to an absolute stranger. He looked like an oafish clod, even viewed objectively, and Forrester was making no efforts in that direction. He had one arm around Gerda’s waist and he was grinning up at her, and, sideways, at Forrester with a look that made them co-conspirators in what was certainly planned to be Gerda’s seduction. Forrester didn’t like the idea. As a matter of fact, he hated it more than he could possibly say.
But all he could do was trust to Gerda’s own doubtless sterling good sense. She couldn’t possibly prefer a lout like her current escort to good old Bill Forrester, could she?
On the other hand, she thought Bill Forrester was dead. She’d had to think that; when he became Dionysus the Lesser, he couldn’t just disappear. He had to die officially—and, as far as Gerda knew, the death wasn’t just an official formality.
With Bill Forrester dead, then, had she turned to the oaf for comfort? He didn’t look very comforting, Forrester thought. He looked like a damned outrage on the face of the Earth. Forrester disliked him on first sight, and knew perfectly well that any future sights would only increase the dislike.
It was the third face, though that explained everything.
The third face was as unmistakable as Gerda’s, though in an entirely different way. It was fleshy and pasty, and it belonged, of course, to Gerda’s lovable brother Ed. Forrester saw everything in one flash of understanding.
Ed Symes obviously had enough pull to get his sister invited to the Bacchanal. And from the looks of Gerda, he hadn’t let the matter rest there. She was holding a half-filled plastic mug of wine in one hand—a mug with the picture of Dionysus stamped on it, which for some reason increased Forrester’s outrage—and she was trying her best to look as if she were reveling.
From the looks of her, Ed had managed to get her about eight inches this side of half-pickled. And from the horribly cheerful look on Ed’s countenance, he wasn’t about to stop at the half-pickled mark, either.
Of course, from Ed’s point of view—and Forrester told himself sternly that he had to be fair about this whole thing—from Ed’s point of view there was nothing wrong in what was happening. He wanted to cheer Gerda up (undoubtedly the news of the Forrester demise had been quite a shock to her, poor girl), and what better way than to introduce her to his own religion, the best of all possible religions? The Autumn Bacchanal must have looked like the perfect time and place for that introduction, and Gerda’s escort, a friend of Ed’s—somehow Forrester had to think of him as Ed’s friend; it was clearly not possible that he was Gerda’s—had been brought along to help cheer the girl up and show her the advantages of worshipping Dionysus.
Unfortunately, the advantages hadn’t turned out to be all that had been expected of them. Because now Gerda had seen Forrester alive and—
Wait a minute, Forrester told himself.
Gerda hadn’t seen William Forrester at all.
She had seen just what she expected to see; Dionysus, God of Wine. There was no reason for him to shrink from her, or try to hide. Just because he was walking along with seven beautiful girls, drinking about sixteen times the consumption of any normal right-thinking fish, and carousing like the most unprincipled of men, he didn’t have to be ashamed of himself.
He was only doing his job.
And Gerda did not know that he wasn’t Dionysus.
The thought made him feel a little better, but it saddened him, too, just a bit. He set himself grimly and shouted: “Forward!” once more. To his own ears, his voice lacked conviction, but the crowd didn’t seem to notice. The cheered frantically. Forrester wished they would all go away.
He started forward. His foot found a large pebble that hadn’t been there before, and he performed the magnificent feat of tripping on it. He flailed the air frantically, and managed to regain his balance. Then he was back on his feet, clutching at the girls. His big left toe hurt, but he ignored the agony bravely.
He had to think of something to do, and fast. The crowd had seen him stumble—and that just didn’t happen to a God. It wouldn’t have happened to him, either except for Gerda.
He got his mind off Gerda with an effort and thought about what to do to cover his slip. In a moment he had it. He swore a great oath, empurpling the air. Then he bent down and picked up the stone. He held it aloft for a second, and then threw it. Slowly and carefully he pointed his index finger at it, extending it and raising his thumb like a little boy playing Stick-’Em-Up.
“Zap,” he said mildly, cocking the thumb forward.
A crackling, searing bolt of blue-white energy leaped out of the tip of his index finger in a pencil-thin beam. It sped toward the falling pebble, speared it and wrapped it in coruscating splendor. Then the pebble exploded, scattering into a fine display of flying dust.
The crowd stopped moving and singing immediately.
Only the musicians, too intent on their noisemaking to see what had gone on, went on playing. But the crowd, having seen Forrester’s display and heard his oath, was as silent as a collection of statues. When a God became angry, each was obviously thinking, there was absolutely no telling what was going to happen. Foxholes, some of them might have told themselves, would definitely be a good idea. But, of course, there weren’t any foxholes in Central Park. There was nothing to do but stand very still, and hope you weren’t noticed, and hope for the best.
Even Gerda, Forrester saw, had stopped, her face still, her hand lifted in a half-finished wave, the plastic cup forgotten.
I’ve got to do something, Forrester thought. I can’t let this kind of thing go on.
He thought fast, spun around and pointed directly at Ed Symes, standing in the water below the bridge.
“You, there!” he bellowed.
Symes turned a delicate fish-belly white. Against this basic color, his pimples stood out strongly, making, Forrester thought, a rather unusual and somewhat striking effect. The man looked as if he wished he could sink out of sight in the ankle-deep water.
His mouth opened two or three times. Forrester waited, getting a good deal of pleasure out of the simple sight. Finally Symes spoke. “Me?”
“Certainly you! You look like a tough young specimen.”
Symes tried to grin. The effect was ghastly. “I do?” He said tentatively.
“Of course you do. Your God tells you so. Do you doubt him?”
“Doubt? No. Absolutely not. Never. Wouldn’t think of it. Tough young specimen. That’s what I am. Tough. And young. Tough young specimen. Certainly. You bet.”
“Good,” Forrester said. “Now let’s see you in action.”
Symes took a deep breath. He seemed to be savoring it, as if he thought it was going to be his very last. “Wh—what do you want me to do?”
“I want you to pick up another stone and throw it. Let’s see how high you can get it.”
Symes was obviously afraid to move from his spot in the water. Instead of going back to the land, he fished around near his feet and finally managed to come up with a pebble almost as big as his fist. He looked at it doubtfully.
“Throw!” Forrester said in a voice like thunder.
Symes, galvanized, threw. It flew up in the air. Forrester drew a careful bead on it, went zap again with the pointed finger, and blasted the rock into dust.
The silence hung on.
Forrester laughed. “Not a bad throw for a mortal! And a good trick, too—a fine display!” He faced the crowd. “Now, there—what do you say to the entertainment your God provides? Wasn’t that fun?”
Well, naturally it was, if Dionysus said so. A great trick, as a matter of fact. And a perfectly wonderful display. The crowd agreed immediately, giving a long rousing cheer. Forrester waved at them, and then turned to a squad of Myrmidons