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Aziraphale turned the book around in his hands. He’d found it quite coincidentally at an antiquarian’s shop. It was only from the 1990s, but the author’s name had piqued his curiosity anyway. Once again, he opened it and inspected it from all angles.
There was still no author’s photograph on the dust jacket, and what little information about this professor of archaeology (studied in Oxford, naturally) was given hadn’t changed. Neither had the list of previous works by this author. All of which were strangely out of print and couldn’t be found anywhere, including a vast number of libraries he had called. Aziraphale had done his research.
Still, a surprising number of experts in the field were convinced that they had read said works, found them profound when asked, but strangely couldn’t remember what they were about. But they had intriguing titles, such as: “The Horse Theory”, “A History of Horticulture and Serpents” and “How Ducks Invented Wine”.
This book, “The Truth About Giza”, expertly dissected the Orion’s Belt Theory. The theory claimed that the pyramids of Giza were built in alignment with the stars in Orion’s Belt as they had appeared 10,000 BC and were, in fact, that old and built this way to allow for the resurrection of the Pharaoh just like Osiris had been resurrected. ‘Expertly dissecting’ wasn’t quite the correct expression for what this book did, though it did that as well. It treated the theory quite like the Romans treated Carthage.
It was quite the brutal massacre. Every argument of the Orion’s Belt Theory was pulled apart, each aspect inspected and then skilfully torn asunder. This professor seemed well-versed not only in archaeology but also in astronomy. And the amount of evidence referenced, calculations shown, and other professional works cited was astounding.
It was a bit like a written, archaeological equivalent of that meme (a concept Aziraphale had recently been introduced to by Muriel): “There was a spider, I panicked. But I think it’s gone now.”
And what was even more curious for a book that came with so much professional acclaim: the language was… colourful. When he’d first read the expression “single-celled organism”, he’d been confused — this wasn’t a work on biology, after all — until he realised that it was an imaginative variation of “prat”. Words like “bloody lunatic”, “twat”, “wanker”, “pillock” and “tosser” appeared quite often among a number of other expletives not usually found in scientific texts.
And Aziraphale was quite certain that this author’s name was not Anton E. Jake-Roley. If you could call that a name.
When Crowley strolled into the bookshop later, Aziraphale could hardly be expected to keep the grin off his face. “Hello, dearest,” he singsonged.
“What’s got you so chuffed? Found a forgotten biscuit between your books, have you?” Crowley smirked at him.
“Not quite.” Holding the book and a pen behind his back, Aziraphale walked over to Crowley and kissed him on the cheek. “But it’s not every day I have a published author here in my shop.”
Crowley seemed shocked. Panicked even. His voice was decidedly higher than normal when he squeaked out, “What?”
“Would you be so kind as to sign this? For my personal collection, of course.” Aziraphale brandished both book and pen with a flourish.
Crowley flinched as if Aziraphale were attempting to perform a magic trick involving sharp, pointy knives and fire.
Until he actually looked at the book. His shoulder sagged with relief. “Oh yeah, couldn’t let them spew that nonsense. As if Earth were over 10,000 years old…” With a tentative chuckle, he signed — rather sweetly, Aziraphale thought — “For my book-loving angel”, fake name included and absentmindedly mumbled, “For a moment I thought you’d found the— Uh, never mind.” He coughed uncomfortably.
“Got tickets! London Symphony.” Crowley snapped his fingers. Tickets appeared. They seemed surprised.
Aziraphale went, of course — who’d say ‘no’ to the London Symphony. But he was already planning how to unearth whatever his dear demon had accidentally alluded to.