The Second Randall Garrett Megapack. Randall Garrett

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      “Certainly he would. There is no doubt of that. And still the Myrmidons would have—”

      “Not necessarily. You’re well aware of the occasional arguments and quarrels between the Gods.”

      “I am,” the High Priestess said, not without irony. “And it does not appear seemly that an ordinary mortal should mention—”

      “I teach History,” Forrester said. “I know of such quarrels. Especially between Athena and Aphrodite.”

      “And?”

      “It’s obvious. Since I’m an acolyte of Athena, it may be that Aphrodite wished to keep my arrest secret.”

      “I doubt it,” the High Priestess said.

      Forrester wished he could believe her. But his own theory looked uncomfortably plausible. “It certainly looks as if I’m right.”

      “Well—” For a second the High Priestess paled visibly, the freckles that went with her red hair standing out clearly on her face and giving her the disturbing appearance of an eleven-year-old. No eleven-year-old, however, Forrester reminded himself, had ever been built like the High Priestess.

      Then she regained her color and laughed, all in an instant. “For a minute,” she said in a light tone, “you almost convinced me of your forebodings. But there’s nothing in them. There couldn’t be.”

      Forrester opened his mouth, and Why not? was on his lips. But he never got a chance to say the words. The High Priestess blinked and peered more closely at his face, and before he had a chance to speak she asked him: “What happened to you?”

      “A small accident,” Forrester said quickly. It was a lie, but he thought a pardonable one. The truth was just too complicated to spin out; he had no real intent to deceive.

      But the High Priestess shook her head. “No,” she said. “Not an accident. A fight. Your hands are skinned and bruised.”

      “Very well,” Forrester said. “It was a fight. But I was attacked, and entitled to defend myself.”

      “I’m sure,” the High Priestess said. “Yet I have a question for you. Who won?”

      “Won? I did. Naturally.”

      It sounded boastful, he reflected, but it wasn’t. He had won, and it had been natural to him to do so. His build and strength, as well as his speed, had made any other outcome unlikely.

      And the High Priestess didn’t seem to take offense. She said only: “I thought so. Just a moment.” Then she walked over to a telephone. It was a simple act but Forrester watched it fervently. First she stood up, and then she took a step, and then another step…and her whole body moved. And moved.

      It was marvelous. He watched her bend down to pick up the phone without any clear idea of the meaning of the motions. The motions themselves were enough. Every curve and jiggle and bounce was engraved forever on his mind.

      The High Priestess dialed a number, waited and said: “Aphrodite’s compliments to Hermes the Healer.”

      An indistinguishable voice answered her from the receiver.

      “Aphrodite thanks you,” the High Priestess said, “and asks if Hermes might send one of his priests around for a few minor ministrations.”

      The receiver said something else.

      “No,” the High Priestess said. “Nothing like that. Don’t you think we have other interests—such as they are?”

      Again the receiver.

      “Just a black eye and some skin lacerations,” the High Priest­ess said. “Nothing serious.”

      And the receiver replied once more.

      “Very well,” the High Priestess said. “Aphrodite wishes you well.” She hung up.

      She came back to the couch, Forrester’s eyes following her every inch of the way. She sat down, looked up and said: “What’s the matter? Do I bore you?”

      “Bore me?” Forrester all but cried.

      “It’s just—well, nothing, I suppose,” the High Priestess said. “Your expression.”

      “Training,” Forrester explained. “An acolyte does well not to express his emotions too clearly.”

      The High Priestess nodded casually and patted the couch at her side. “Sit down here, next to me.”

      Forrester did so, gingerly.

      A moment of silence ensued.

      Then Forrester, gathering courage, said: “Thank you for getting a Healer. But I’d like to ask you—”

      “Yes?”

      “How do you know I’m not under some sort of carefully concealed arrest? After all, you said before that you were sure—”

      “And I am sure,” the High Priestess said. “Aphrodite herself has ordered a sacrifice in her favor. A sacrifice from you. And Aphrodite does not accept—much less order—a sacrifice from those standing in her disfavor.”

      “You’re—”

      “I’m sure,” the High Priestess said.

      “Oh,” Forrester said. “Good.” The world was not quite as black as it could have been. And still, it was not exactly shining white. A sacrifice? And outside the door, Forrester could hear a disturbance.

      What did that mean?

      Her Concupiscence didn’t seem to hear it at first. “We will perform the rite together and—” The noise grew louder. “What’s that?” she said.

      It was the sound of argument. Forrester realized what had happened. “It’s the priest from Hermes,” he said. “The Healer. You forgot to tell the Captain of Myrmidons to let him in.”

      “My goodness!” the High Priestess said. “So I did! It slipped my mind entirely.” She touched Forrester’s cheek affectionately. “Of course, I imagine it’s only natural to be a bit forgetful when—” She got up and went to the door.

      The Captain and a small, fat priest in a golden-edged tunic were tangled confusedly outside. The High Priestess looked away from them in disdain and said regally: “You may permit the Healer to enter, Captain.” The tangle came untied and the little priest scooted in. To him, as the door closed again, the High Priestess whispered: “Sorry. I didn’t expect you quite so soon.”

      “No more did I!” The priest waved his caduceus furiously, so that it seemed as if the twin snakes twined round it were moving, the two wings above them beating, and the ball surmounting all, on top of the staff, traced uneasy designs in the air. “Myrmidons!” he said.

      “I certainly regret—”

      “If you boiled down their brains for the fat content, one alone СКАЧАТЬ