The Second Randall Garrett Megapack. Randall Garrett

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ had no right to take him into custody without a warrant from the Pontifex himself.

      But such a warrant was a serious affair. What had he done wrong?

      He tried to think of some cause for an arrest. Blasphemy? Sacrilege? But he found nothing except his interior thoughts. And those, he told himself with a blaze of anger fierce enough to surprise him, were nobody’s business but his own and Athena’s. Authorities either less personal or more temporal had no business dealing with thoughts.

      Beyond those, there wasn’t a thing. No irreverence toward any of the Gods, in his private life, his religious functions or his teaching position, at least as far as he could recall. The Gods knew that unorthodoxy in an Introductory History course, for instance, was not only unwise but damned difficult.

      Of course, he was aware of the real position of the Gods. They weren’t omnipotent. Their place in the scheme of things was high, but they were certainly not equal with the One who had created the Universe and the Gods themselves in the first place. Possibly, Forrester had always thought, they could be equated with the indefinite “angels” of the religions that had been popular during his grandfather’s time, sixty years ago, before the return of the Gods. But that was an uncertain theological notion, and Forrester was quite ready to abandon it in the face of good argument to the contrary.

      Whatever they were, the Gods were certainly the Gods of Earth now.

      The Omnipotent Creator had evidently left it for them to run, while he went about his own mysterious business, far from the understanding or the lives of men. The Gods, omnipotent or not, ran the world and everything in it.

      And if, like Forrester, you knew that omnipotence wasn’t their strong point, you just didn’t mention it. It would have been impolite to have done so—like talking about sight to a blind man. And “impolite” was not the only word that covered the case. The Gods had enough power, as everyone knew, to avenge any blasphemies against them. And careless mention of limitations on their power would surely be construed as blasphemy, true or not.

      Forrester had never even thought of doing such a thing.

      So what, he thought, did the Temple Myrmidons want with him?

      He came to the anteroom and went in, seeing the two of them at once. They were big, burly chaps with hard faces, and the pistols that were holstered at their sides looked completely unnecessary. Forrester took a deep breath and went a step forward. There he stopped, staring.

      The Myrmidons were strangers to him—and now he ­un­derstood why. Neither was wearing the shoulder-patch Owl of Minerva/Athena. Both proudly sported the Thunderbolt of Zeus/ Jupiter, the All-Father himself.

      Whatever it is, Forrester told himself with a sinking sensation, it’s serious.

      One of the Myrmidons looked him up and down in a casual, half-contemptuous way. “You’re William Forrester?”

      “That’s right,” Forrester said, knowing that he looked quite calm, and wondering, at the same time, whether or not he would live out the next few minutes. The Myrmidons of Zeus/Jupiter didn’t come around to other temples on unimportant errands. “May I help you?” he went on, feeling foolish.

      “Let’s see your ID card, please,” the Myrmidon said in the same tone as before. That puzzled Forrester. He doubted whether examination of credentials was a part of the routine preceding arrest—or execution, for that matter. The usual procedure was, and probably always had been, to act first and apologize later, if at all.

      Maybe whatever he’d done had been so important they couldn’t afford to make mistakes.

      But did the Myrmidon really think that an imposter could parade around in an acolyte’s tunic in the very Temple of Pallas Athena without being caught by one of the Athenan Myrmidons, or some other acolyte or priest?

      Maybe a thing like that could happen in one of the other Temples, Forrester thought. But here at Pallas Athena people took the Goddess’s attribute of wisdom seriously. What the Dionysians might do, he reflected, was impossible to say. Or, for that matter, the Venerans.

      But he produced his identity card and handed it to the Myrmidon. It was compared with a card the Myrmidon dug out of his pouch, and the thumbprints on both cards were examined side by side.

      After a while, Forrester got his card back.

      The Myrmidon said: “We—” and began to cough.

      His companion came over to slap him on the back with bone-crushing blows. Forrester watched without changing expression.

      Some seconds passed.

      Then the Myrmidon choked, swallowed, straightened and said, his face purple: “All this incense. Not like what we’ve got over at the All-Father’s Temple. Enough to choke a man to death.”

      Forrester murmured politely.

      “Back to business—right?” He favored Forrester with a rather savage-looking smile, and Forrester allowed his own lips to curve gently and respectfully upward.

      It didn’t look as if he were going to be killed, after all.

      “Important instructions for you,” the Myrmidon said. “From the Pontifex Maximus. And not to be repeated to any mortal—understand?”

      Forrester nodded.

      “And that means any mortal,” the Myrmidon said. “Girl friend, wife—or don’t you Athenans go in for that sort of thing? Now, up at the All-Father’s Temple, we—”

      His companion gave him a sharp dig in the ribs.

      “Oh,” the Myrmidon said. “Sure. Well. Instructions not to be repeated. Right?”

      “Right,” Forrester said.

      Instructions? From the Pontifex Maximus? Secret instructions?

      Forrester’s mind spun dizzily. This was no arrest. This was something very special and unique. He tried once more to ima­gine what it was going to be, and gave it up in wonder.

      The Myrmidon produced another card from his pouch. There was nothing on it but the golden Thunderbolt of the All-Father—but that was quite enough.

      Forrester accepted the card dumbly.

      “You will report to the Tower of Zeus at eighteen hundred hours exactly,” the Myrmidon said. “Got that?”

      “You mean today?” Forrester said, and cursed himself for sounding stupid. But the Myrmidon appeared not to have no­ticed.

      “Today, sure,” he said. “Eighteen hundred. Just present this card.”

      He stepped back, obviously getting ready to leave. Forrester watched him for one long second, and then burst out: “What do I do after that?”

      “Just be a good boy. Do what you’re told. Ask no questions. It’s better that way.”

      Forrester thought of six separate replies and settled on a seventh. “All right,” he said.

      “And remember,” the Myrmidon said, at the outside door, “don’t mention this to anyone. Not СКАЧАТЬ