Good Omens

ominously normal.
    "Yes, that's him," said Crowley.
    "Fancy me holding the Antichrist," said Sister Mary. "And bathing the Antichrist. And counting his little toesy.. wosies ..."
    She was now addressing the child directly, lost in some world of her own. Crowley waved a hand in front of her wimple. "Hallo? Hallo? Sister Mary?"
    "Sorry, sir. He is a little sweetheart, though. Does he look like his daddy? I bet he does. Does he look like his daddywaddykins ..."
    "No," said Crowley firmly. "And now I should get up to the delivery rooms, if I were you."
    "Will he remember me when he grows up, do you think?" said Sister Mary wistfully, sidling slowly down the corridor.
    "Pray that he doesn't," said Crowley, and fled.
    Sister Mary headed through the nighttime hospital with the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan, and Lord of Darkness safely in her arms. She found a bassinet and laid him down in it.
    He gurgled. She gave him a tickle.
    A matronly head appeared around a door. It said, "Sister Mary, what are you doing here? Shouldn't you be on duty in Room Four?"
    "Master Crowley said.. "
    "Just glide along, there's a good nun. Have you seen the husband anywhere? He's not in the waiting room."
    "I've only seen Master Crowley, and he told me.. "
    "I'm sure he did," said Sister Grace Voluble firmly. "I suppose I'd better go and look for the wretched man. Come in and keep an eye on her, will you? She's a bit woozy but the baby's fine." Sister Grace paused. "Why are you winking? Is there something wrong with your eye?"
    "You know!" Sister Mary hissed archly. "The babies. The exchange.. "
    "Of course, of course. In good time. But we can't have the father wandering around, can we?" said Sister Grace. "No telling what he might see. So just wait here and mind the baby, there's a dear."
    She sailed off down the polished corridor. Sister Mary, wheeling her bassinet, entered the delivery room.
    Mrs. Young was more than woozy. She was fast asleep, with the look of determined self.. satisfaction of someone who knows that other people are going to have to do the running around for once. Baby A was asleep beside her, weighed and nametagged. Sister Mary, who had been brought up to be helpful, removed the nametag, copied it out, and Attachéd the duplicate to the baby in her care.
    The babies looked similar, both being small, blotchy, and looking sort of, though not really, like Winston Churchill.
    Now, thought Sister Mary, I could do with a nice cup of tea.
    Most of the members of the convent were old.. fashioned Satanists, like their parents and grandparents before them. They'd been brought up to it and weren't, when you got right down to it, particularly evil. Human beings mostly aren't. They just get carried away by new ideas, like dressing up in jackboots and shooting people, or dressing up in white sheets and lynching people, or dressing up in tie.. dye jeans and playing guitars at people. Offer people a new creed with a costume and their hearts and minds will follow. Anyway, being brought up as a Satanist tended to take the edge off it. It was something you did on Saturday nights. And the rest of the time you simply got on with life as best you could, just like everyone else. Besides, Sister Mary was a nurse and nurses, whatever their creed, are primarily nurses, which had a lot to do with wearing your watch upside down, keeping calm in emergencies, and dying for a cup of tea. She hoped someone would come soon; she'd done the important bit, now she wanted her tea.
    It may help to understand human affairs to be clear that most of the great triumphs and tragedies of history are caused, not by people being fundamentally good or fundamentally bad, but by people being fundamentally people.
    There was a knock at the door. She opened it.
    "Has it happened yet?" asked Mr. Young. "I'm the father. The husband. Whatever. Both."
    Sister Mary had expected the American Cultural Attaché to look like Blake Carrington or J. R. Ewing. Mr. Young didn't look like any American she'd ever seen on television, except possibly for the avuncular sheriff in the better class of murder mystery. [With a little old lady as the sleuth, and no car chases unless they're done very slowly.] He was something of a disappointment. She didn't