Pagan Passions

  CHAPTER THREE

  Resistance, such as it was, crumbled in a hurry. Forrester complied withfervor. An endless time went by, punctuated only by short breathsbetween the kisses. Forrester's hands began to rove.

  So did Maya's.

  She began to unbutton his shirt.

  Not to be outdone, his own fingers got busy with buttons, zippers, hooksand the other temporary fastenings with which female clothing isencumbered. He was swimming in a red sea of passion and the Egyptianswere nowhere in sight. Absently, he got an arm out of his shirt, and atthe same time somehow managed to undo the final button of a series.Maya's blouse fell free.

  Forrester felt like stout Cortez.

  He pulled the girl to him, feeling the surprisingly cool touch of herflesh against his. Under the blouse and skirt, he was discovering, shewore very little, and that was just as well; nagging thoughts about thedoubtful privacy of his office were beginning to assail him.

  Nevertheless, he persevered. Maya was as eager as he had ever dreamed ofbeing, and their embrace reached a height of passion and began to climband climb to hitherto unknown peaks of sensation.

  Forrester was busy for some time discovering things he had never known,and a lot of things he had known before, but never so well. Every motionwas met with a reaction that was more than equal and opposite, everysensation unlocked the doors to whole galleries of new sensations.Higher and higher went his emotional thermometer, higher and higher andhigher and higher and ...

  Very suddenly, he discovered how to breathe again, and it was over.

  "My goodness," Maya said after a brief resting spell. "I suppose I_must_ love you for sure. My _good_ness!"

  "Sure," Forrester said. "And now--if you'll pardon the indelicacy andhand me my pants--" he found he was still puffing a little and pauseduntil he could go on--"I've got an appointment I simply can't afford tomiss."

  "Oh, all right," Maya said. "But Mr. Forrester--"

  He rolled over and looked at her while he began dressing. "I suppose itwould be all right if you called me Bill," he said carefully.

  "In class, too?"

  Forrester shook his head. "No," he said. "Not in class."

  "But what I wanted to ask--"

  "Yes?" Forrester said.

  "Mr.--Bill--do you think I'll pass Introductory World History?"

  Forrester considered that question. There was certainly a wide varietyof answers he could construct. When he had finished buttoning his shirthe had decided on one.

  "I don't see why not," he said, "so long as you complete yourassignments regularly."

  * * * * *

  Nearly two hours later, feeling somewhat light-headed but otherwise inperfectly magnificent fettle, Forrester found himself on the downtownsubway. He'd showered and changed and he was whistling a gay little tuneas he checked his watch.

  The time was five minutes to five. He had just over an hour before hewas due to appear at the Tower of Zeus All-Father, but it was better tobe a few minutes early than even a single second late.

  The train ride was a little bumpy, but Forrester didn't really mind. Hewas pretty well past being irritated by anything. Nevertheless, he wasspeculating with just a faint unease as to what the Pontifex Maximuswanted with him. What was in store for him at the strange appointment?

  And why all the secrecy?

  His brooding was interrupted right away. At 100th Street, a bearded oldman got on and sat down next to him. He nudged Forrester in the ribs andmuttered: "Look at that now, Daddy-O. Look at that."

  "What?" Forrester said, constrained into conversation.

  "Damn subways, that's what," the old man said. "Worse every year.Bumpier and slower and worse. Just look around, Daddy-O. Look around."

  "I wouldn't quite say--" Forrester began, but the old man gave himanother dig in the ribs and cut in:

  "Wouldn't say, wouldn't say," he muttered. "Listen, man, there ain'tbeen an improvement in years. You realize that?"

  "Well, I--"

  "No progress, man, not in more than half a century. Listen, when I was ateen king--War Councilor for the Boppers, I was, and let me tell youthat was big time, Daddy-O--when I was a teen king, we were goingplaces. Going places for real. Mars. Venus. We were going to havespaceships, man."

  Forrester smiled spasmically at the old man. "I'm sure you--"

  "But what happened?" the old man interrupted. "Tell you what happened,man. We never got to Mars and Venus. Mars and Venus came to us instead.Right along with Jupiter and Neptune and Pluto and all the rest of theGods. And we had no progress ever since that day, Daddy-O, no progressat all and you can believe it."

  He dug Forrester in the ribs one final time and sat back with melancholysatisfaction.

