The Second Randall Garrett Megapack

by Randall Garrett

Forrester sighed and glanced south, down toward 34th Street, where the huge Tower of Zeus, a hundred and four stories high, loomed over all the other buildings in the city.

  At eighteen hundred he would be in that tower—for what purpose, he had no idea.

  Well, that was in the future, and he…

  A voice said: “Well! Hello, Bill!”

  Forrester turned, knowing exactly what to expect, and disliking it in advance. The bluff over-heartiness of the voice was matched by the gross and hairy figure that confronted him. In some disarray, and managing to look as if he needed simultaneously a bath, a shave, a disinfecting and a purgative, the figure approached Forrester with a rolling walk that was too flat-footed for anything except an elephant.

  “How’s the Owl-boy today?” said the voice, and the body stuck out a flabby, hairy white hand.

  Forrester winced. “I’m fine,” he said evenly. “And how’s the winebibber?”

  “Good for you,” the figure said. “A little wine for your Stomach’s sake, as good old Bacchus always says. Only we make it a lot, eh?” He winked and nudged Forrester in the ribs.

  “Sure, sure,” Forrester said. He wished desperately that he could take the gross fool and tear him into tastefully arranged pieces. But there was always Gerda. And since this particular idiot happened to be her younger brother, Ed Symes, anything in the nature of violence was unthinkable.

  Gerda’s opinion of her brother was touching, reverent, and—Forrester thought savagely—not in the least borne out by any discoverable facts.

  And a worshipper of Bacchus! Not that Forrester had anything against the orgiastic rites indulged in by the Dionysians, the Panites, the Apollones or even the worst and wildest of them all, the Venerans. If that was how the Gods wanted to be worshipped, then that was how they should be worshipped.

  And, as a matter of fact, it sounded like fun—if, Forrester considered, entirely too public for his taste.

  If he preferred the quieter rites of Athena, or of Juno, Diana or Ceres—and even Ceresians became a little wild during the spring fertility rites, especially in the country, where the farmers depended on her for successful crops—well, that was no more than a personal preference.

  But the idea of Ed Symes involved in a Bacchic orgy was just a little too much for the normal mind, or the normal stomach.

  “Hey,” Ed said suddenly. “Where’s Gerda? Still in the Temple?”

  “I didn’t see her,” Forrester said. There had been a woman who’d looked like her. But that hadn’t been Gerda. She’d have waited for him here.

  And—

  “Funny,” Ed said.

  “Why?” Forrester said. “I didn’t see her. I don’t think she attended the service this morning, that’s all.”

  He wanted very badly to hit Symes. Just once. But he knew he couldn’t.

  First of all, there was Gerda. And then, as an acolyte, he was proscribed by law from brawling. No one would hit an acolyte; and if the acolyte were built like Forrester, striking another man might be the equivalent of murder. One good blow from Forrester’s fist might break the average man’s jaw.

  That was, he discovered, a surprisingly pleasant thought. But he made himself keep still as the fat fool went on.

  “Funny she didn’t attend,” Symes said. “But maybe she’s gotten wise to herself. There was a celebration up at the Temple of Pan in Central Park, starting at midnight, and going on through the morning. Spring Rites. Maybe she went there.”

  “I doubt it,” Forrester said instantly. “That’s hardly her type of worship.”

  “Isn’t it?” Symes said.

  “It doesn’t fit her. That kind of—”

  “I know. Gerda’s like you. A little stuffy.”

  “It’s not being stuffy,” Forrester started to explain. “It’s—”

  “Sure,” Symes said. “Only she’s not as much of a prude as you are. I couldn’t stand her if she were.”

  “On the other hand, she’s not a—”

  “Not an Owl-boy of Owl-boys like you.”

  “Not a drunken blockhead,” Forrester finished triumphantly. “At least she’s got a decent respect for wisdom and learning.”

  Symes stepped back, a movement for which Forrester felt grateful. No matter how far away Ed Symes was, he was still too close.

  “Who you calling a blockhead, buster?” Symes said. His eyes narrowed to piggish little slits.

