Free Good Omens by Neil Gaiman Page A

appreciation of art. He tried to teach him about free will, self-denial, and Doing unto Others as You Would Wish Them to Do to You.
    They both read to the child extensively from the Book of Revelation.
    Despite their best efforts Warlock showed a regrettable tendency to be good at maths. Neither of his tutors was entirely satisfied with his progress.
    When Warlock was ten he liked baseball; he liked plastic toys that transformed into other plastic toys indistinguishable from the first set of plastic toys except to the trained eye; he liked his stamp collection; he liked banana-flavor bubble gum; he liked comics and cartoons and his B.M.X. bike.
    Crowley was troubled.
    They were in the cafeteria of the British Museum, another refuge for all weary foot soldiers of the Cold War. At the table to their left two ramrod-straight Americans in suits were surreptitiously handing over a briefcase full of deniable dollars to a small dark woman in sunglasses; at the table on their right the deputy head of MI7 and the local KGB section officer argued over who got to keep the receipt for the tea and buns.
    Crowley finally said what he had not even dared to think for the last decade.
    â€œIf you ask me,” Crowley said to his counterpart, “he’s too bloody normal .”
    Aziraphale popped another deviled egg into his mouth, and washed it down with coffee. He dabbed his lips with a paper napkin.
    â€œIt’s my good influence,” he beamed. “Or rather, credit where credit’s due, that of my little team.”
    Crowley shook his head. “I’m taking that into account. Look—by now he should be trying to warp the world around him to his own desires, shaping it in his own image, that kind of stuff. Well, not actually trying. He’ll do it without even knowing it. Have you seen any evidence of that happening?”
    â€œWell, no, but … ”
    â€œBy now he should be a powerhouse of raw force. Is he?”
    â€œWell, not as far as I’ve noticed, but … ”
    â€œHe’s too normal.” Crowley drummed his fingers on the table. “I don’t like it. There’s something wrong. I just can’t put my finger on it.”
    Aziraphale helped himself to Crowley’s slice of angel cake. “Well, he’s a growing boy. And, of course, there’s been the heavenly influence in his life.”
    Crowley sighed. “I just hope he’ll know how to cope with the hell-hound, that’s all.”
    Aziraphale raised one eyebrow. “Hell-hound?”
    â€œOn his eleventh birthday. I received a message from Hell last night.” The message had come during “The Golden Girls,” one of Crowley’s favorite television programs. Rose had taken ten minutes to deliver what could have been quite a brief communication, and by the time non-infernal service was restored Crowley had quite lost the thread of the plot. “They’re sending him a hell-hound, to pad by his side and guard him from all harm. Biggest one they’ve got.”
    â€œWon’t people remark on the sudden appearance of a huge black dog? His parents, for a start.”
    Crowley stood up suddenly, treading on the foot of a Bulgarian cultural attaché, who was talking animatedly to the Keeper of Her Majesty’s Antiques. “Nobody’s going to notice anything out of the ordinary. It’s reality, angel. And young Warlock can do what he wants to that , whether he knows it or not.”
    â€œWhen does it turn up, then? This dog? Does it have a name?”
    â€œI told you. On his eleventh birthday. At three o’clock in the afternoon. It’ll sort of home in on him. He’s supposed to name it himself. It’s very important that he names it himself. It gives it its purpose. It’ll be Killer, or Terror, or Stalks-by-Night, I expect.”
    â€œAre you going to be there?” asked the angel, nonchalantly.
    â€œWouldn’t miss it for the