to hiss and shout at the same time, "Listen! I haven't got much time! The—"
"—probably not in right now, or asleep, and busy, or something, but—"
"Shutup! Listen! It was in Tadfield! It's all in that book! You've got to stop—"
"—after the tone and I'll get right back to you. Chow."
"I want to talk to you now—"
BeeeEEeeeEEeee
"Stop making noises! It's in Tadfield! That was what I was sensing! You must go there and—"
He took the phone away from his mouth.
"Bugger!" he said. It was the first time he'd sworn in more than four thousand years.
Hold on. The demon had another line, didn't he? He was that kind of person. Aziraphale fumbled in the book, nearly dropping it on the floor. They would be getting impatient soon.
He found the other number. He dialed it. It was answered almost immediately, at the same time as the shop's bell tingled gently.
Crowley's voice, getting louder as it neared the mouthpiece, said, "—really mean it. Hallo?"
"Crowley, it's me!"
"Ngh." The voice was horribly noncommittal. Even in his present state, Aziraphale sensed trouble.
"Are you alone?" he said cautiously.
"Nuh. Got an old friend here."
"Listen—"
"Awa' we ye, ye spawn o' hell!"
Very slowly, Aziraphale turned around.
Shadwell was trembling with excitement. He'd seen it all. He'd heard it all. He hadn't understood any of it, but he knew what people did with circles and candlesticks and incense. He knew that all right. He'd seen The Devil Rides Out fifteen times, sixteen times if you included the time he'd been thrown out of the cinema for shouting his unflattering opinions of amateur witchfinder Christopher Lee.
The buggers were using him. They'd been making fools out o' the glorious traditions o' the Army.
"I'll have ye, ye evil bastard!" he shouted, advancing like a motheaten avenging angel. "I ken what ye be about, cumin' up here and seducin' wimmen to do yer evil will!"
"I think perhaps you've got the wrong shop," said Aziraphale. "I'll call back later," he told the receiver, and hung up.
"I could see what yer were about," snarled Shadwell. There were flecks of foam around his mouth. He was more angry than he could ever remember.
"Er, things are not what they seem—" Aziraphale began, aware even as he said it that as conversational gambits went it lacked a certain polish.
"I bet they ain't!" said Shadwell triumphantly.
"No, I mean—"
Without taking his eyes off the angel, Shadwell shuffled backwards and grabbed the shop door, slamming it hard so that the bell jangled.