  Forrester took a deep breath and reminded himself not to hit the other man. “You,” he said, almost mildly. “If brains were radium, you couldn’t make a flicker on a scintillation counter.”

  It was just a little doubtful that Symes understood the insult. But he obviously knew it had been one. His face changed color to a kind of grayish purple, and his hands clenched slowly at his sides. Forrester stood watching him quietly.

  Symes made a sound like Rrr and took a breath. “If you weren’t an acolyte, I’d take a poke at you just to see you bounce.”

  “Sure you would,” Forrester agreed politely.

  Symes went Rrr again and there was a longer silence. Then he said: “Not that I’d hit you anyhow, buster. It’d go against my grain. Not the acolyte business—if you didn’t look so much like Bacchus, I’d take the chance.”

  Forrester’s jaw ached. In a second he realized why; he was clenching his teeth tightly. Perhaps it was true that he did look a little like Bacchus, but not enough for Ed Symes to kid about it.

  Symes grinned at him. Symes undoubtedly thought the grin gave him a pleasant and carefree expression. It didn’t. “Suppose I go have a look for Gerda myself,” he said casually, heading up the stairs toward the temple entrance. “After all, you’re so busy looking at books, you might have missed her.”

  And what, Forrester asked himself, was the answer to that—except a punch in the mouth?

  It really didn’t matter, anyhow. Symes was on his way into the temple, and Forrester could just ignore him.

  But, damn it, why did he let the young idiot get his goat that way? Didn’t he have enough self-control just to ignore Symes and his oafish insults?

  Forrester supposed sadly that he didn’t. Oh, well, it just made another quality he had to pray to Athena for.

  Then he glanced at his wristwatch and stopped thinking about Symes entirely.

  It was twelve-forty-five. He had to be at work at thirteen hundred.

  Still angry, underneath the sudden need for speed, he turned and sprinted toward the subway.

  * * * *

  “And thus,” Forrester said tiredly, “having attempted to make himself the equal of the Gods, Man was given a punishment befitting such arrogance.” He paused and took a breath, surveying the twenty-odd students in the classroom (and some, he told himself wryly, very odd) with a sort of benign boredom.

  History I, Introductory Survey of World History, was a simple enough course to teach, but its very simplicity was its undoing, Forrester thought. The deadly dullness of the day-after-day routine was enough to wear out the strongest soul.

  Freshmen, too, seemed to get stupider every year. Certainly, when he’d been seventeen, he’d been different altogether. Studious, earnest, questioning…

  Then he stopped himself and grinned. He’d probably seemed even worse to his own instructors.

  Where had he been? Slowly, he picked up the thread. There was a young blonde girl watching him eagerly from a front seat. What was her name? Forrester tried to recall it and couldn’t. Well, this was only the first day of term. He’d get to know them all soon enough—well enough, anyhow, to dislike most of them.

  But the eager expression on the girl’s face unnerved him a little. The rest of the class wasn’t paying anything like such strict attention. As a matter of fact, Forrester suspected two young boys in the back of being in a trance.

  Well, he could stop that. But…

  She was really quite attractive, Forrester told himself. Of course, she was nothing but a fresh, pretty, eager seventeen-year-old, with a figure that… />
  She was, Forrester reminded himself sternly, a student.

  And he was supposed to be an instructor.

  He cleared his throat. “Man went hog-wild with his new-found freedom from divine guidance,” he said. “Woman did, too, as a matter of fact.”

  Now what unholy devil had made him say that? It wasn’t a part of the normal lecture for first day of the new term. It was—well, it was just a little risqué for students. Some of their parents might complain, and…

  But the girl in the front row was smiling appreciatively. I wonder what she’s doing in an Introductory course, Forrester thought, leaping with no evidence at all to the conclusion that the girl’s mind was much too fine and educated to be subjected to the general run of classes. Private tutoring… he began, and then cut himself off sharply, found his place in the lecture again and went on:

  “When the Gods decided to sit back and observe for a few thousand years, they allowed Man to go his merry way, just to teach him a lesson.”

  The boys in the back of the room were definitely in a trance.

