‘Sharpen its beak on the mountain,’ said Crowley. ‘And then it flies back—’ ‘—in the space ship—’ ‘And after a thousand years it goes and does it all again,’ said Crowley quickly. There was a moment of drunken silence. ‘Seems a lot of effort just to sharpen a beak,’ mused Aziraphale. ‘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
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