The Golden Age of Science Fiction Novels Vol 01

by Anthology

  "Now," Vulcan said, "if you'll--" He stopped. "Pardon me," he said, and levered himself upright. He went to a chair, swept a few constructions from it and put them carefully on a table. "Sit down," he said, motioning to the chair.

  Gingerly, Forrester sat down.

  Vulcan returned to his own chair and climbed onto it. "Now let us get to business."

  "Business?" Forrester said.

  "Oh, yes," Vulcan said. "I imagine you were pretty well bewildered for a while. No more than natural. But I think you've figured it out by now. You know you are going to be given the powers of a demi-God, don't you?"

  "Yes. But--"

  "Do not worry about it," Vulcan said. "The powers are--simply powers. They are not burdens. At any rate, they will not be burdensome to you. We know that--we have researched you to a fine point, as you may have gathered from the fol-de-rol back there." He gestured toward his right, evidently indicating the Court of the Gods.

  "But," Forrester said, "suppose I'm not what your tests say. I mean, suppose I--"

  "There is no need for supposition. Beyond any shadow of doubt, we know how you, as a mortal, will react to any conceivable set of circumstances."

  "Oh," Forrester said. "But--"

  "Precisely. You have realized what yet needs to be done. We know what your abilities and limitations are--as a mortal. The tests you have yet to pass are concerned with your actions and reactions as a demi-God."

  Forrester swallowed hard. He felt as if he were on a moving roller-coaster. No matter how badly he wanted to get off, it was impossible to do so. He had to remain while the car hurtled on.

  And where was he going?

  The Gods, he told himself with more than ordinary meaning, knew.

  "The power which is to be infused into you," Vulcan said, "if you don't mind the loose terminology--"

  "I don't mind in the least," Forrester assured him earnestly. "Not in the least."

  "The power infused into you will make some changes. These will not only be physical changes. Mental changes must be expected."

  "Oh," Forrester said. "Mental changes."

  "Correct. Physically, you see, you will become what no mortal can ever quite be: a perfectly functioning biological engine. Every sinew, nerve and muscle, every organ and gland, every tissue in your body will be in perfect harmonic balance with every other. Metabolically speaking, your catabolism and anabolism will be in such perfect balance that aging will not be possible."

  Forrester thought that over. "I'll be immortal," he said.

  "In that sense of the word," Vulcan said, "you will. You will be, as a matter of fact, quite a good deal tougher, stronger and harder than any animal now existing on the face of the Earth. I must except, of course, a few of the really big ones, like the elephant and the killer whale."

  "Oh," Forrester said. "Sure."

  "But make no mistake. You can still be killed. A bullet through the heart will not do the job; it will merely incapacitate you for a few hours. But if you were to have your head blown off by a grenade, you would be quite dead. Remember that."

  "I don't see how I could forget it."

  "You will heal with incredible rapidity, but there are limitations. Anything that pushes the balance too far will be fatal. You can lose a hand or even an arm without serious harm; the missing member will be regrown. But if you were to fall into a large meat-grinder--"

  "I get the idea," Forrester said, feeling pale green.

  "Good," Vulcan said. "However, there is more."

  "More?"

  "There are certain other powers to be given you in addition. You will learn of these later."

  Forrester nodded blankly.

  "Now," Vulcan said, "all these physical changes will have a definite effect upon your psychological outlook, as I imagine you can plainly see."

  Forrester thought about it. "Well--"

  "Let us suppose that you are a coward who has avoided fights all his life. Now you are given these powers. What will happen?"

  "I'll be strong."

  "Exactly. You will be strong. And because you are strong, and almost indestructible, you suddenly decide that you can now get your revenge on the people who have pushed you around."

  "Well," Forrester said, "I--"

  "You begin to look for fights," Vulcan said. "You go around beating up everyone you can find, simply because you now know you can get away with it. Do you understand me?"

  "I guess so."

  "A man with a vicious streak in him would be intolerable in this position. Can you see that? Take an example: Ares. Mars is a tough God, hard and at times brutal. But he is not vicious."

  Forrester was a little surprised to hear Vulcan say anything nice about Mars. He knew, as everyone did, the long history of ill-will and positive hatred the two had built up between them. It had begun soon after Vulcan's marriage to Aphrodite/Venus.

  He hadn't been a cripple then, of course. For a while, he and Venus had had a fine time. But Venus, apparently, just wasn't satisfied with the dull normal routine of married life. None of the Gods seemed to be, as a matter of fact. Either they were altogether too married, like Zeus, or else they weren't married enough, like Venus. Or else they were like Diana and Athena, indifferent to marriage.

  At any rate, Venus had begun looking around for fresh talent. And the fresh talent had been right there ready to sign up for a long contract on a strictly extra-legal basis.

  One day Vulcan caught them at it, his wife and Mars. Vulcan was angry, but Mars didn't exactly like to be interrupted, either, and he was a little faster on the draw. He tossed Vulcan over a nearby cliff, crippling him for good.

  And as for Aphrodite--who knew? It was entirely possible that, by this time, the Goddess of Love had run through the entire list of Gods and was now at work on the mortals.

  Forrester wasn't entirely sure he disliked the idea, on a simple physical level. But there was more than that to it, of course; there was Vulcan. Forrester found himself liking the solemn, positive workman. He didn't want to hurt him.

  And a liaison with Venus was certain to do just that.