  Forrester sighed. “And the inevitable happened,” he said. “From the eighth century B.C., Old Style, until the year 1971 A.D., Old Style, Man’s lot went from bad to worse. Without the Gods to guide him he bred bigger and bigger wars and greater and greater empires—beginning with the conquests of the mad Alexander of Macedonia and culminating in the opposing Soviet and American Spheres of Influence during the last century.”

  Spheres of Influence.…

  Forrester’s gaze fell on the blonde girl again. She certainly had a well-developed figure. And she did seem so eager and attentive. He smiled at her tentatively. She smiled back.

  “Urg…” he said aloud.

  The class didn’t seem to notice. That, Forrester told himself sourly, was probably because they weren’t listening.

  He swallowed, wrenched his gaze from the girl, and said: “The Soviet-American standoff—for that is what it was—would most probably have resulted in the destruction of the human race.” It had no effect on the class. The destruction of the human race interested nobody. “However,” Forrester said gamely, “this form of insanity was too much for the Gods to allow. They therefore—”

  The bell rang, signifying the end of the period. Forrester didn’t know whether to feel relieved or annoyed.

  “All right,” he said. “That’s all for today. Your first assignment will be to read and carefully study Chapters One and Two of the textbook.”

  Silence gave way to a clatter of noise as the students began to file out. Forrester saw the front-row blonde rise slowly and gracefully. Any doubts he might have entertained (that is, he told himself wryly, any entertaining doubts) about her figure were resolved magnificently. He felt a little sweat on the palm of his hands, told himself that he was being silly, and then answered himself that the hell he was.

  The blonde gave him a slow, sweet smile. The smile promised a good deal more than Forrester thought likely of fulfillment.

  He smiled back.

  It would have been impolite, he assured himself, not to have done so.

  The girl left the room, and a remaining crowd of students hurried out after her. The crowd included two blinking boys, awakened by the bell from what had certainly been a trance. Forrester made a mental note to inquire after their records and to speak with the boys himself when he got the chance.

  No sense in disturbing a whole class to discipline them.

  He stacked his papers carefully, taking a good long time about it in order to relax himself and let his palms dry. His mind drifted back to the blonde, and he reined it in with an effort and let it go exploring again on safer ground. The class itself…actually, he thought, he rather liked teaching. In spite of the petty irritations that came from driving necessary knowledge into the heads of stubbornly unwilling students, it was a satisfying and important job. And, of course, it was an honor to hold the position he did. Ever since it had been revealed that the goddess Columbia was another manifestation of Pallas Athena herself, the University had grown tremendously in stature.

  And after all…

  Whistling faintly behind his teeth, Forrester zipped up his filled briefcase and went out into the hall. He ignored the masses of students swirling back and forth in the corridors, and, finding a stairway, went up to his second-floor office.

  He fumbled for his key, found it, and opened the ground-glass door.

  Then, stepping in, he came to a full stop.

  The girl had been waiting for him—Maya Wilson.

  * * * *

  And now here she was, talking about the Goddess of Love. Forrester gulped.

  “Anyhow,” he said at random, “I’m an Athenan.” He remembered that he had already said that. Did it matter? “But what does all this have to do with your passing, or not passing, the course?” he went on.

  “Oh,” Maya said. “Well, I prayed to Aphrodite for help in passing the course. And the Temple Priestess told me I’d have to make a sacrifice to the Goddess. In a way.”

  “A sacrifice?” Forrester gulped. “You mean—”

  “Not the First Sacrifice,” she laughed. “That was done with solemn ceremonies when I was seventeen.”

  “Now, wait a minute—”

  “Please,” Maya said. “Won’t you listen to me?”

  Forrester looked at her limpid blue eyes and her lovely face. “Sure. Sorry.”

  “Well, then, it’s like this. If a person loves a subject, it’s that much easier to understand it. And the Goddess has promised me that if I love the instructor, I’ll love the subject. It’s like sympathetic magic—see?”

  Her explanation was so brisk and simple that Forrester recoiled. “Hold on,” he said. “Just hold your horses. Do you mean you’re in love with me?”