  "Well," Forrester said mildly, "what good is progress?" The old man, heassured himself after a moment's reflection, wasn't actually sayinganything blasphemous. After all, the Gods didn't expect theirworshippers to be mindless slaves.

  Somehow the notion made him feel happier. He'd have hated reporting theold man. Something in the outdated slang made him feel--almostpatriotic. The old man was a part of America, a respected and importantpart.

  The respected part of America made itself felt again in Forrester'sribs. "Progress?" the old man said. "What good's progress? Listen,Daddy-O--how can the human race get anywhere without progress? Answer methat, will you, man? Because it's for-sure real we're not going anyplace now. No place at all."

  "Now look," Forrester said patiently, "progress is an outmoded idea.We've got to be in step with the times. We've got to ask ourselves whatprogress ever did for us. How did we stand when the Gods returned?" Fora brief flash he was back in his history class, but he went on: "Halfthe world ready to fight the other half with weapons that would havewiped both halves out. You ought to be grateful the Gods returned whenthey did."

  "But we're getting into Nowheresville, man," the old man complained."We're not in orbit. We can't progress."

  Forrester sighed. Why was he talking to the old man, anyway? The answercame to him as soon as he'd asked the question. He wanted to keep hismind off the Tower of Zeus and his own unknown fate there. It was anunpleasant answer; Forrester blanked it out.

  "Now, friend," he said. "What have you got? Just what mankind's beenlooking for all these centuries. Security. You've got security. Nobody'sgoing to blow you to pieces tomorrow. Your job isn't going to vanishovernight. I mean, if you--"

  "I got a job," the old man said.

  "Really?" Forrester said politely. "What is it?"

  "Retired. And it's a tough job, too."

  "Oh," Forrester said.

  "And anyhow," the old man went on, "what's all this got to do withprogress?"

  Forrester thought. "Well--"

  "Well, nothing," the old man said. "Listen to me, man. I say nothingagainst the Gods--right? Nothing at all. Wouldn't want to do anythinglike that. But at the same time, it looks to me like we ought to be ableto--reap the fruits of our labors. I read that some place."

  "But--"

  "In the three thousand years the Gods were gone, we weren't a totalloss, man. Not anything like. We discovered a lot. About nature andscience and like that. We invented science all by ourselves. So how comethe Gods don't let us use it?" The old man dug his elbow once more intoForrester's rib. "How come?"

  "The Gods haven't taken anything away from us," Forrester said.

  "Haven't they?" the old man demanded. "How about television? Want toanswer that one, Daddy-O? Years ago, everybody had a television set.Color and 3-D. The most. The end. Now there's no television at all. Whynot? What happened to it?"

  "Well," Forrester said reasonably, "what good is television?"

  "What good?" Once more Forrester's rib felt the old man's elbow. "Let metell you--"

  "No," Forrester interrupted, suddenly irritated with the wholeconversation. "Let _me_ tell _you_. The trouble with your generation wasthat all they wanted to do was sit around on their _glutei maximi_ andbe entertained.
Like a bunch of hypnotized geese. They didn't want todo anything for themselves. Half of them couldn't even read. And nowyou want to tell me that--"

  "Hold it, Daddy-O," the old man said. "You're telling me that the Godstook away television just because we were a bunch of hypnotized geese.That it?"

  "That's it."

  "Okay," the old man said. "So tell me--what are we now? With the Godsand everything. I mean, man, really--what are we?"

  "Now?" Forrester said. "Now you're retired. You're a bunch of retiredhypnotized geese."

  The doors of the train slid creakily open and Forrester got out onto the34th Street platform, walking angrily toward a stairway without lookingback.

  True enough, the old man hadn't committed blasphemy, but it hadcertainly come close enough there at the end. And if pokes with theelbow weren't declared blasphemous, or at least equivalent to maliciousmischief, he thought, there was no justice in the world.

  The real trouble was that the man had had no respect for the Gods. Therewere a good many of the older generation like him. They seemed to feelthat humanity had been better off when the Gods had been away. Forrestercouldn't see it, and felt vaguely uncomfortable in the presence ofsomeone who believed it. After all, mankind _had_ been on the verge ofmass suicide, and the Gods had mercifully come back from theirself-imposed exile and taken care of things. The exile had been designedto prove, in the drastic laboratory of three thousand years, that Man byhimself headed like a lemming for self-destruction. And, for Forrester,the point had been proven.

