William Forrester sat, quite alone, in the room which had been given him
on Mount Olympus. He stared out of the window, a little smaller than the
window in Venus' rooms, at the Grecian plain far below, without actually
seeing. There was no vertigo this time; small matters like that couldn't
bother him.
The whole room was rather a small one, as Gods' rooms went, but it had
the same varicolored shifting walls, the same furniture that appeared
when you approached it. Forrester was beginning to get used to it now,
and he didn't know if it was going to do him any good.
He peered down, trying to discern the patrolling Myrmidons around the
base and lower slopes of the mountain, placed there to discourage
overeager climbers from trying to reach the home of the Gods. Of course
he couldn't see them, and after a while he lost interest again. Matters
were too serious to allow time for that kind of game.
The Autumn Bacchanal was over, a thing of the past, on the way to the
distortion of legend. Forrester's greatest triumph had ended--in his
greatest fiasco.
He closed his eyes as he sat in his room, the fluctuating colors on the
walls going unappreciated. He had nothing to do now except wait for the
final judgment of the Gods.
At first he had been terrified. But terror could only last so long, and,
as the time ticked by, the idea of that coming judgment had almost
stopped troubling his mind. Either he had passed the tests or he hadn't.
There was no point in worrying about the inevitable. He felt
anesthetized, numb to any sensation of personal danger. There was
nothing whatever he could do. The Gods had him; very well, let the Gods
worry about what to do with him.
Freed, his mind turned over and over a problem that seemed new to him at
first. Gradually, he realized it wasn't new at all; it had been
somewhere in the back of his thoughts from the very first, when Venus
had told him that he had been chosen as a double for Dionysus, so many
months ago. It seemed like years to Forrester, and yet, at the same
time, like no more than hours. So much had happened, and so much had
changed....
But the question had remained, waiting until he could look at it and
work with it. Now he could face that strange doubt in his mind, the
doubt that had colored everything since his introduction to the Gods,
that had grown as his training in demi-Godhood had progressed, and that
was now, for the first time, coming to full consciousness. Every time it
had come near the surface, before this day, he had expelled it from his
mind, forcefully getting rid of it without realizing fully that he was
doing so.
And perhaps, he thought, the doubt had begun even earlier than that.
Perhaps he had always doubted, and never allowed himself to think about
the doubt. The floor of his mind seemed to open and he was falling,
falling....
But where the doubt had begun was unimportant now. It was present, it
had grown; that was all that mattered. He could find facts to feed the
doubt and strengthen it, and he looked at the facts one by one:
First there was the angry conversation between Mars and Venus, on the
night of the Bacchanal.
He could still hear what Mars had said:
"_... worse than your predecessor._"
And then he'd shut Venus up before she gave away too much--realizing,
maybe, that he had given away a good deal himself. That one little
sentence was enough to bring everything into question, Forrester
thought.
He had wondered why it had been necessary to have a double for Dionysus,
but he hadn't actually thought about it; maybe he hadn't wanted to think
about it. But now, with the notion of a "predecessor" for Venus in his
mind, he _had_ to think about it, and the only conclusion he could come
to was a disturbing one. It did more than disturb him, as a matter of
fact--it frightened him. He wanted desperately to find some flaw in the
conclusion he faced, because he feared it even more than he feared the
coming judgment of the Pantheon.
But there wasn't any flaw. The facts meshed together entirely too well
to be an accidental pattern.
In the first place, he thought, why had he been picked for the job? He
was a nobody, of no importance, with no special gifts. Why did he
deserve the honor of taking his place beside Hercules and Achilles and
Odysseus and the other great heroes? Forrester knew he wasn't any hero.
But what gave him his standing?
And, he went on, there was a second place. In the months of his training
he had met fourteen of the Gods--all of them, except for Dionysus. Now,
what kind of sense did that make? Anyone who's going to have a double
usually trains the double himself, if it's at all possible. Or, at the
very least, he allows the double to watch his actions, so that the
double can do a really competent job of imitation.
And if an imitation is all that's needed, why not hire an actor instead
of a history professor?
Vulcan had told him: "You were picked not merely for your physical
resemblance to Dionysus, but your psychological resemblance as well."
That had to be true, if only because, as far as Forrester could see,
nobody had the slightest reason to lie about it. But why should it be
true? What advantage did the Gods get out of that "psychological
resemblance"? All he was supposed to be was a double--and anybody who
_looked_ like Dionysus would be accepted _as_ Dionysus by the people.
