was Hermes/ Mercury in disguise—he took the name in honor of a physician of the time. He would have raised the man to demi-Godhood, but Aesculapius died unexpectedly, and we thought taking his ‘spirit’ into the Pantheon was good public relations.”
“How about the others?” Forrester said. “They weren’t all disguises, were they?”
“Of course not. Some of them were demi-Gods, just like yourself. Their power was derived, like yours, from the Pantheon instead of directly through the machine. And then there were the satyrs and centaurs, and suchlike beings. That was public relations, too—mainly Zeus’ idea, I understand. The original Zeus, of course.”
“Of course,” Forrester said.
“The satyrs and such were artificial life-forms, created, maintained and controlled by the machine itself. It’s equipped with what you might call a cybernetic brain—although that’s pretty inadequate as a description. Vulcan could do a better job of explaining.”
“Perfectly all right. I don’t understand that kind of thing anyhow.”
“Well, in that case, let me put it this way. The machine controlled these artificial forms, but they could be taken over by any one of the Gods or demi-Gods for special purposes. As I say, it was public relations—and a good way to keep the populace impressed—and under control.”
“The creatures aren’t around nowadays,” Forrester pointed out.
“Nowadays we don’t need them,” Diana said. “There are other methods—better public relations, I suppose.”
Forrester didn’t know he was going to ask his next question until he heard himself doing so. But it was the question he really wanted to ask; he knew that as soon as he knew he asked it.
“Why?” he said.
Diana looked at him with a puzzled expression. “Why? What do you mean?”
“Why go on being Gods? Why dominate humanity?”
“I suppose I could answer your question with another question—why not? But I won’t. Instead, let me remind you of some things. Look what we’ve done during the last century. The great wars that wrecked Europe—you don’t see any possibility of more of those, do you? And the threat of atomic war is gone, too, isn’t it?”
“Well, yes,” Forrester said, “but—”
“But we still have wars,” Diana said. “Sure we do. The male animal just wouldn’t be happy if he didn’t have a chance to go out and get himself blown to bits once in a while. Don’t ask me to explain that—I’m not a male.”
Forrester agreed silently. Diana was not a male. It was the most understated statement he had ever heard.
“But anyhow,” Diana said, “they want wars, so they have wars. Mars sees that the wars stay small and keep within the Martian Conventions, though, so any really widespread damage or destruction, or any wanton attacks on civilians, are a thing of the past. And it’s not only wars, kid. It’s everything.”
“What do you mean, everything?”
“Man needs a god, a personal god. When he doesn’t have one ready to hand, he makes one up—and look at the havoc that has caused. A god of vengeance, a god who cheers you on to kill your enemies.… You’ve studied history. Tell me about the gods of various nations. Tell me about Thor and Baal and the original bloodthirsty Yahweh. People need gods.”
“Now wait a minute,” Forrester objected. “The Chinese—”
“Oh, sure,” Diana said. “There are exceptions. But you can’t bank on the exceptions. If you want a reasonably safe, sane and happy humanity, then you’d better make sure your gods are not going to start screaming for war against the neighbors or against the infidels or against—well, against anybody and everybody. There’s only one way to make sure, kid. We’ve found that way. We are the Gods.”
Forrester digested that one slowly. “It sounds great, but it’s pretty altruistic. And while I don’t want to impugn anybody’s motives, it does seem to me that—”
“That we ought to be getting something out of it ourselves, above and beyond the pure joy of helping humanity. Sure. You’re perfectly right. And we do get something out of it.”
“Like what?”
Diana grinned. She looked more like a tomboy than ever before. “Fun,” she said. “And you know it. Don’t tell me you didn’t get a kick out of playing God at the Bacchanal.”
“Well,” Forrester confessed, “yes.” He sighed. “And I guess that Bacchanal is going to be the one really high spot in a very shortened sort of life.”
Diana sat upright. “What are you talking about?”
“What else would I be talking about? The Bacchanal. You know what happened. You must know—everybody must by now. Mars is probably demanding my head from Hera right now. Unless he’s got more complicated ideas like taking me apart limb by limb. I remember he mentioned that.”
Diana stood up and came over to Forrester. “Why would Mars do something like that and especially now? And what makes you think Hera would go along with him if he did?”
“Why not? Now that I’ve failed my tests—”
“Failed?” Diana cried. “You haven’t failed!”
Forrester stood up shakily. “Of course I have. After what happened at the Bacchanal, I—”
“Don’t pay any attention to that,” Diana said. “Mars is a louse. Always has been, I hear. Nobody likes him. As a matter of fact, you’ve just passed your finals. The last test was to see if you could figure out who we were—and you’ve done that, haven’t you?”
There was a long, taut silence.
Then Diana laughed. “Your face looks the way mine must have, over three thousand years ago!”
“What are you talking about?” Still dazed, he wasn’t quite sure he had heard her rightly.
“When they told me the same thing. After the original Diana was killed in a ‘hunting accident’—frankly, she seems to have been too independent to suit Hera—and I passed my own finals, I—”
She stopped.
“Now don’t look at me like that,” Diana said. “And pull yourself together, because we’ve got to get to the Final Investiture. But it’s all true. I’m a substitute too.”
PAGAN PASSIONS [Part 2]
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Great God Dionysus, Lord of the Vine, Ruler of the Revels, Master of the Planting and the Harvest, Bestower of the Golden Touch, Overseer of the Poor, Comforter of the Worker and Patron of the Drunkard, sat silently in a cheap bar on Lower Third Avenue, New York, slowly imbibing his seventh brandy-and-soda. It tasted anything but satisfactory as it went down; he preferred vodka or even gin, but after all, he asked himself, if a God couldn’t be loyal to his own products, then who could?
He was dressed in an inexpensive brown suit, and his face did not look like that of Dionysus, or even of William Forrester. Though neatly turned out, he looked a little like an out-of-work bookkeeper. But it was obvious that he hadn’t been out of work for very long.
Hell of a note, he thought, when a God has to skulk in some cheap bar just because some other God has it in for him.
But that, unfortunately, was the way Mars was. It didn’t matter to him that none of what happened had been Forrester’s fault. In the first place, Forrester hadn’t known that the girl at the Bacchanal had been Venus until it was much too late for apologies. In the second place, he hadn’t even picked her; he’d kept his promise not to use his powers on the spinning figure of Mr. Bottle Symes. But Venus had made no such promise. Venus had rigged the game.