“Please call me Maya, Mr. Forrester. And I’ll call you—” There was a second of hesitation. “Mr. Forrester,” Maya said plaintively, “what is your first name?”
“First name?” Forrester tried to think of his first name. “You want to know my first name?”
“Well,” Maya said, “I want to call you something. Because after all—” She looked as if she were going to leap over the desk.
“You may call me,” Forrester said, grasping at his sanity, “Mr. Forrester.”
Maya sidled around the desk quietly. “Mr. Forrester,” she said, reaching for him, “I wanted to talk to you about the Introductory World History course.”
Forrester shivered as if someone had thrown cold water on his rising aspirations.
“Oh,” he said.
“That’s right,” Maya whispered. Her mouth was close to his ear again. Other parts of her were close to other parts of him once more. Forrester found it difficult to concentrate.
“I’ve got to pass the course, Mr. Forrester,” Maya whispered. “I’ve just got to.”
Somehow, Forrester retained just enough control of his faculties to remember the standard answer to protestations like that one. “Well, I’m sure you will,” he said in what he hoped was a calm, hearty, hopeful voice. He was reasonably sure it wasn’t any of those, and even surer that it wasn’t all three. “You seem like a—like a fairly intelligent young lady,” he finished lamely.
“Oh, no,” she said. “I’m sure I won’t be able to remember all those old-fashioned dates and things. Never. Never.” Suddenly she pressed herself wildly against him, throwing him slightly off balance. Locked together, the couple reeled against the desk. Forrester felt it digging into the small of his back. “I’ll do anything to pass the course, Mr. Forrester!” she vowed. “Anything!”
The insistent pressure of the desk top robbed the moment of some of its natural splendor. Forrester disengaged himself gently and slid a little out of the way. “Now, now,” he said, moving rapidly across the room toward a blank wall. “This sort of thing isn’t usually done, Maya. I mean, Miss Wilson. I mean—”
“But—”
“People just don’t do such things,” Forrester said sternly. He thought of escaping through the door, but the picture that arose immediately in his mind dissuaded him. He saw Maya pursuing him passionately through the halls while admiring students and faculty stared after them. “Anyhow,” he added as an afterthought, “not at the beginning of the semester.”
“Oh,” Maya said. She was advancing on him slowly. “You mean, I ought to see if I can pass the course on my own first, and then—”
“Not at all,” Forrester cut in.
Maya sniffed sadly. “Oh, you just don’t understand,” she said. “You’re an Athenian, aren’t you?”
“Athenan,” Forrester said automatically. It was a correction he found himself called upon to make ten or twelve times a week. “An Athenian is a resident of Athens, while an Athenan is a worshipper of the Goddess Athena. We—”
“I understand,” Maya said. “I suppose it’s like us. We don’t like to be called Aphrodisiacs, you know. We prefer Venerans.”
She was leaning across the desk. Forrester, though he supposed some people might be fussy about it, could see no objection whatever to the term Aphrodisiacs. A wild thought dealing with Spheres of Influence strayed into his mind, and he suppressed it firmly.
The girl was a Veneran. A worshipper of Venus, Goddess of Love.
Her choice of religion, he thought, was unusually appropriate.
And as for his.…
CHAPTER TWO
It was hard to believe that, only an hour or so before, he had been peaceful and calm, entirely occupied with his duties in the great Temple of Pallas Athena. His mind gave a sudden, panic-stricken leap and he was back there again, standing at the rear of the vast room and focusing all of his strained attention on it.
The glowing embers in the golden incense tripods were dying now, but the heavy clouds of frankincense, still tingled with the sweet aroma of balsam and clove, hung heavily in the quiet air over the main altar. In the flickering illumination of the gas sconces around the walls, the figures on the great tapestries seemed to move with a subtle life of their own.
