Good Omens by Neil Gaiman Page B

you?”
    Aziraphale hesitated.
    â€œThere is that, yes.”
    â€œYou see a wile, you thwart. Am I right?”
    â€œBroadly, broadly. Actually I encourage humans to do the actual thwarting. Because of ineffability, you understand.”
    â€œRight. Right. So all you’ve got to do is thwart. Because if I know anything,” said Crowley urgently, “it’s that the birth is just the start. It’s the upbringing that’s important. It’s the Influences. Otherwise the child will never learn to use its powers.” He hesitated. “At least, not necessarily as intended.”
    â€œCertainly our side won’t mind me thwarting you,” said Aziraphale thoughtfully. “They won’t mind that at all.”
    â€œRight. It’d be a real feather in your wing.” Crowley gave the angel an encouraging smile.
    â€œWhat will happen to the child if it doesn’t get a Satanic upbringing, though?” said Aziraphale.
    â€œProbably nothing. It’ll never know.”
    â€œBut genetics—”
    â€œDon’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.”
    â€œAnd without unopposed Satanic influences—”
    â€œWell, at worst Hell will have to start all over again. And the Earth gets at least another eleven years. That’s got to be worth something, hasn’t it?”
    Now Aziraphale was looking thoughtful again.
    â€œYou’re saying the child isn’t evil of itself?” he said slowly.
    â€œPotentially evil. Potentially good, too, I suppose. Just this huge powerful potentiality , waiting to be shaped,” said Crowley. He shrugged. “Anyway, why’re we talking about this good and evil ? They’re just names for sides. We know that.”
    â€œI suppose it’s got to be worth a try,” said the angel. Crowley nodded encouragingly.
    â€œAgreed?” said the demon, holding out his hand.
    The angel shook it, cautiously.
    â€œIt’ll certainly be more interesting than saints,” he said.
    â€œAnd it’ll be for the child’s own good, in the long run,” said Crowley. “We’ll be godfathers, sort of. Overseeing his religious upbringing, you might say.”
    Aziraphale beamed.
    â€œYou know, I’d never have thought of that,” he said. “Godfathers . Well, I’ll be damned.”
    â€œIt’s not too bad,” said Crowley, “when you get used to it.”
    SHE WAS KNOWN AS SCARLETT. At that time she was selling arms, although it was beginning to lose its savor. She never stuck at one job for very long. Three, four hundred years at the outside. You didn’t want to get in a rut.
    Her hair was true auburn, neither ginger nor brown, but a deep and burnished copper-color, and it fell to her waist in tresses that men would kill for, and indeed often had. Her eyes were a startling orange. She looked twenty-five, and always had.
    She had a dusty, brick-red truck full of assorted weaponry, and an almost unbelievable skill at getting it across any border in the world. She had been on her way to a small West African country, where a minor civil war was in progress, to make a delivery which would, with any luck, turn it into a major civil war. Unfortunately the truck had broken down, far beyond even her ability to repair it.
    And she was very good with machinery these days.
    She was in the middle of a city 12 at the time. The city in question was the capital of Kumbolaland, an African nation which