The Second Randall Garrett Megapack. Randall Garrett

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      Forrester turned right.

      The Myrmidon stared at him. “No,” he said. “I mean it’s all right. You’re all right.”

      “Thank you,” Forrester said.

      “Oh—” The Myrmidon looked at him, then shrugged his shoulders. “You’re expected,” he said at last in a flat voice. “Come with me.”

      He started down the hallway. Forrester followed him around a corner to an ornate bronzed door, covered with bas-reliefs de­picting the actions of the Gods among themselves, and among men. The Myrmidon seemed unimpressed by the magnificence of the thing; he pushed it open and bowed low to, as far as Forrester could see, nobody in particular.

      Taking no chances, Forrester copied his bow. He was still bent when the Myrmidon announced: “Forrester is here, Your Concupiscence,” in a reverent tone of voice, and backed off a step, narrowly missing Forrester himself in the process.

      He waved a hand and Forrester went in.

      The door shut halfway behind him.

      The room was perfectly unbelievable. Its rich hangings were purple velvet, draping a large window that looked out on…

      Forrester gulped. It was impossible to be this high. New York was spread out below like a toy city.

      He jerked his eyes away from the window and back to the rest of the room. It was furnished mainly with couches: big couches, little couches, puffy ones, spare ones, in felt, velvet, fur, and every other material Forrester could think of. The rooms were flocked in a pale pink, and on the floor was a deep-purple rug of a richer pile than Forrester had ever seen.

      And on one of the couches, the largest and the softest, she reclined.

      She was clad only in the diaphanous robes of her calling, and she was stacked. Beside her, little Maya Wilson would have looked about eight years old. Her hair was as red as the inside of a blast furnace, and had about the same effect on Forrester’s pulse rate. Her face was a slightly rounded oval, her body a series of mathematically indescribable curves.

      Forrester did the only thing he could do.

      He bowed again, even lower than before.

      “Come in, William Forrester,” said the High Priestess of Venus/Aphrodite, the veritable Primate of Venus for New York herself, in a voice that managed to be all at once regal, pleasant and seductive.

      Forrester, already in, could think of nothing to say. The gaze of Her Concupiscence fell on the half-open door. “You may retire, Captain,” she said to the waiting Myrmidon. “And allow no one to enter here until I give notice.”

      “Very well, Your Concupiscence,” the Myrmidon said.

      The door shut.

      Forrester snapped erect from his bow, and then realized that he could do nothing but stand there until he had more information. What was the High Priestess of Aphrodite doing in the Tower of Zeus All-Father anyway? And—always supposing she had the right to be there, as of course she must have had—what did she want with William Forrester?

      He heaved a great sigh. This was turning into an extremely puzzling day. First there had been the message and the card admitting him to the Tower. Then there had been (the sigh changed in character) Maya Wilson. And then (the sigh changed again, into a faint echo of a groan) the fight in the Boat House.

      Now he was having an audience with the Primate of Venus for New York.

      Why?

      The High Priestess’s smile gave him no hint. She raised herself to a sitting position and patted the couch. “Sit over here,” she said. “Next to me.” Then she changed her mind. “No,” she added. “First just walk over here, stand up and turn around. Slowly.”

      Forrester’s brain was whirling like a top, but his face was, as usual, expressionless. He did as she had bid him, wondering frantically what was going on, and why?

      After he had turned completely around and stood facing her again, the High Priestess simply sat and studied him for almost a full minute, looking him up and down with eyes that were totally unreadable. Forrester waited.

      Finally she nodded her head slowly. “You’ll do,” she said, in a reflective tone, and nodded her head again. “Yes, you’ll do.”

      Forrester couldn’t restrain his questions any longer. “Do?” he burst out. “I mean,” he continued, more quietly, “what will I do for, Your Concupiscence?”

      “Oh, for whatever honor it is that our beloved Goddess has in mind for you,” the High Priestess said offhandedly. “I can certainly see that you will do. A little pudgy around the middle, but that’s a trifle and hardly matters. The important things are there. You’re obviously strong and quick.”

      At that point Forrester caught up with the first sentence of her explanation. “The—the Goddess?” he said faintly.

      “Certainly,” the High Priestess said. “Else why would I give you audience? I am not promiscuous in my dealings with the lay world.”

      “I’m sure,” Forrester said respectfully.

      The High Priestess looked at him sardonically. “Of course you are,” she said. “However, the important thing is that our beloved Aphrodite has selected you, William Forrester, for some high honor.”

      Forrester caught her word for the Goddess, and remembered, thanking his lucky stars he hadn’t had a chance to slip, that here in the Tower it was protocol to refer to the Gods and Goddesses by their Greek names alone.

      “I don’t suppose,” he said tentatively, “that you have any idea just what this—high honor is?”

      “You, William Forrester,” the High Priestess began, in some rage, “dare to question—” Her tone changed. “Oh, well, I suppose I shouldn’t become angry with… No.” She shrugged, but her tone carried a little pique. “Frankly, I don’t know what the honor is.”

      “Well, then,” Forrester said, his bearing perfectly calm, even though he could feel his stomach sinking to ground level, “how do you know it’s an honor?” The thought that had crossed his mind was almost too horrible to retain, but he had to say it. “Perhaps,” he went on, “I’ve offended the Gods in some unusual way—some way very offensive to them.”

      “Perhaps you have.”

      “And perhaps,” Forrester said, “they’ve decided on some ex­quisite method of punishing me. Something like the punishment they gave Tantalus when he—”

      “I know the ways of the Gods quite well, thank you,” the High Priestess said coolly. “And I can tell you that your fears have no justification.”

      “But—”

      “Please,” the High Priestess said, raising a hand. “If the Gods were to punish you, they would simply have sent out a squad of Myrmidons to pick you up, and that would have been the end of it.”

      “Perhaps СКАЧАТЬ