Even though the great brazen gong had sounded for the last time twenty minutes before, marking the end of the service, there were still a few worshippers in the pews, seated with heads bowed in prayer to the Goddess. Forrester considered them carefully: average-looking people, a sprinkling of youngsters, and in the far corner a girl who looked just a little like…
Forrester peered more closely. It wasn’t just a slight resemblance; the girl really seemed to be Gerda Symes. Her long blonde hair shone in the dimness. Forrester couldn’t see her very clearly, but his imagination was working overtime. Her magnificently curved figure, her wonderful face, her fiery personality were as much a part of his dreams as the bed he slept on.
If not for her brother…
Forrester sighed and forced himself to return his attention to his duties. His hands remained clasped reverently at his breast. Whatever battle went on in his mind, the remaining few people in the great room would see nothing but what was fitting. At any rate, he told himself, he made rather an imposing sight in his robes, and, with a stirring of vanity which he prayed Athena to chasten, he was rather proud of it.
He was a fairly tall man, just a shade under six feet, but his slight paunch made him seem shorter than he was. His face was round and smooth and pleasant, and that made him look younger than he was: twenty-one instead of twenty-seven. As befitted an acolyte of the Goddess of Wisdom, his dark, curly hair was cut rather long. When he bowed to a departing worshipper, lowering his head in graceful acknowledgment of their deferential nods, he felt that he made a striking and commanding picture.
Though, of course, the worshippers weren’t doing him any honor. That bow was not for him, but directed toward the Owl, the symbol of the Goddess embroidered on the breast of the white tunic. As an acolyte, after all, he rated just barely above a layman; he had no powers whatever.
Athena knew that, naturally. But somehow it was a little difficult to get it through his own doubtless too-thick skull. He’d often dreamed of power. Being a priest or a priestess, for instance—now that meant something. At least people paid attention to you if you were a member of the hierarchy, favored of the Gods. But, Forrester knew, there was no chance of that any more. Either you were picked before you were twenty-one, or you weren’t picked at all, and that was all there was to it. In spite of his looks, Forrester was six years past the limit.
And so he’d become an acolyte. Sometimes he wondered how much of that had been an honest desire to serve Athena, and how much a sop to his worldly vanity. Certainly a college history instructor had enough to do, without adding the unpaid religious services of an acolyte to his work.
But these were thoughts unworthy of his position. They reminded him of his own childhood, when he had dreamed of becoming one of the Lesser Gods, or even Zeus himself! Zeus had provided the best answer to those dreams, Forrester knew. “Now I am a man,” Zeus had said, “and I put away childish things.”
Well, Forrester considered, it behooved him to put away childish things, too. A mere vanity, a mere love of spectacle, was unworthy of the Goddess he served. And his costume and bearing certainly hadn’t got him very far with Gerda.
He tore his eyes away from her again, and sighed.
Before he could bring his mind back to Athena, there was an interruption.
Another white-clad acolyte moved out of the shadows to his right and came softly toward him. “Forrester?” he whispered.
Forrester turned, recognizing young Bates, a chinless boy of perhaps twenty-two, with the wide, innocent eyes of the born fanatic. But it didn’t become a servant of Athena to think ill of her other servants, Forrester reminded himself. Brushing the possibility of a rude reply from his mind, Forrester said simply: “Yes? What is it?”
“There’s a couple of Temple Myrmidons to see you outside,” Bates whispered. “I’ll take over your post.”
Forrester responded with no more than a simple nod, as if the occurrence were one that happened every day. But it was not only the thought of leaving Gerda that moved him. As he turned and strode to the small door that led to the side room off the main auditorium, he was thinking furiously under his calm exterior.
Temple Myrmidons! What could they want with him? As an acolyte, he was at least immune to arrest by the civil police, and even the Temple Myrmidons had no right to take him into custody without a warrant from the Pontifex himself.
But such a warrant was a serious affair. What had he done wrong?
He tried to think of some cause for an arrest. Blasphemy? Sacrilege? But he found nothing except his interior thoughts. And those, he told himself with a blaze of anger fierce enough to surprise him, were nobody’s business but his own and Athena’s. Authorities either less personal or more temporal had no business dealing with thoughts.
