"The point I'm trying to make," he said, brightening, "is the dolphins. That's my point."
"Kind of fish," said Aziraphale.
"Nononono," said Crowley, shaking a finger. "'S mammal. Your actual mammal. Difference is—" Crowley waded through the swamp of his mind and tried to remember the difference. "Difference is, they—"
"Mate out of water?" volunteered Aziraphale.
Crowley's brow furrowed. "Don't think so. Pretty sure that's not it. Something about their young. Whatever." He pulled himself together. "The point is. The point is. Their brains."
He reached for a bottle.
"What about their brains?" said the angel.
"Big brains. That's my point. Size of. Size of. Size of damn big brains. And then there's the whales. Brain city, take it from me. Whole damn sea full of brains."
"Whole sea bubbling, poor old dolphins so much seafood gumbo, no one giving a damn. Same with gorillas. Whoops, they say, sky gone all red, stars crashing to ground, what they putting in the bananas these days? And then—"
"They make nests, you know, gorillas," said the angel, pouring another drink and managing to hit the glass on the third go.
"Nah."
"God's truth. Saw a film. Nests."
"That's birds," said Crowley.
"Nests," insisted Aziraphale.
Crowley decided not to argue the point.
"There you are then," he said. "All creatures great and smoke. I mean small. Great and small. Lot of them with brains. And then, bazamm."
"Listen," said Crowley urgently, "the point is that when the bird has worn the mountain down to nothing, right, then—"
Aziraphale opened his mouth. Crowley just knew he was going to make some point about the relative hardness of birds' beaks and granite mountains, and plunged on quickly.
"—then you still won't have finished watching The Sound of Music."
"Heaven has no taste. And not one single sushi restaurant."
"Don't tell me from genetics. What've they got to do with it?" said Crowley. "Look at Satan. Created as an angel, grows up to be the Great Adversary. Hey, if you're going to go on about genetics, you might as well say the kid will grow up to be an angel. After all, his father was really big in Heaven in the old days. Saying he'll grow up to be a demon just because his dad became one is like saying a mouse with its tail cut off will give birth to tailless mice. No. Upbringing is everything. Take it from me."
"Well, I'll be damned."
"It's not too bad," said Crowley, "when you get used to it."
"Did you ever visit Gomorrah?"
"Sure," said the demon. "There was this great little tavern where you could get these terrific fermented date-palm cocktails with nutmeg and crushed lemongrass—"
"I meant afterwards."
"Oh."
That was what some humans found hard to understand. Hell wasn't a major reservoir of evil, any more than Heaven, in Crowley's opinion, was a fountain of goodness; they were just sides in the great cosmic chess game. Where you found the real McCoy, the real grace and the real heart-stopping evil, was right inside the human mind.
At least cars were better than horses. The internal combustion engine had been a godse—a blessi—a windfall for Crowley. The only horses he could be seen riding on business, in the old days, were big black jobs with eyes like flame and hooves that struck sparks. That was de rigueur for a demon. Usually, Crowley fell off. He wasn't much good with animals.
"I don't recognize this," he said. "What is it?"
"It's Tchaikovsky's 'Another One Bites the Dust'," said Crowley, closing his eyes as they went through Slough.
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