emselves in the first place. Possibly, Forrester had always
thought, they could be equated with the indefinite "angels" of the
religions that had been popular during his grandfather's time, sixty
years ago, before the return of the Gods. But that was an uncertain
theological notion, and Forrester was quite ready to abandon it in the
face of good argument to the contrary.

Whatever they were, the Gods were certainly the Gods of Earth now.

The Omnipotent Creator had evidently left it for them to run, while he
went about his own mysterious business, far from the understanding or
the lives of men. The Gods, omnipotent or not, ran the world and
everything in it.

And if, like Forrester, you knew that omnipotence wasn't their strong
point, you just didn't mention it. It would have been impolite to have
done so--like talking about sight to a blind man. And "impolite" was not
the only word that covered the case. The Gods had enough power, as
everyone knew, to avenge any blasphemies against them. And careless
mention of limitations on their power would surely be construed as
blasphemy, true or not.

Forrester had never even thought of doing such a thing.

So what, he thought, did the Temple Myrmidons want with him?

He came to the anteroom and went in, seeing the two of them at once.
They were big, burly chaps with hard faces, and the pistols that were
holstered at their sides looked completely unnecessary. Forrester took a
deep breath and went a step forward. There he stopped, staring.

The Myrmidons were strangers to him--and now he understood why. Neither
was wearing the shoulder-patch Owl of Minerva/Athena. Both proudly
sported the Thunderbolt of Zeus/Jupiter, the All-Father himself.

_Whatever it is_, Forrester told himself with a sinking sensation, _it's
serious_.

One of the Myrmidons looked him up and down in a casual,
half-contemptuous way. "You're William Forrester?"

"That's right," Forrester said, knowing that he looked quite calm, and
wondering, at the same time, whether or not he would live out the next
few minutes. The Myrmidons of Zeus/Jupiter didn't come around to other
temples on unimportant errands. "May I help you?" he went on, feeling
foolish.

"Let's see your ID card, please," the Myrmidon said in the same tone as
before. That puzzled Forrester. He doubted whether examination of
credentials was a part of the routine preceding arrest--or execution,
for that matter. The usual procedure was, and