Good Omens

normal gerbil. It appeared to be living in an exciting construction of cylinders, spheres, and treadmills, such as the Spanish Inquisition would have devised if they’d had access to a plastics molding press.
    He checked his watch. It had never occurred to Crowley to change its battery, which had rotted away three years previously, but it still kept perfect time. It was two minutes to three.
    Aziraphale was getting more and more flustered.
    â€œDo any of the company here assembled possess such a thing about their persons as a pocket handkerchief? No?” In Victorian days it had been unheard of for people not to carry handkerchiefs, and the trick, which involved magically producing a dove who was even now pecking irritably at Aziraphale’s wrist, could not proceed without one. The angel tried to attract Crowley’s attention, failed, and, in desperation, pointed to one of the security guards, who shifted uneasily.
    â€œYou, my fine jack-sauce. Come here. Now, if you inspect your breast pocket, I think you might find a fine silk handkerchief.”
    â€œNossir. ’Mafraidnotsir,” said the guard, staring straight ahead.
    Aziraphale winked desperately. “No, go on, dear boy, take a look, please .”
    The guard reached a hand inside his inside pocket, looked surprised, and pulled out a handkerchief, duck-egg-blue silk, with lace edging. Aziraphale realized almost immediately that the lace had been a mistake, as it caught on the guard’s holstered gun, and sent it spinning across the room to land heavily in a bowl of jelly.
    The children applauded spasmodically. “Hey, not bad!” said the ponytailed girl.
    Warlock had already run across the room, and grabbed the gun.
    â€œHands up, dogbreaths!” he shouted gleefully.
    The security guards were in a quandary.
    Some of them fumbled for their own weapons; others started edging their way toward, or away from, the boy. The other children started complaining that they wanted guns as well, and a few of the more forward ones started trying to tug them from the guards who had been thoughtless enough to take their weapons out.
    Then someone threw some jelly at Warlock.
    The boy squeaked, and pulled the trigger of the gun. It was a Magnum .32, CIA issue, gray, mean, heavy, capable of blowing a man away at thirty paces, and leaving nothing more than a red mist, a ghastly mess, and a certain amount of paperwork.
    Aziraphale blinked.
    A thin stream of water squirted from the nozzle and soaked Crowley, who had been looking out the window, trying to see if there was a huge black dog in the garden.
    Aziraphale looked embarrassed.
    Then a cream cake hit him in the face.
    It was almost five past three.
    With a gesture, Aziraphale turned the rest of the guns into water pistols as well, and walked out.
    Crowley found him on the pavement outside, trying to extricate a rather squishy dove from the arm of his frock coat.
    â€œIt’s late,” said Aziraphale.
    â€œI can see that,” said Crowley. “Comes of sticking it up your sleeve.” He reached out and pulled the limp bird from Aziraphale’s coat, and breathed life back into it. The dove cooed appreciatively and flew off, a trifle warily.
    â€œNot the bird,” said the angel. “The dog. It’s late.”
    Crowley shook his head, thoughtfully. “We’ll see.”
    He opened the car door, flipped on the radio. “I-should-be-so-lucky-lucky-lucky-lucky-lucky, I-should-be-so-lucky-in- HELLO CROWLEY.”
    â€œHello. Um, who is this?”
    â€œDAGON, LORD OF THE FILES, MASTER OF MADNESS, UNDER-DUKE OF THE SEVENTH TORMENT. WHAT CAN I DO FOR YOU?”
    â€œThe hell-hound. I’m just, uh, just checking that it got off okay.”
    â€œRELEASED TEN MINUTES AGO. WHY? HASN’T IT ARRIVED? IS SOMETHING WRONG?”
    â€œOh no. Nothing’s wrong. Everything’s fine. Oops, I can see it now. Good dog. Nice dog. Everything’s terrific. You’re doing a great job down there, people. Well, lovely talking to you, Dagon. Catch you soon, huh?”
    He flipped off the radio.
    They stared at each other. There was a loud bang from inside the house, and a window shattered. “Oh dear,” muttered Aziraphale, not swearing with the practiced ease of one who has spent six thousand years not swearing, and who wasn’t going to start now. “I must have missed one.”
    â€œNo dog,” said Crowley.
    â€œNo dog,”