Beyond those, there wasn’t a thing. No irreverence toward any of the Gods, in his private life, his religious functions or his teaching position, at least as far as he could recall. The Gods knew that unorthodoxy in an Introductory History course, for instance, was not only unwise but damned difficult.
Of course, he was aware of the real position of the Gods. They weren’t omnipotent. Their place in the scheme of things was high, but they were certainly not equal with the One who had created the Universe and the Gods themselves in the first place. Possibly, Forrester had always thought, they could be equated with the indefinite “angels” of the religions that had been popular during his grandfather’s time, sixty years ago, before the return of the Gods. But that was an uncertain theological notion, and Forrester was quite ready to abandon it in the face of good argument to the contrary.
Whatever they were, the Gods were certainly the Gods of Earth now.
The Omnipotent Creator had evidently left it for them to run, while he went about his own mysterious business, far from the understanding or the lives of men. The Gods, omnipotent or not, ran the world and everything in it.
And if, like Forrester, you knew that omnipotence wasn’t their strong point, you just didn’t mention it. It would have been impolite to have done so—like talking about sight to a blind man. And “impolite” was not the only word that covered the case. The Gods had enough power, as everyone knew, to avenge any blasphemies against them. And careless mention of limitations on their power would surely be construed as blasphemy, true or not.
Forrester had never even thought of doing such a thing.
So what, he thought, did the Temple Myrmidons want with him?
He came to the anteroom and went in, seeing the two of them at once. They were big, burly chaps with hard faces, and the pistols that were holstered at their sides looked completely unnecessary. Forrester took a deep breath and went a step forward. There he stopped, staring.
The Myrmidons were strangers to him—and now he understood why. Neither was wearing the shoulder-patch Owl of Minerva/Athena. Both proudly sported the Thunderbolt of Zeus/ Jupiter, the All-Father himself.
Whatever it is, Forrester told himself with a sinking sensation, it’s serious.
One of the Myrmidons looked him up and down in a casual, half-contemptuous way. “You’re William Forrester?”
“That’s right,” Forrester said, knowing that he looked quite calm, and wondering, at the same time, whether or not he would live out the next few minutes. The Myrmidons of Zeus/Jupiter didn’t come around to other temples on unimportant errands. “May I help you?” he went on, feeling foolish.
“Let’s see your ID card, please,” the Myrmidon said in the same tone as before. That puzzled Forrester. He doubted whether examination of credentials was a part of the routine preceding arrest—or execution, for that matter. The usual procedure was, and probably always had been, to act first and apologize later, if at all.
Maybe whatever he’d done had been so important they couldn’t afford to make mistakes.
But did the Myrmidon really think that an imposter could parade around in an acolyte’s tunic in the very Temple of Pallas Athena without being caught by one of the Athenan Myrmidons, or some other acolyte or priest?
Maybe a thing like that could happen in one of the other Temples, Forrester thought. But here at Pallas Athena people took the Goddess’s attribute of wisdom seriously. What the Dionysians might do, he reflected, was impossible to say. Or, for that matter, the Venerans.
But he produced his identity card and handed it to the Myrmidon. It was compared with a card the Myrmidon dug out of his pouch, and the thumbprints on both cards were examined side by side.
After a while, Forrester got his card back.
The Myrmidon said: “We—” and began to cough.
His companion came over to slap him on the back with bone-crushing blows. Forrester watched without changing expression.
Some seconds passed.
Then the Myrmidon choked, swallowed, straightened and said, his face purple: “All this incense. Not like what we’ve got over at the All-Father’s Temple. Enough to choke a man to death.”
Forrester murmured politely.
“Back to business—right?” He favored Forrester with a rather savage-looking smile, and Forrester allowed his own lips to curve gently and respectfully upward.
It didn’t look as if he were going to be killed, after all.
“Important instructions for you,” the Myrmidon said. “From the Pontifex Maximus. And not to be repeated to any mortal—understand?”
