The Second Randall Garrett Megapack Page 16

  Forrester passed a hand over his forehead. He realized, very suddenly, that he had come to a conclusion somewhere during the meeting. He was, he told himself, definitely sane.

  That left another conclusion. He was not dreaming anything that was happening. It was all perfectly real.

  And he was about to become a demi-God.

  That in itself didn’t sound so bad. But he began to wonder, in a quiet sort of way, just what was going to happen to William Forrester, acolyte and history professor, when Forrester/Bacchus had became a reality. With a blunt shock he knew that there was only one answer.

  William Forrester was going to die.

  It didn’t matter what the verdict of the Gods was. There were more tests coming, he knew, and if he failed them the Gods would kill him quite literally and quite completely.

  But, he went on, suppose he passed the tests.

  In that case he was going to become Forrester/Bacchus, a substitute God. Plain old Bill Forrester would cease to exist entirely.

  Oh, a few traces might remain—his Beta curve, for instance, whatever that was. But Bill Forrester would be gone. Somehow, the idea of a revenant Beta curve didn’t make up for the basic loss.

  On the other hand, he reminded himself again, what choice did he have?

  None.

  He forced himself to listen to what the Gods were saying.

  Zeus cleared his throat. “Well, I think that closes the subject. Am I right, dear?”

  “You are,” Hera said.

  “Very well,” Zeus said. “Then the subject is closed, isn’t it?”

  Hera nodded wearily.

  “In that case, we can proceed with the investiture. Hephaestus, will you please take charge of the candidate?”

  Hephaestus/Vulcan sighed softly. “I suppose I must.” He swung off the couch and stood half-crouched for a second. Forrester looked at him blankly. “Well,” Vulcan said, “come on.” He jerked his head toward Forrester. “Over here.”

  With one last backward glance at Venus, Forrester walked across the room. Vulcan turned and hobbled ahead of him toward the wall. Forrester followed until, almost at the wall, a Veil of Heaven appeared. Feeling almost used to the thing by now, Forrester followed Vulcan through, and he didn’t even look behind him to see if the Veil had vanished after they’d come through. He knew perfectly well it had. It always did.

  The room they had entered was similar to the others he had seen, but there was no change of colors. The walls glowed evenly and with a subdued light that filled the room evenly. And, for the first time, the walls weren’t simply blanks that became things only when approached. The strangest-looking objects Forrester had ever seen filled benches, tables, chairs and the floor, and some were even tacked to the glowing walls. He stared at them for a long time.

  No two were alike. They seemed to be all sizes, shapes and materials. The only thing they really had in common was that they were unrecognizable. They looked, Forrester thought, as if a truckload of non-objective twentieth-century sculpture had collided with another truck full of old television-set innards. Then, in some way, the two trucks had fallen in love and had children.

  The scrambled horrors scattered throughout the room were, Forrester told himself bleakly, the children.

  Vulcan sat down on the only empty chair with a sigh. “This is my workshop,” he announced gravely. “It is not arranged for visitors, nor for the curious. I must advise you to touch nothing, if you wish to save your hands, your sanity, and very possibly your life.”

  Forrester nodded dumbly. Vulcan’s tone hadn’t been unfriendly; he had merely been warning a stranger, in the shortest and clearest manner possible, against the dangers of feeling the merchandise. Not, Forrester thought, that the warning was necessary. He would as soon have thought of trying to fly as he would of touching one of the mixed-up looking things.

  “Now,” Vulcan said, “if you’ll—” He stopped. “Pardon me,” he said, and levered himself upright. He went to a chair, swept a few constructions from it and put them carefully on a table. “Sit down,” he said, motioning to the chair.

  Gingerly, Forrester sat down.

  Vulcan returned to his own chair and climbed onto it. “Now let us get to business.”

  “Business?” Forrester said.

  “Oh, yes,” Vulcan said. “I imagine you were pretty well bewildered for a while. No more than natural. But I think you’ve figured it out by now. You know you are going to be given the powers of a demi-God, don’t you?”