  Maya smiled. “I think so,” she said, and very suddenly she was on Forrester’s side of the desk, pressing up against him. Her hand caressed the back of his neck and her fingers tangled in his hair. “Kiss me and let’s find out.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Resistance, such as it was, crumbled in a hurry. Forrester complied with fervor. An endless time went by, punctuated only by short breaths between the kisses. Forrester’s hands began to rove.

  So did Maya’s.

  She began to unbutton his shirt.

  Not to be outdone, his own fingers got busy with buttons, zippers, hooks and the other temporary fastenings with which female clothing is encumbered. He was swimming in a red sea of passion and the Egyptians were nowhere in sight. Absently, he got an arm out of his shirt, and at the same time somehow managed to undo the final button of a series. Maya’s blouse fell free.

  Forrester felt like stout Cortez.

  He pulled the girl to him, feeling the surprisingly cool touch of her flesh against his. Under the blouse and skirt, he was discovering, she wore very little, and that was just as well; nagging thoughts about the doubtful privacy of his office were beginning to assail him.

  Nevertheless, he persevered. Maya was as eager as he had ever dreamed of being, and their embrace reached a height of passion and began to climb and climb to hitherto unknown peaks of sensation.

  Forrester was busy for some time discovering things he had never known, and a lot of things he had known before, but never so well. Every motion was met with a reaction that was more than equal and opposite, every sensation unlocked the doors to whole galleries of new sensations. Higher and higher went his emotional thermometer, higher and higher and higher and higher and…

  Very suddenly, he discovered how to breathe again, and it was over.

  “My goodness,” Maya said after a brief resting spell. “I suppose I must love you for sure. My goodness!”

  “Sure,” Forrester said. “And now—if you’ll pardon the indelicacy and hand me my pants—” he found he was still puffing a little and paused until he could go on—” I’ve got an appointment I simply can’t afford to miss.”

  “Oh, all right,” Maya said. “But Mr. Fo
rrester—”

  He rolled over and looked at her while he began dressing. “I suppose it would be all right if you called me Bill,” he said carefully.

  “In class, too?”

  Forrester shook his head. “No,” he said. “Not in class.”

  “But what I wanted to ask—”

  “Yes?” Forrester said.

  “Mr.—Bill—do you think I’ll pass Introductory World History?”

  Forrester considered that question. There was certainly a wide variety of answers he could construct. When he had finished buttoning his shirt he had decided on one.

  “I don’t see why not,” he said, “so long as you complete your assignments regularly.”

  * * * *

  Nearly two hours later, feeling somewhat light-headed but otherwise in perfectly magnificent fettle, Forrester found himself on the downtown subway. He’d showered and changed and he was whistling a gay little tune as he checked his watch.

  The time was five minutes to five. He had just over an hour before he was due to appear at the Tower of Zeus All-Father, but it was better to be a few minutes early than even a single second late.

  The train ride was a little bumpy, but Forrester didn’t really mind. He was pretty well past being irritated by anything. Nevertheless, he was speculating with just a faint unease as to what the Pontifex Maximus wanted with him. What was in store for him at the strange appointment?

  And why all the secrecy?

  His brooding was interrupted right away. At 100th Street, a bearded old man got on and sat down next to him. He nudged Forrester in the ribs and muttered: “Look at that now, Daddy-O. Look at that.”

  “What?” Forrester said, constrained into conversation.

  “Damn subways, that’s what,” the old man said. “Worse every year. Bumpier and slower and worse. Just look around, Daddy-O. Look around.”

  “I wouldn’t quite say—” Forrester began, but the old man gave him another dig in the ribs and cut in:

  “Wouldn’t say, wouldn’t say,” he muttered. “Listen, man, there ain’t been an improvement in years. You realize that?”

  “Well, I—”

  “No progress, man, not in more than half a century. Listen, when I was a teen king—War Councilor for the Boppers, I was, and let me tell you that was big time, Daddy-O—when I was a teen king, we were going places. Going places for real. Mars. Venus. We were going to have spaceships, man.”