The "psychological resemblance" didn't have a single thing to do with
it.
Mars, Venus, Vulcan--even Zeus had dropped clues. Zeus had referred to
him as a "substitute for Dionysus."
A substitute, he realized with a kind of horror, was not at all the same
thing as a double.
The answer was perfectly clear, but there were even more facts to
bolster it. Why had he been tested, for instance, _after_ he had been
made a demi-God? In spite of what Vulcan had said, was he slated for
further honors if he passed the new tests? He was sure that Vulcan had
been telling the truth as far as he'd gone--but it hadn't been the whole
truth. Forrester was certain of that now.
And what was it that Venus had said during that argument with Mars?
Something about not killing Forrester, because then they would have to
"get another--"
Another _what_?
Another _substitute_?
No, there was no escape from the simple and obvious conclusion. Dionysus
was either missing, which was bad enough, or something much worse.
He was dead.
Forrester shivered. The idea of an immortal God dying was, in one way,
as horrible a notion as he could imagine. But in another way, it seemed
to make a good deal of sense. As far as plain William Forrester had been
concerned, the contradiction in the notion of a dead immortal would have
made it ridiculous to start with. But the demi-God Dionysus had a
somewhat different slant on things.
After all, as Vulcan had told him, a demi-God could die. And if that was
true, then why couldn't a God die too? Perhaps it would take quite a lot
to kill a God--but the difference would be one of degree, not of kind.
It seemed wholly logical. And it led, Forrester saw, to a new
conclusion, one that required a little less effort to face than he
thought it would. It should have shaken the foundations of his childhood
and left him dizzy, but somehow it didn't. How long, he asked himself,
had he been secretly doubting the fact that the Gods were Gods?
At least in the sense they pretended to be, the "Gods" were not gods at
all. They were--something else.
But what? Where did they come from?
Were they actually the Gods of ancient Greece, as they claimed?
Forrester wanted to throw that claim out with the rest, but when he
thought things over he didn't see why he should. To an almost
indestructible being, three thousand years may only be a long time.
So the Gods actually were "Gods," at least as far as longevity went. But
the decision didn't get him very far; there were still a lot of
questions unanswered, and no way that he could see of answering them.
Or, rather, there was one way, but it was hellishly dangerous. He had no
business even thinking about. He was in enough hot water already.
Nevertheless....
What more harm could he do to his chances? After the Bacchanal fiasco,
there was probably a sentence of death hanging over his head anyhow. And
they couldn't do any more to him than kill him.
It was ridiculous, he told himself, with a return of caution and sanity.
But the notion came back, nagging at his mind, and at last it took a new
form.
The Gods had the rest of the information he needed. He had to go to one
of them--but which one?
His first thought was Venus. But, after a moment of thought, he ruled
her regretfully out as a possibility. After all, there was Mars' mention
of her "predecessor." If that meant anything, it meant that the current
Venus wasn't the original one. She would have a lot less information
than one of the original Gods.
_If there were any originals left...._
He tabled that thought hurriedly and went on. Vulcan had told him at
least a part of the truth, and Vulcan looked like a good bet. Forrester
didn't like the idea of bearding the artisan in his workshop; it made
him feel uncomfortable, and after a while he put his finger on the
reason. His little liaison with Venus made him feel guilty. There was,
he knew, no real reason for it. In the first place, he hadn't known the
girl was Venus, and in the second place she may not have been the same
one who had been Vulcan's original wife, thirty and more centuries ago.
But the guilt remained, and he tabled Vulcan for the time being and went
on.
Morpheus, Hera, and most of the others he passed by without a glance;
there was no reason for them to dislike him, but there was no reason for
comradeship, either. Mars popped into his mind, and popped right out
again. That would be putting his head in the lion's mouth with a
vengeance.
No, there was only one left, the obvious choice, the one who had helped
him throughout his training period--Diana. She genuinely seemed to like
him. She was also a good kid. The thought alone was almost enough to
make him smile fondly, and would have if he had not remembered the peril
he was in.
He turned away from the window to look at the color-swirled wall across
the room. He had remained in his room ever since Mars and Venus had
brought him back from New York, and he wasn't at all sure that he could
leave it. In the normal sense of the word, the place had neither exits
nor entrances. The only way of getting in or out of the place was via
the Veils of Heaven--matter transmitters, not something supernatural, he
realized now.
