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“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 p
oint 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.”32
“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 multination 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.”
