but somehow Forrester managed to resist it. He had been told that he had to be extremely careful in the use of his powers, and he had a pretty good idea that he wouldn’t be able to justify blasting Alvin. Viewed objectively, there was nothing wrong with what the oaf was doing. He was merely following his religion as he understood it, and the religion was a very simple one: when at an orgy, have an orgy.
Gerda didn’t have to give in if she didn’t want to, Forrester thought. He tried very hard to make himself believe that.
But his finger was still pointed at the man. He didn’t stop his powers entirely; he merely throttled them down so that only a tiny fraction of the neural energy at his command came into play. The energy that came from the tip of his finger made no noise and cast no light. It was not a killing blow.
Invisibly, it leaped across the intervening space and hit Alvin Sherdlap squarely on the nose.
The results were eminently satisfactory. Alvin uttered a sharp cry, let go of Gerda and fell over backward. His legs stood up straight in the air for a second, and then came down to hit the ground. He was silent. Gerda stared down at him, too tired and confused to make any coherent picture out of what was going on.
Forrester sighed happily to himself. That, he thought, ought to take care of Alvin for a while.
“Lord Dionysus,” Kathy asked in that same innocent tone, “what are you pointing at out there?”
The girl was decidedly irritating, Forrester thought. “Pointing?” he said. “Ah, yes.” He thought fast. “My target-tosser. I fear that his religious fervor has led to his being overcome.”
The girls all turned round to look but, of course, Forrester thought, they could see nothing at all in the darkness.
“My goodness,” Bette said.
“But if he’s unconscious,” Kathy put in, “why were you pointing at him?”
Forrester told himself that the next time the Sabbatical Bacchanal was held, he would see to it that an intelligence test was given to every candidate for Dionysian Escort, and anyone who scored as high on it as Kathy would be automatically disqualified.
He had to think of some excuse for looking at the man. And then he had it—the game he had planned. It was really quite a nice little idea.
“I hate to see the poor mortal miss out on the rest of the evening,” Forrester said, “even if he is asleep now. And I think we may have a use for him.”
He gestured gently with one hand.
Gerda and Alvin Sherdlap didn’t even notice what was happening. They were much too busy arguing, Alvin claiming that somebody had slapped him on the nose—“and pretty hard, too, let me tell you!”—and Gerda swearing she hadn’t done it. The fact that Ed Symes’s snores were fading quietly into the distance dawned on neither of them.
But Ed was in flight. He rose five feet above the ground, still unconscious and snoring, and sped unerringly across the air, like a large, fat arrow shot from a bow, in the direction of Forrester and the circle of girls.
He appeared overhead suddenly, and Forrester controlled him so that he drifted downward as delicately as an overweight snowflake, eddying in the slight breeze while the girls gaped at him. Forrester allowed the body to drop the last six inches out of control, so that Ed Symes landed with a heavy thump in the center of the circle. But no harm was done. Ed was very far gone indeed; he merely snored on.
“There,” Forrester said.
Millicent blinked. “Where?” she said. “Him?”
“Certainly,” Forrester said in a pleased tone. “He’s a good deal too noisy, though, don’t you think?”
“He snores a lot,” Judy offered in a tentative voice, “if that’s what you mean, Lord Dionysus.”
“Exactly. And I don’t see any reason to put up with it. Instead, well just put him in stasis for a little while, and that’ll keep him quiet.” Again he waved one hand, almost carelessly. Ed Symes’s snores vanished immediately, leaving the world a cleaner, purer, quieter place to live in, and his body became as rigid as if he were a statue.
“There,” Forrester said again with satisfaction.
“Now what?” Kathy asked.
“Now we straighten him out.”
One more pass, and Ed Symes’s arms were at his sides, his legs stretched straight out. Only his stomach projected above the rigid lines of his body. Forrester thought he had never seen a more pleasing sight.
Dorothy gasped. “Is he—is he dead?”
Forrester looked at her reprovingly. “Dead? Now what would I do that for, after he’s been so helpful and all?”
“I don’t know,” she muttered.
“Well,” Forrester said, “he’s not dead. He’s just in stasis—in a state of totally suspended animation. As soon as I take the spell off, he’ll be all right. But I don’t think I’ll take it off just yet. I’ve got plans for my little target-tosser.”
He reached over and touched the stiff body. It seemed to rise a fraction of an inch, floating on the tips of the grass. The wind stirred it a little, but it didn’t float away.
“I took some of his weight off,” Forrester explained, “so he’ll be a little easier to handle.”
Now Ed Symes was behaving as if he were a statue carved out of cork. With a quick flip, Forrester turned the statue over. The effect was exactly what he wanted. Ed did not touch the grass at any point except one: the point where his protuberant stomach most protruded. Fore and aft, the rest of him was balanced stiffly in the air.
Forrester gazed at the sight, feeling fulfilled. “Now,” he said with a note of decision in his voice, “we are going to play Spin-the-Bottle!”
The girls giggled and laughed.
“You mean with him?” Bette said.
Forrester sighed. “That’s right,” he said patiently. “With him.”
He got into position and looked up at the girls. “This one’s just for practice, so we can all see how it works.” He gave Symes’s extended foot a little push.
Whee! he thought. Round and round the gentleman went, spinning quietly on his stomach, revolving in a merry fashion while the girls and Forrester watched silently. At last he slowed and stopped, his nose pointing at Bette and his toes at Dorothy.
“Oh, my!” Dorothy said. “He’s pointing at me!”
“He is not!” Bette said decisively. “His head points my way!”
“But he—”
“Temper, temper,” Forrester said. “No arguments. That one didn’t count, anyhow—it was just to see how he worked. And I do think he works very nicely, don’t you?”
“Oh, yes, Lord Dionysus,” Kathy said. There was the same undertone in her voice, as if she were silently laughing at everything. She was, he told himself, an extremely unlikable young woman.
The other girls agreed in a chorus. They were still studying the stiff body of Ed Symes. His stomach had made a little depression in the grass as he whirled, and he was now nicely bedded down for a real spin. Forrester rubbed his hands together.
“Fine,” he said. “Now, all of you are going to be judges.”
“Me, too?” Bette asked.
Forrester nodded. “The head will be the determining factor. If our little Mr. Bottle’s head points to any one of you, that is the one I’ll choose first.”
“See?” Bette said. “I told you it was his head.”
“Well, I couldn’t tell before anybody said so,” Dorothy said. “And anyhow,