  “Yes. But—”

  “Do not worry about it,” Vulcan said. “The powers are—simply powers. They are not burdens. At any rate, they will not be burdensome to you. We know that—we have researched you to a fine point, as you may have gathered from the fol-de-rol back there.” He gestured toward his right, evidently indicating the Court of the Gods.

  “But,” Forrester said, “suppose I’m not what your tests say. I mean, suppose I—”

  “There is no need for supposition. Beyond any shadow of doubt, we know how you, as a mortal, will react to any conceivable set of circumstances.”

  “Oh,” Forrester said. “But—”

  “Precisely. You have realized what yet needs to be done. We know what your abilities and limitations are—as a mortal. The tests you have yet to pass are concerned with your actions and reactions as a demi-God.”

  Forrester swallowed hard. He felt as if he were on a moving roller-coaster. No matter how badly he wanted to get off, it was impossible to do so. He had to remain while the car hurtled on.

  And where was he going?

  The Gods, he told himself with more than ordinary meaning, knew.

  “The power which is to be infused into you,” Vulcan said, “if you don’t mind the loose terminology—”

  “I don’t mind in the least,” Forrester assured him earnestly. “Not in the least.”

  “The power infused into you will make some changes. These will not only be physical changes. Mental changes must be expected.”

  “Oh,” Forrester said. “Mental changes.”

  “Correct. Physically, you see, you will become what no mortal can ever quite be: a perfectly functioning biological engine. Every sinew, nerve and muscle, every organ and gland, every tissue in your body will be in perfect harmonic balance with every other. Metabolically speaking, your catabolism and anabolism will be in such perfect balance that aging will not be possible.”

  Forrester thought that over. “I’ll be immortal,” he said.

  “In that sense of the word,” Vulcan said, “you will. You will be, as a matter of fact, quite a good deal tougher, stronger and harder than any animal now existing on the face of the Earth. I must except, of course, a few of the really big ones, like the elephant and the killer whale.”

  “Oh,” Forrester said. “Sure.”

  “But make no mistake. You can still be killed. A bullet through the heart will not do the job; it will merely incapacitate you for a few hours. But if you were to have your head blown off by a grenade, you would be quite dead. Remember that.”

  “I don’t see how I could forget it.”

  “You will heal with incredible rapidity, but there are limitations. Anything that pushes the balance too far will be fatal. You can lose a hand or even an arm without serious harm; the missing member will be regrown. But if you were to fall into a large meat-grinder—”

  “I get the idea,” Forrester said, feeling pale green.

  “Good,” Vulcan said. “However, there is more.”

  “More?”

  “There are certain other powers to be given you in addition. You will learn of these later.”

  Forrester nodded blankly.

  “Now,” Vulcan said, “all these physical changes will have a definite effect upon your psychological outlook, as I imagine you can plainly see.”

  Forrester thought about it. “Well—”

  “Let us suppose that you are a coward who has avoided fights all his life. Now you are given these po
wers. What will happen?”

  “I’ll be strong.”

  “Exactly. You will be strong. And because you are strong, and almost indestructible, you suddenly decide that you can now get your revenge on the people who have pushed you around.”

  “Well,” Forrester said, “I—”

  “You begin to look for fights,” Vulcan said. “You go around beating up everyone you can find, simply because you now know you can get away with it. Do you understand me?”

  “I guess so.”

  “A man with a vicious streak in him would be intolerable in this position. Can you see that? Take an example: Ares. Mars is a tough God, hard and at times brutal. But he is not vicious.”

  Forrester was a little surprised to hear Vulcan say anything nice about Mars. He knew, as everyone did, the long history of ill-will and positive hatred the two had built up between them. It had begun soon after Vulcan’s marriage to Aphrodite/Venus.

  He hadn’t been a cripple then, of course. For a while, he and Venus had had a fine time. But Venus, apparently, just wasn’t satisfied with the dull normal routine of married life. None of the Gods seemed to be, as a matter of fact. Either they were altogether too married, like Zeus, or else they weren’t married enough, like Venus. Or else they were like Diana and Athena, indifferent to marriage.