  Yet now that the human race had been saved, there were still men whogriped about the Gods and their return. Forrester silently wished thepack of them in Hades, enjoying the company of Pluto and his ilk.

  At the corner of 34th and Broadway, as he came out of the subwaytunnels, he bought a copy of the _News_ and glanced quickly through theheadlines. But, as always, there was little sensational news. Mars wasdoing pretty well for himself, of course: there were two wars going onin Asia, one in Europe and three revolutions in South and CentralAmerica. That last did seem to be overdoing things a bit, but notseriously. Forrester shrugged, wondering vaguely when the United Stateswas going to have its turn.

  But he couldn't concentrate on the paper and, after a little while, hegot rid of it and took a look at his watch.

  Twenty to six. Forrester decided he could use a drink to brace himselfand steady his nerves.

  Just one.

  On Sixth Avenue, near 34th Street, there was a bar called, for someobscure reason, the _Boat House_. Forrester headed for it, went insideand leaned against the bar. The bartender, a tall man with crew-cutreddish hair, raised his eyebrows in a questioning fashion.

  "What'll it be, friend?"

  "Vodka and ginger ale," Forrester said. "A double."

  It was still, he told himself uneasily, just one drink. And that was allhe was going to have.

  The bartender brought it and Forrester sipped at it, watching hisreflection in the mirror and wishing he felt easier in his mind aboutthe whole Tower of Zeus affair. Then, very suddenly, he noticed that theman next to him was looking at him oddly. Forrester didn't like the lookor, for that matter, the man himself, a raw-boned giant with deep-seteyes and a shock of dead-black hair, but so long as nobody bothered him,Forrester wasn't going to start anything.

  Unfortunately, somebody bothered him. The tall man leaned over and saidloudly: "What's the matter with you, bud? An infidel or something?"

  Forrester hesitated. The accusation that he didn't believe in thepractices ordained by the Gods themselves was an irritating one. But hecould see the other side of the question, too. The tall man wasundoubtedly a Dionysian; and, more than that, a member of a small sectinside the general _corpus_ of Bacchus/Dionysus worshippers. He heldthat it was wrong to distill grape or grain products "too far," untilthere was nothing left but the alcohol.

  That meant disapproval of gin and vodka on the grounds that, unlikewhiskey or brandy, they'd had the "life" distilled out of them.

  Forrester, however, was not really fond of brandy and whiskey. Hedecided to explain this to the tall man, but at the same time he beganto develop the sinking feeling that it wasn't going to do any good.

  Oh, well, there was still room for patience. "Don't fire," as Mars hadsaid somewhere, "until you see the whites of their eyes."

  "No, I'm no infidel," Forrester said politely. "You see, I'm--"

  "_No infidel?_" the tall man roared. "Then I tell you what you do. Youpour that slop out and drink a proper drink." He made a grab forForrester's glass.

  Forrester jerked it back, sloshing it a little in the process--and a fewdrops splattered on the other's hand.

  "Now look here," Forrester said in a reasonable tone of voice. "I--"

  "You spilling that stuff on me? What the blazes are you doing that for?I got a good mind to--"

  Another man stepped into the altercation. This was a square-built,bullet-headed man with an air that was both truculent and eager. "What'sthe matter, Herb?" he asked the tall man. "This guy giving you troubleor something?" He favored Forrester with a fierce scowl. Forrestersmiled pleasantly back, a little unsure as to how to proceed.

  "This guy?" Herb said. "_Trouble?_ Sam, he's an _infidel_!"

  Forrester said: "I--"

  "He drinks vodka," Herb said. "And I guess he drinks gin too."

  "Great Bacchus," Sam said in a tone of wonder. "You run into themeverywhere these days. Can't get away from the sons of--"

  "Now--" Forrester started.

  "And not only that," Herb said, "but he spills the stuff on me. Justbecause I ask him to have a regular drink like a man."

  "_Spills_ it on you?" Sam said.

  Herb said: "Look," and extended his arm. On the sleeve of his jacket afew spots were slowly drying.

  "Well, that's too much," Sam said heavily. "Just too damn much." Hescowled at Forrester again. "You know, buddy, somebody ought to teachguys like you a lesson."

