nce was
unthinkable.

Gerda's opinion of her brother was touching, reverent, and--Forrester
thought savagely--not in the least borne out by any discoverable facts.

And a worshipper of Bacchus! Not that Forrester had anything against the
orgiastic rites indulged in by the Dionysians, the Panites, the
Apollones or even the worst and wildest of them all, the Venerans. If
that was how the Gods wanted to be worshipped, then that was how they
should be worshipped.

And, as a matter of fact, it sounded like fun--if, Forrester considered,
entirely too public for his taste.

If he preferred the quieter rites of Athena, or of Juno, Diana or
Ceres--and even Ceresians became a little wild during the spring
fertility rites, especially in the country, where the farmers depended
on her for successful crops--well, that was no more than a personal
preference.

But the idea of Ed Symes involved in a Bacchic orgy was just a little
too much for the normal mind, or the normal stomach.

"Hey," Ed said suddenly. "Where's Gerda? Still in the Temple?"

"I didn't see her," Forrester said. There _had_ been a woman who'd
looked like her. But that hadn't been Gerda. _She'd_ have waited for him
here.

And--

"Funny," Ed said.

"Why?" Forrester said. "I didn't see her. I don't think she attended the
service this morning, that's all."

He wanted very badly to hit Symes. Just once. But he knew he couldn't.

First of all, there was Gerda. And then, as an acolyte, he was
proscribed by law from brawling. No one would hit an acolyte; and if the
acolyte were built like Forrester, striking another man might be the
equivalent of murder. One good blow from Forrester's fist might break
the average man's jaw.

That was, he discovered, a surprisingly pleasant thought. But he made
himself keep still as the fat fool went on.

"Funny she didn't attend," Symes said. "But maybe she's gotten wise to
herself. There was a celebration up at the Temple of Pan in Central
Park, starting at midnight, and going on through the morning. Spring
Rites. Maybe she went there."

"I doubt it," Forrester said instantly. "That's hardly her type of
worship."

"Isn't it?" Symes said.

"It doesn't fit her. That kind of--"

"I know. Gerda's like you. A little stuffy."

"It's not being stuffy," Forrester started to explain. "It's--"

"Sure," Symes said. "Only she's not as much of a prude as you are. I
couldn't stand her if she were."

"On the other hand, she's