In space, Aziraphale thought. Like it was so commonplace. He and Crowley had once gotten into an argument about whether or not aliens existed. Aziraphale had argued that God in His infinite wisdom and majesty had created one perfect species. Crowley had argued that that was stupid, and if God was so infinitely wise and majestic he wouldn't have wasted all that space. It seemed this man might have . . . dreamed proof, one way or the other.

But his curiosity was quickly overwhelmed by horror. “A variety of purposes,” he said slowly. “Such as?”