  Forrester took a swallow of his drink and set the glass downunhurriedly. If either Herb or Sam attacked him, he knew his oath wouldpermit his fighting back. And after the day he'd had, he rather lookedforward to the chance. But he had to do his part to hold off an actualfight. "Now look here, friend--"

  "Friend?" Sam said. "Don't call me your friend, buddy. I make no friendswith infidels."

  And, at that point, Forrester realized that he wasn't going to have afight with Herb or Sam. He was going to have a fight with Herb _and_Sam--and with the third gentleman, a shaggy, beefy man who needed ashave, who stepped up behind them and asked: "Trouble?" in a voice thatindicated that trouble was exactly what he was looking for.

  "Maybe it is trouble, at that," Herb said tightly, without turningaround. "This infidel here's been committing blasphemy."

  Three against one wasn't as happy a thought as an even fight had been,but it was too late to back out now. "That's a lie!" Forrester snapped.

  "Call me a liar?" Sam roared. He stepped forward and swung a hamlikefist at Forrester's head.

  Forrester ducked. The heavy fist swished by his ear harmlessly, and hefelt a strange new mixture of elation and fright. He grabbed hisvodka-and-ginger from the bar and swung it in a single sweeping arcbefore him. Liquid rained on the faces of the three men.

  Sam was still a little off balance. Forrester slammed the edge of hisright hand into his side, and Sam stumbled to the floor. In the samemotion, Forrester let fly with the now-empty glass. The shaggy man stooddirectly in his path. The glass conked him on the forehead and bouncedto the floor, where it shattered unnoticed. The shaggy man blinked andForrester, moving forward, discovered that he had no time to followmatters up in that direction.

  Herb was snarling inarticulately, wiping vodka-and-ginger from his eyes.He blocked Forrester's advance toward the shaggy man. Forrester smiledgently and put a hard fist into Herb's solar plexus. The tall mandoubled up in completely silent agony.

  Forrester took a breath and started forward again. The shaggy man wasshaking his head
, trying to clear it.

  Then Forrester's head became unclear. Something had banged against hisright temple and the room was suddenly filled with pain and small, hardstars. Sam, Forrester discovered, had managed to get to his feet. Thesomething had been a small brass ashtray that Sam had thrown at him.

  Somehow, he stayed on his feet. The stars were still swirling aroundhim, but he began to be able to see through them, and peered at thefigure of the shaggy man, coming at him again. He let his knees bend alittle, as if he were going to pass out. The shaggy man seemed to gainconfidence from this, and stepped in carefully to kick Forrester in thestomach.

  Forrester stepped back, grabbed the upcoming foot, and stood straight,lifting the foot and levering it into the air.

  The shaggy man, surprise written all over his shaveless face, went overbackward with great abruptness. His head hit the floor with an audibleand satisfying _whack_, and then his limbs settled and he remainedthere, sprawled out and very quiet.

  Forrester, meanwhile, was whirling to meet Sam, who was coming in like abear, his arms outspread and a glaze of hatred in his eyes. Forrester,expressionless, ducked under the man's flailing arms and slammed a fistinto his midsection. It was a harder midsection than he'd expected;unlike Herb, Sam had good muscles, and hitting them was like hittingthick rubber. The blow didn't put Sam down. It only made him gasp once.

  That was enough. Forrester doubled his right fist and let Sam have onemore blow, this one into the face. Sam's mouth opened as his eyesclosed. His left arm pawed the air aimlessly for a tenth of a second.

  Then he dropped like an empty overcoat.

  There was a second of absolute silence. Then Forrester heard a noisebehind him and whirled.

  But it was only Herb, doubled up on the floor and very quietly retching.

  Catching his breath, Forrester looked around him. The fight hadattracted a lot of attention from the other customers in the bar, butnone of them seemed to want to prolong it by joining in.

  They were all trying to look as if they were minding their own business,while the bartender ...

  Forrester stared. The bartender was at the other end of the bar, faraway from the scene of action.

  He was, as Forrester saw him, just hanging up the telephone.

  Forrester put a bill on the bar, turned and walked out into the street.He had absolutely no desire to get mixed up with the secular police.

  After all, he had an appointment to keep. And now--after a quiet drinkthat had turned into a three-against-one battle royal--he had to go andkeep it.