  At any rate, Venus had begun looking around for fresh talent. And the fresh talent had been right there ready to sign up for a long contract on a strictly extra-legal basis.

  One day Vulcan caught them at it, his wife and Mars. Vulcan was angry, but Mars didn’t exactly like to be interrupted, either, and he was a little faster on the draw. He tossed Vulcan over a nearby cliff, crippling him for good.

  And as for Aphrodite—who knew? It was entirely possible that, by this time, the Goddess of Love had run through the entire list of Gods and was now at work on the mortals.

  Forrester wasn’t entirely sure he disliked the idea, on a simple physical level. But there was more than that to it, of course; there was Vulcan. Forrester found himself liking the solemn, positive workman. He didn’t want to hurt him.

  And a liaison with Venus was certain to do just that.

  He came back to the present to hear Vulcan still discoursing. “Also,” the God said, “changes in glandular balance must be made. These changes have a necessary effect on the brain. The personality changes subtly, though I can assure you that the change is not a marked one.” He paused. “For all these reasons,” he finished, “I am sure that you can see why we must subject you to further tests.”

  “I understand,” Forrester said vaguely.

  “Good. Now, you will not know whether a given incident—any given incident—is a perfectly natural occurrence or a test imposed on you by the Pantheon. Can you understand that?”

  Forrester nodded.

  Vulcan levered himself upright, his ugly face smiling just a little. “And remember what I have told you. No worrying. You don’t even know just what any given test is supposed to accomplish, so you can’t know whether the action you choose is right or wrong. Therefore, worrying will do nothing for you. You will be at your best if you simply behave naturally.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Remember, also, that you were picked not merely for your physical resemblance to Dionysus, but your psychological resemblance as well. Therefore, playing his part should be comparatively simple for you. Right?”

  “I guess so,” Forrester said, feeling both expectant and a little hopeless about it all.

  “Fine,” Vulcan said. “Now wait one moment.” He turned and limped over to a structure that looked like a sort of worktable. When he came back, he was carrying several objects in his big hands. He selected one, an ovoid about the size of a marble, colored a dull orange, and handed it to Forrester. “Swallow that.”

  Forrester took it cautiously. As soon as he found out what he was supposed to do with the thing, its dimensions seemed to grow. It looked about the size of a golf ball in his shaking hands.

  “Swallow it?” he said tentatively.

  “Correct,” Vulcan said.

  “But—”

  “This object is a—well, call it a talisman. It will not dissolve, and it is recoverable, but for the Investiture it must be inside you.”

  “But—”

  “You will find it so easy to swallow that you will need no water. Go ahead.”

  Forrester put the thing in his mouth and swallowed once, just to test Vulcan’s statement. The effect was surprising. He could barely feel it leave his tongue, and he couldn’t feel it go down at all. He swallowed again, experimentally, and explored the inside of his mouth with his tongue.

  “It is gone,” Vulcan said. “Good.”

  “It’s gone, all right,” Forrester said wonderingly.

  “The sandals are next.” Vulcan selected a pair of sandals with rather thick soles and handed them over. They were apparently made of gold. Forrester obediently strapped them on, and Vulcan next handed him a pair of golden cylinders indented to fit his curved fingers.

  “You hold these very tightly,” Vulcan said. “During the Investiture, you must grip them as hard as you can.” He peered closely at them and pointed to one. “This one goes in the left hand. The other goes in the right. Squeeze them as if—as if you were trying to crush them. All right?”

  “All right,” Forrester said.

  Vulcan nodded. “Good. From this moment on, do exactly as you are told. Answer questions truthfully. Keep nothing secret. Remember my instructions.”

  “Right,” Forrester said doubtfully.

  “Come on,” Vulcan said, heading for the wall. The inevitable Veil of Heaven appeared, and Forrester followed through it as before.

