"I remember when this was the Air Crew Section."

I turned. She was tall, elegant and dressed in ... well, taking a flying guess at the color. Her wings were downy and radiant, but drooped from her shoulders as if under the weight of a great sadness. Her looks were understated — the kind of beauty that sneaks up on you hours later, usually when you're trying to sleep. The only trace of grief or nervous behavior she exhibited was her incessant fiddling with a charm bracelet worn round the alabaster skin of one delicate wrist.

"They opened all the viewing areas and Places of Contemplation to cope with the increased numbers," she continued. "I was a Recording Angel then. I tallied the figures. Such high figures. Such brave young men."

I wondered how old she was, but it isn't done to ask a lady's age — and there was no doubt that this dame was a lady.

"Laura?" I said. It was a tad disingenuous as openings go, but it brought her back from Amnesia Avenue. "I'm Carter."

"I know. Thank you for coming."

"What can I do you for?"

"There's something I'd like you to look into."

"Specifically?"

"A death." She paused for effect. "The death of an angel."

"It happens," I said with a degree of flippancy. Just to prove my cynical-loner man-of-the-world credentials, you understand. "You don't realize the magnitude of it till it happens to someone close to you," I added. Just to bring a little emotional depth to the proceedings.

"They haven't cleared out Samangelaf's cell yet," she said. "We'll be able to talk privately there."

---

My first impression was that Samangelaf must have been educated and well-travelled. The walls of his cell were lined with books, all written and published by mortals, which meant he'd made numerous trips to earth over the years.

Cell's a harsh word, I guess, especially with the connotations it has for you mortals. Cells are like apartments: study area, sitting room, sleeping quarters, kitchenette, bathroom. Yes, we angels eat and drink. Yes, we perform ablutions. Yes, we have bodily functions. Don't be fooled by some of the more puritanical literature that says we don't feel human emotions or have sex lives. God made us in His image, the way He did with you guys. Only difference is, He gave us wings. And a shitload more responsibility.

Samangelaf's cell was nicely decorated. White, natch; but there were some attractive sketches and watercolors on the walls. Heavenscapes, mostly.

"All his own work," Laura said. "He could have been a successful artist — if he'd been born mortal."

"Luck of the draw," I said. "All told, we've got it better up here."

"Oh?" she said. "Immortality, low crime rate — is that what you mean?"

"I'm sorry," I said. She hadn't looked the sarcastic type, but there was a cutting tone to her voice. I gave the bookshelves an eyeballing, mainly so it looked like I was doing private eye type stuff. You know, looking for clues and the like. Also, it meant I didn't have to make eye contact with her. "How did he die?" I asked, plucking a volume off the shelf at random. It was called The Mythology of Angels, by someone with a double-barreled surname and half an alphabet after it. Some university guy who needed to get out more, I guessed. The book was marked in several places with post-it notes.

"Somebody must have tampered with his wings," Laura said. "He was dispatched on a routine mission to safeguard someone who was exhibiting suicidal tendencies. Crossing the Threshold, he took flight. His wings severed and he plummeted to his death."

"When did it happen?"

"Two days ago."

"Who had he been sent to save?" I asked. "And why were they so important?" People top themselves all the time — the papers are filled with it. Some of them, though they don't know it, are part of the Grand Design. Guys like Samangelaf get sent down to stop them.

"A writer," Laura said. "Andrew Rossiter."

"Never heard of him."

"That's because he hasn't been published yet. Which is also why he wants to kill himself. But in ten years' time, he'll write a novel about someone who regains their faith after a lifetime beset by failure. It'll be called Epiphany, and it'll win three major literary awards. In a time of moral turpitude, the critics will hail it as a return to spiritual values. It will lead to a literary movement steeped in religious ethics."

"I'll start with Mr. Rossiter, then," I said. "See what he can tell me." I scanned a few lines of the university dude's book. Underlined passages heavy with biblical references. "Anything else I need to know?"

"Samangelaf had a contact on earth. Someone who helped him put his book collection together."

"This character have a name?"

"Henry Wilberforce-Smith."

I snapped the book closed and took another look at the name on the spine. The very same. "I'll talk to him, as well."

"So you'll take the case?"

"I'm not promising anything, but I'll make inquiries."

"Thank you, Mr. Carter."

"How do I get in touch with you?"

"I work in the Archives. You can leave a message with the Records Office."

"I'll keep this book for now," I said. "Can I walk you back?"

"No. I think I'll stay here for a while." She was doing her best not to show it, but being in Samangelaf's cell was cutting her up pretty bad.

I figured I may as well broach the subject and see where she fitted in with him. "I don't mean to pry," I said, prying, "but what was he to you?"

There were tears in her eyes, but her voice never quavered. "He was my friend," she said.

---

Andrew Rossiter lived in Nottingham, England. It was just outside the city that Samangelaf's wings had snapped and he'd found himself suddenly governed by the laws of gravity. An angel dying of mortal causes — ain't it a bitch?

I touched down near an abandoned factory, folded my wings and put my trenchcoat on. I considered myself lucky it was a cold day. In order to disguise the plumage, us guys always have to wear an overcoat when we're on earth. It's the poor bastards who get sent to the Mediterranean and the Bahamas that I feel sorry for.

The factory was near the canal, which I followed into the city. I figured with two days passing since Samangelaf's assignment, Rossiter would have had plenty of time to do the hara-kiri thing. I wasted no time ankling it to his flat, a poky hole of swing-a-cat proportions a mile or so outside the city center.

It was evening and there was a light in his window, but buzzing his number on the keypad downstairs got no response. I made sure no-one was around, then transformed myself into a column of light — and if you think I'm giving you the gen on that trick of the trade, think again — and eased myself through the gap between doorframe and door. I went up two flights of stairs and used the same trick to get into his apartment.

Rematerializing, I cased the joint. Sparse. No woman's touch — he obviously lived alone, and lived minimally. I knew the feeling. There were dog-eared paperbacks all over the place, and reference books opened to relevant pages. A noise came from behind one of the doors leading off from the main room. I went in fast. It was the bathroom.

Andrew Rossiter was swinging from the light fitting.

He was a short man, and of light build. His skin was pale and his eyes puffy. A stool was overbalanced beneath him. That was the sound I'd heard.

I levitated until I was level with him. Holding him under the arms, I lifted him. The rope went slack. "Loosen it and it take off," I said.

He drew a weak, rattling breath and twitched.

I repeated the instruction.

He gawped.

"Before I lose my temper," I added, making my eyes blaze with righteous fury.
It did the trick. He pulled the rope off. I took him into the lounge, sat him down on the threadbare sofa and waited for him to come to terms with what had just happened. Then I did what any angel worth his salt would have done.
I took him out for a beer.