As far as Forrester knew, they still worked. But the Gods could generate
a Veil anywhere, at any time. Forrester, as a demi-God, could only will
one into existence on sufferance; he could only work the
matter-transmitting Veils if the Gods permitted him to do so. If they
didn't, he was trapped.
Well, he told himself, there was one way to find out.
He walked over to the wall and stood a few feet away from it,
concentrating in the way he had been taught. He was still slower at it
than the Gods themselves, and hadn't developed the knack of forming a
Veil as he walked toward the place where he wanted it to be, as they
had.
But he knew he could do it--if he was still allowed to.
Minutes went by.
Then, as the blue sheet of neural energy flickered into being, Forrester
slumped in sudden relief. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.
The Veil was there--but was it what he hoped, or a trick? Possibly he
could focus the other terminal where he wanted it, but there was also
the chance that the Gods had set the thing up so that, when he stepped
through, he would be standing in the Court of the Gods facing a tribunal
for which he was totally unprepared.
It would be just like the Pantheon, he thought, to pull a lousy trick
like that.
But there was no point in dithering. If death was to be his fate, that
would be that. He could do nothing at all by sitting in his room and
waiting for them to come and get him.
He focused the exit terminal in Diana's apartment. There was no way of
knowing whether the focus worked or not until he stepped through.
He opened his eyes and walked into the Veil.
He felt almost disappointed when he looked around him. He had steeled
himself to do great battle with the Gods--and, instead, he was where he
had wanted to be, in Diana's apartment.
She was standing with her back to him, and Forrester didn't make a
sound, not wanting to startle the Goddess. She was totally unclad, her
glorious body shining in the light of the room, her blue-black hair
unbound and falling halfway down her gently curved back. But she must
have heard him somehow, for she turned, and for half a second she stood
facing him.
Forrester did not move. He couldn't even breathe.
Every magnificent curve was highlighted in a frozen tableau.
Then there was a sudden flash of white, and she was clad in a clinging
_chiton_ which, Forrester saw, served only to remind one of what one had
recently seen. It worked very well, although Forrester did not think he
had any need for an aid to his memory.
"My goodness!" Diana said. "You shouldn't surprise a girl like that! I
mean, you really gave me a shock, kid!"
Forrester took his first breath. "Well," he said, "I could be dishonest,
not to mention ungallant, and tell you I was sorry."
"But?" Diana said.
"Being of sound mind and sound body, I'm a long way from being sorry."
And Diana dropped her eyes and blushed.
Forrester could barely believe it.
But it did show a part of the Goddess's personality that was entirely
new to him. He was sure that any of the Gods or Goddesses could sense
when a Veil of Heaven was forming near them, and get prepared before it
was well enough developed to allow for passage. But Diana--who was,
after all, one of the traditionally virgin Goddesses, like Pallas
Athena--had chosen to pretend surprise.
Forrester had a further hunch, too. He thought she might have
deliberately vanished her _chiton_ only a second or so before he
entered. And that put a different--and a very interesting--face on
things.
Not to mention, he thought, an entire figure.
But he didn't say anything. That wasn't his main business in Diana's
apartment. Instead, he watched her smile briskly and say: "Well, you're
here, anyhow, kid, and I guess that's enough for me. Want a drink? I
could whip up some nectar--and maybe an ambrosia sandwich?"
"I'll take the drink," Forrester said. "I'm not really hungry, thanks."
Diana held out her hands, fingers curved inward, and a crystal cup of
clear, golden liquid appeared in each--matter transmission, of course,
not magic. She handed one over to Forrester, who took it and looked the
Goddess straight in the eyes.
"Thanks," he said. "Diana, I've got some questions to ask you, and I
hope I'll get the answers."
She touched the rim of her cup to his. Her voice was very soft, but she
didn't hesitate in the least. "I'll answer any questions I have to. Sit
down."
They found chairs along the walls of the room and sat facing one
another. Forrester took a sip of his drink, settled back, and tried to
think where to begin. Well, God or no God, Zeus had the key to that one.
He had said it years ago, and it had passed almost into legend:
"Begin at the beginning, go on until you reach the end, and then stop."
Very well, Forrester thought. He cleared his throat. Diana looked at him
inquiringly.
"I don't know how far into the noose I'm putting my head with this one,
Diana," he said. "But I trust you--and I've got to ask somebody."
"Go ahead," she said quietly.
"First question. The original Dionysus is dead, isn't he?"