to the Tower of Zeus at eighteen hundred hours
exactly," the Myrmidon said. "Got that?"

"You mean today?" Forrester said, and cursed himself for sounding
stupid. But the Myrmidon appeared not to have noticed.

"Today, sure," he said. "Eighteen hundred. Just present this card."

He stepped back, obviously getting ready to leave. Forrester watched him
for one long second, and then burst out: "What do I do after that?"

"Just be a good boy. Do what you're told. Ask no questions. It's better
that way."

Forrester thought of six separate replies and settled on a seventh. "All
right," he said.

"And remember," the Myrmidon said, at the outside door, "don't mention
this to anyone. _Not anyone!_"

The door banged shut.

Forrester found himself staring at the card he held. He put it away in
his case, alongside the ID card. Then, dazed, he went on back to the
acolyte's sacristy, took off his white tunic and put on his street
clothes.

What did they want with him at the Tower of Zeus? It didn't really sound
like an arrest. If it had been that, the Myrmidons themselves would have
taken him.

So what did the Pontifex Maximus want with William Forrester?

He spent some time considering it, and then, taking a deep breath, he
forced it out of his mind. He would know at eighteen hundred, and such
were the ways of the Gods that he would not know one second before.

So there was no point in worrying about it, he told himself. He almost
made himself believe it.

But wiping speculation out of his mind left an unwelcome and uneasy
vacancy. Forrester replaced it with thought of the morning's service in
the Temple. Such devotion was probably valuable, anyhow, in a spiritual
sense. It brought him closer to the Gods....

The Gods he wanted desperately to be like.

That, he told himself sharply, was foolishness of the most senseless
kind.

He blinked it away.

The Goddess Athena had appeared herself at the service--sufficient
reason for thinking of it now. The statuesquely beautiful Goddess with
her severely swept-back blonde hair and her deep gray eyes was the
embodiment of the wisdom and strength for which her worshippers
especially prayed. Her beauty was almost unworldly, impossible of
existence in a world which contained mortals.

She reminded Forrester, ever so slightly (and, of course, in a reverent
way), of Gerda Symes.

There seemed to be a great many forbidden thoughts floating around this
day. Resolutely, Forr