"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.