  The room they entered was not, he thought, the same one they had been in before. Or, if it was, it had changed a great deal. It was difficult to tell anything for sure; the shifting walls looked the same, but they also looked like the shifting walls in Venus’ apartments.

  At any rate, there were now no couches on the floor. The room seemed even bigger than before, and when the walls settled down to a steady golden glow, Forrester felt lost in the immensity of the place. In the center of the room was a raised golden dais. It was about five feet across and nearly three feet high.

  The Gods were ranged around it in a semicircle, facing him. Vulcan slipped into an empty space in the line, and Forrester stood perfectly alone, holding the cylinders.

  Zeus cleared his throat. “Step up on the dais,” he said.

  Stumbling slightly, Forrester managed to do so without losing his grip on the cylinders.

  In the center of the raised platform, with the Gods staring at him, he felt like something under a microscope.

  “William Forrester,” Zeus said, and he shuddered. The All-Father’s voice had never been more powerful. “William Forrester, from this moment onward you will renounce your present name. You will be known as Dionysus the Lesser until and unless it shall please us to confer another name on you. Henceforth, you will be, in part, a recipient of the worship due to Dionysus, and you will hold the rank of demi-God. Do you accept these judgments and this honor?”

  Forrester gulped. A long time seemed to pass. At last he found his voice. “I do,” he said.

  “Very well,” Zeus said.

  The Gods joined hands and closed the circle around Forrester, surrounding him completely. The golden auras that shone about their bodies grew more and more bright. Forrester clutched the golden cylinders tightly.

  Then, very suddenly, there was an explosion of light. Forrester thought he had staggered, but he was never sure. Everything was too bright to see. Dizziness began, and grew.

  The room whirled and tipped. Somewhere a great organlike note began, and went on and on.

  Forrester convulsed with the force of a single great burst of energy that crashed through his nervous system.

  And then, in a timeless instant, everything went black.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The morning
of the Autumn Bacchanal dawned bright and clear—thanks to the intervention of the Pantheon. In New York, the leaves were only just beginning to turn, and the sun was still high enough in the sky to make the afternoons warm and pleasant. Zeus All-Father had promised good weather for the festival, and a strong, warm wind from the Gulf of Mexico was moving out the crisp autumn air before the sun had risen an hour above the horizon.

  The practicing that had gone on in thousands of homes throughout the city was at an end. The Autumn Bacchanal was here at last, and the Beginning Service, which had started in the little Temple-on-the-Green right at dawn, when the sun’s rays had first touched the tops of New York’s towers, was approaching its end. The people clustered in the building, and the incomparably greater number scattered outside it, were feeling the first itch of restlessness.

  Soon the Grand Procession would begin, starting as always from the Temple-on-the-Green and wending its slow way northward to the upper end of Central Park at 110th Street. Then the string of worshippers would turn and head back for the Temple at the lower end of the Park, with fanfare and pageantry on a scale calculated to do honor to the God of the festival, to outshine not only every other festival, but every past year of the Autumn Bacchanal itself.

  The Autumn Bacchanal was devoted to the celebration of the harvest, and more specifically the harvest and processing of the grape. All the wineries for hundreds of miles around had shipped hogshead after hogshead and barrel after barrel of fine wine—red, white, rose, still, or sparkling—as joyous sacrifice to Dionysus/Bacchus, and in thanks that the fertility rites of the Vernal Bacchanal had brought them good crops. Wine flowed from everywhere into the city, and now the immense reserves were stacked away, awaiting the revels. Even the brewers and distillers had sent along their wares, from the mildest beer to vodka of 120 proof, joining unselfishly in the celebration even though, technically, they were not under Dionysian protection at all, but were the wards of Ceres, the Goddess of grain.

  Celebrants, liquors, chants, preparations, balloons, confetti, edibles and all the other appurtenances of the festival spiraled dizzyingly upward, reaching proportions unheard of throughout history. And, in a back room at the Temple-on-the-Green, the late William Forrester sat, trying to forget all about them, and suffering from a continuous case of nerves.