not a--"

"Not an Owl-boy of Owl-boys like you."

"Not a drunken blockhead," Forrester finished triumphantly. "At least
she's got a decent respect for wisdom and learning."

Symes stepped back, a movement for which Forrester felt grateful. No
matter how far away Ed Symes was, he was still too close.

"Who you calling a blockhead, buster?" Symes said. His eyes narrowed to
piggish little slits.

Forrester took a deep breath and reminded himself not to hit the other
man. "You," he said, almost mildly. "If brains were radium, you couldn't
make a flicker on a scintillation counter."

It was just a little doubtful that Symes understood the insult. But he
obviously knew it had been one. His face changed color to a kind of
grayish purple, and his hands clenched slowly at his sides. Forrester
stood watching him quietly.

Symes made a sound like _Rrr_ and took a breath. "If you weren't an
acolyte, I'd take a poke at you just to see you bounce."

"Sure you would," Forrester agreed politely.

Symes went _Rrr_ again and there was a longer silence. Then he said:
"Not that I'd hit you anyhow, buster. It'd go against my grain. Not the
acolyte business--if you didn't look so much like Bacchus, I'd take the
chance."

Forrester's jaw ached. In a second he realized why; he was clenching his
teeth tightly. Perhaps it was true that he did look a little like
Bacchus, but not enough for Ed Symes to kid about it.

Symes grinned at him. Symes undoubtedly thought the grin gave him a
pleasant and carefree expression. It didn't. "Suppose I go have a look
for Gerda myself," he said casually, heading up the stairs toward the
temple entrance. "After all, you're so busy looking at books, you might
have missed her."

And what, Forrester asked himself, was the answer to that--except a
punch in the mouth?

It really didn't matter, anyhow. Symes was on his way into the temple,
and Forrester could just ignore him.

But, damn it, why did he let the young idiot get his goat that way?
Didn't he have enough self-control just to ignore Symes and his oafish
insults?

Forrester supposed sadly that he didn't. Oh, well, it just made another
quality he had to pray to Athena for.

Then he glanced at his wristwatch and stopped thinking about Symes
entirely.

It was twelve-forty-five. He had to be at work at thirteen hundred.

Still angry, underneath the sudden need for speed, he turned and
sprinted toward the subway.

* * *