Forrester nodded.
“And that means any mortal,” the Myrmidon said. “Girl friend, wife—or don’t you Athenans go in for that sort of thing? Now, up at the All-Father’s Temple, we—”
His companion gave him a sharp dig in the ribs.
“Oh,” the Myrmidon said. “Sure. Well. Instructions not to be repeated. Right?”
“Right,” Forrester said.
Instructions? From the Pontifex Maximus? Secret instructions?
Forrester’s mind spun dizzily. This was no arrest. This was something very special and unique. He tried once more to imagine what it was going to be, and gave it up in wonder.
The Myrmidon produced another card from his pouch. There was nothing on it but the golden Thunderbolt of the All-Father—but that was quite enough.
Forrester accepted the card dumbly.
“You will report to the Tower of Zeus at eighteen hundred hours exactly,” the Myrmidon said. “Got that?”
“You mean today?” Forrester said, and cursed himself for sounding stupid. But the Myrmidon appeared not to have noticed.
“Today, sure,” he said. “Eighteen hundred. Just present this card.”
He stepped back, obviously getting ready to leave. Forrester watched him for one long second, and then burst out: “What do I do after that?”
“Just be a good boy. Do what you’re told. Ask no questions. It’s better that way.”
Forrester thought of six separate replies and settled on a seventh. “All right,” he said.
“And remember,” the Myrmidon said, at the outside door, “don’t mention this to anyone. Not anyone!”
The door banged shut.
Forrester found himself staring at the card he held. He put it away in his case, alongside the ID card. Then, dazed, he went on back to the acolyte’s sacristy, took off his white tunic and put on his street clothes.
What did they want with him at the Tower of Zeus? It didn’t really sound like an arrest. If it had been that, the Myrmidons themselves would have taken him.
So what did the Pontifex Maximus want with William Forrester?
He spent some time considering it, and then, taking a deep breath, he forced it out of his mind. He would know at eighteen hundred, and such were the ways of the Gods that he would not know one second before.
So there was no point in worrying about it
, he told himself. He almost made himself believe it.
But wiping speculation out of his mind left an unwelcome and uneasy vacancy. Forrester replaced it with thought of the morning’s service in the Temple. Such devotion was probably valuable, anyhow, in a spiritual sense. It brought him closer to the Gods.…
The Gods he wanted desperately to be like.
That, he told himself sharply, was foolishness of the most senseless kind.
He blinked it away.
The Goddess Athena had appeared herself at the service—sufficient reason for thinking of it now. The statuesquely beautiful Goddess with her severely swept-back blonde hair and her deep gray eyes was the embodiment of the wisdom and strength for which her worshippers especially prayed. Her beauty was almost unworldly, impossible of existence in a world which contained mortals.
She reminded Forrester, ever so slightly (and, of course, in a reverent way), of Gerda Symes.
There seemed to be a great many forbidden thoughts floating around this day. Resolutely, Forrester went back to thinking about the morning’s service.
The Goddess had appeared only long enough to impart her blessing, but her calm, beautifully controlled contralto voice had brought a sense of peace to everyone in the auditorium. To be doggedly practical, there was no way of knowing whether the Goddess’s presence was an appearance—in person, or an “appearance” by Divine Vision. But that really didn’t matter. The effect was always just the same.
Forrester went on out the front portals of the Temple of Wisdom and down the long, wide steps onto Fifth Avenue. He paid homage with a passing glance to the great Owls flanking the entrance. Symbolic of Athena, they had replaced the stone lions which had formerly stood there.
The street was busy with hurrying crowds, enlivened here and there by Temple Myrmidons—from the All-Father, from Bacchus, from Venus—even one from Pallas Athena herself, a broad-beamed swaggerer whom Forrester knew and disliked. The man came striding up the steps, greeted Forrester with a bare nod, and disappeared at top speed into the Temple.
The Second Randall Garrett Megapack Page 10
