And then he'd shut Venus up before she gave away too much--realizing, maybe, that he had given away a good deal himself. That one little sentence was enough to bring everything into question, Forrester thought.

He had wondered why it had been necessary to have a double for Dionysus, but he hadn't actually thought about it; maybe he hadn't wanted to think about it. But now, with the notion of a "predecessor" for Venus in his mind, he _had_ to think about it, and the only conclusion he could come to was a disturbing one. It did more than disturb him, as a matter of fact--it frightened him. He wanted desperately to find some flaw in the conclusion he faced, because he feared it even more than he feared the coming judgment of the Pantheon.

But there wasn't any flaw. The facts meshed together entirely too well to be an accidental pattern.

In the first place, he thought, why had he been picked for the job? He was a n.o.body, of no importance, with no special gifts. Why did he deserve the honor of taking his place beside Hercules and Achilles and Odysseus and the other great heroes? Forrester knew he wasn't any hero.

But what gave him his standing?

And, he went on, there was a second place. In the months of his training he had met fourteen of the G.o.ds--all of them, except for Dionysus. Now, what kind of sense did that make? Anyone who's going to have a double usually trains the double himself, if it's at all possible. Or, at the very least, he allows the double to watch his actions, so that the double can do a really competent job of imitation.

And if an imitation is all that's needed, why not hire an actor instead of a history professor?

Vulcan had told him: "You were picked not merely for your physical resemblance to Dionysus, but your psychological resemblance as well."

That had to be true, if only because, as far as Forrester could see, n.o.body had the slightest reason to lie about it. But why should it be true? What advantage did the G.o.ds get out of that "psychological resemblance"? All he was supposed to be was a double--and anybody who _looked_ like Dionysus would be accepted _as_ Dionysus by the people.

The "psychological resemblance" didn't have a single thing to do with it.

Mars, Venus, Vulcan--even Zeus had dropped clues. Zeus had referred to him as a "subst.i.tute for Dionysus."

A subst.i.tute, he realized with a kind of horror, was not at all the same thing as a double.

The answer was perfectly clear, but there were even more facts to bolster it. Why had he been tested, for instance, _after_ he had been made a demi-G.o.d? In spite of what Vulcan had said, was he slated for further honors if he pa.s.sed the new tests? He was sure that Vulcan had been telling the truth as far as he'd gone--but it hadn't been the whole truth. Forrester was certain of that now.

And what was it that Venus had said during that argument with Mars?

Something about not killing Forrester, because then they would have to "get another--"

Another _what_?

Another _subst.i.tute_?

No, there was no escape from the simple and obvious conclusion. Dionysus was either missing, which was bad enough, or something much worse.

He was dead.

Forrester shivered. The idea of an immortal G.o.d dying was, in one way, as horrible a notion as he could imagine. But in another way, it seemed to make a good deal of sense. As far as plain William Forrester had been concerned, the contradiction in the notion of a dead immortal would have made it ridiculous to start with. But the demi-G.o.d Dionysus had a somewhat different slant on things.

After all, as Vulcan had told him, a demi-G.o.d could die. And if that was true, then why couldn't a G.o.d die too? Perhaps it would take quite a lot to kill a G.o.d--but the difference would be one of degree, not of kind.

It seemed wholly logical. And it led, Forrester saw, to a new conclusion, one that required a little less effort to face than he thought it would. It should have shaken the foundations of his childhood and left him dizzy, but somehow it didn't. How long, he asked himself, had he been secretly doubting the fact that the G.o.ds were G.o.ds?

At least in the sense they pretended to be, the "G.o.ds" were not G.o.ds at all. They were--something else.

But what? Where did they come from?

Were they actually the G.o.ds of ancient Greece, as they claimed?

Forrester wanted to throw that claim out with the rest, but when he thought things over he didn't see why he should. To an almost indestructible being, three thousand years may only be a long time.

So the G.o.ds actually were "G.o.ds," at least as far as longevity went. But the decision didn't get him very far; there were still a lot of questions unanswered, and no way that he could see of answering them.

Or, rather, there was one way, but it was h.e.l.lishly dangerous. He had no business even thinking about. He was in enough hot water already.

Nevertheless....

What more harm could he do to his chances? After the Baccha.n.a.l fiasco, there was probably a sentence of death hanging over his head anyhow. And they couldn't do any more to him than kill him.

It was ridiculous, he told himself, with a return of caution and sanity.

But the notion came back, nagging at his mind, and at last it took a new form.

The G.o.ds had the rest of the information he needed. He had to go to one of them--but which one?

His first thought was Venus. But, after a moment of thought, he ruled her regretfully out as a possibility. After all, there was Mars' mention of her "predecessor." If that meant anything, it meant that the current Venus wasn't the original one. She would have a lot less information than one of the original G.o.ds.

_If there were any originals left...._

He tabled that thought hurriedly and went on. Vulcan had told him at least a part of the truth, and Vulcan looked like a good bet. Forrester didn't like the idea of bearding the artisan in his workshop; it made him feel uncomfortable, and after a while he put his finger on the reason. His little liaison with Venus made him feel guilty. There was, he knew, no real reason for it. In the first place, he hadn't known the girl was Venus, and in the second place she may not have been the same one who had been Vulcan's original wife, thirty and more centuries ago.

But the guilt remained, and he tabled Vulcan for the time being and went on.

Morpheus, Hera, and most of the others he pa.s.sed by without a glance; there was no reason for them to dislike him, but there was no reason for comradeship, either. Mars popped into his mind, and popped right out again. That would be putting his head in the lion's mouth with a vengeance.

No, there was only one left, the obvious choice, the one who had helped him throughout his training period--Diana. She genuinely seemed to like him. She was also a good kid. The thought alone was almost enough to make him smile fondly, and would have if he had not remembered the peril he was in.

He turned away from the window to look at the color-swirled wall across the room. He had remained in his room ever since Mars and Venus had brought him back from New York, and he wasn't at all sure that he could leave it. In the normal sense of the word, the place had neither exits nor entrances. The only way of getting in or out of the place was via the Veils of Heaven--matter transmitters, not something supernatural, he realized now.

As far as Forrester knew, they still worked. But the G.o.ds could generate a Veil anywhere, at any time. Forrester, as a demi-G.o.d, could only will one into existence on sufferance; he could only work the matter-transmitting Veils if the G.o.ds permitted him to do so. If they didn't, he was trapped.

Well, he told himself, there was one way to find out.

He walked over to the wall and stood a few feet away from it, concentrating in the way he had been taught. He was still slower at it than the G.o.ds themselves, and hadn't developed the knack of forming a Veil as he walked toward the place where he wanted it to be, as they had.

But he knew he could do it--if he was still allowed to.

Minutes went by.

Then, as the blue sheet of neural energy flickered into being, Forrester slumped in sudden relief. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

The Veil was there--but was it what he hoped, or a trick? Possibly he could focus the other terminal where he wanted it, but there was also the chance that the G.o.ds had set the thing up so that, when he stepped through, he would be standing in the Court of the G.o.ds facing a tribunal for which he was totally unprepared.

It would be just like the Pantheon, he thought, to pull a lousy trick like that.

But there was no point in dithering. If death was to be his fate, that would be that. He could do nothing at all by sitting in his room and waiting for them to come and get him.

He focused the exit terminal in Diana's apartment. There was no way of knowing whether the focus worked or not until he stepped through.

He opened his eyes and walked into the Veil.

He felt almost disappointed when he looked around him. He had steeled himself to do great battle with the G.o.ds--and, instead, he was where he had wanted to be, in Diana's apartment.