  He came back to the present to hear Vulcan still discoursing. "Also," the God said, "changes in glandular balance must be made. These changes have a necessary effect on the brain. The personality changes subtly, though I can assure you that the change is not a marked one." He paused. "For all these reasons," he finished, "I am sure that you can see why we must subject you to further tests."

  "I understand," Forrester said vaguely.

  "Good. Now, you will not know whether a given incident--any given incident--is a perfectly natural occurrence or a test imposed on you by the Pantheon. Can you understand that?"

  Forrester nodded.

  Vulcan levered himself upright, his ugly face smiling just a little. "And remember what I have told you. No worrying. You don't even know just what any given test is supposed to accomplish, so you can't know whether the action you choose is right or wrong. Therefore, worrying will do nothing for you. You will be at your best if you simply behave naturally."

  "I'll try."

  "Remember, also, that you were picked not merely for your physical resemblance to Dionysus, but your psychological resemblance as well. Therefore, playing his part should be comparatively simple for you. Right?"

  "I guess so," Forrester said, feeling both expectant and a little hopeless about it all.

  "Fine," Vulcan said. "Now wait one moment." He turned and limped over to a structure that looked like a sort of worktable. When he came back, he was carrying several objects in his big hands. He selected one, an ovoid about the size of a marble, colored a dull orange, and handed it to Forrester. "Swallow that."

  Forrester took it cautiously. As soon as he found out what he was supposed to do with the thing, its dimensions seemed to grow. It looked about the size of a golf ball in his shaking hands.

  "Swallow it?" he said tentatively.

  "Correct," Vulcan said.

  "But--"

  "Thi
s object is a--well, call it a talisman. It will not dissolve, and it is recoverable, but for the Investiture it must be inside you."

  "But--"

  "You will find it so easy to swallow that you will need no water. Go ahead."

  Forrester put the thing in his mouth and swallowed once, just to test Vulcan's statement. The effect was surprising. He could barely feel it leave his tongue, and he couldn't feel it go down at all. He swallowed again, experimentally, and explored the inside of his mouth with his tongue.

  "It is gone," Vulcan said. "Good."

  "It's gone, all right," Forrester said wonderingly.

  "The sandals are next." Vulcan selected a pair of sandals with rather thick soles and handed them over. They were apparently made of gold. Forrester obediently strapped them on, and Vulcan next handed him a pair of golden cylinders indented to fit his curved fingers.

  "You hold these very tightly," Vulcan said. "During the Investiture, you must grip them as hard as you can." He peered closely at them and pointed to one. "This one goes in the left hand. The other goes in the right. Squeeze them as if--as if you were trying to crush them. All right?"

  "All right," Forrester said.

  Vulcan nodded. "Good. From this moment on, do exactly as you are told. Answer questions truthfully. Keep nothing secret. Remember my instructions."

  "Right," Forrester said doubtfully.

  "Come on," Vulcan said, heading for the wall. The inevitable Veil of Heaven appeared, and Forrester followed through it as before.

  The room they entered was not, he thought, the same one they had been in before. Or, if it was, it had changed a great deal. It was difficult to tell anything for sure; the shifting walls looked the same, but they also looked like the shifting walls in Venus' apartments.

  At any rate, there were now no couches on the floor. The room seemed even bigger than before, and when the walls settled down to a steady golden glow, Forrester felt lost in the immensity of the place. In the center of the room was a raised golden dais. It was about five feet across and nearly three feet high.

  The Gods were ranged around it in a semicircle, facing him. Vulcan slipped into an empty space in the line, and Forrester stood perfectly alone, holding the cylinders.

  Zeus cleared his throat. "Step up on the dais," he said.

  Stumbling slightly, Forrester managed to do so without losing his grip on the cylinders.

  In the center of the raised platform, with the Gods staring at him, he felt like something under a microscope.

  "William Forrester," Zeus said, and he shuddered. The All-Father's voice had never been more powerful. "William Forrester, from this moment onward you will renounce your present name. You will be known as Dionysus the Lesser until and unless it shall please us to confer another name on you. Henceforth, you will be, in part, a recipient of the worship due to Dionysus, and you will hold the rank of demi-God. Do you accept these judgments and this honor?"

  Forrester gulped. A long time seemed to pass. At last he found his voice. "I do," he said.

  "Very well," Zeus said.

  The Gods joined hands and closed the circle around Forrester, surrounding him completely. The golden auras that shone about their bodies grew more and more bright. Forrester clutched the golden cylinders tightly.

  Then, very suddenly, there was an explosion of light. Forrester thought he had staggered, but he was never sure. Everything was too bright to see. Dizziness began, and grew.

  The room whirled and tipped. Somewhere a great organlike note began, and went on and on.

  Forrester convulsed with the force of a single great burst of energy that crashed through his nervous system.

  And then, in a timeless instant, everything went black.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The morning of the Autumn Bacchanal dawned bright and clear--thanks to the intervention of the Pantheon. In New York, the leaves were only just beginning to turn, and the sun was still high enough in the sky to make the afternoons warm and pleasant. Zeus All-Father had promised good weather for the festival, and a strong, warm wind from the Gulf of Mexico was moving out the crisp autumn air before the sun had risen an hour above the horizon.

  The practicing that had gone on in thousands of homes throughout the city was at an end. The Autumn Bacchanal was here at last, and the Beginning Service, which had started in the little Temple-on-the-Green right at dawn, when the sun's rays had first touched the tops of New York's towers, was approaching its end. The people clustered in the building, and the incomparably greater number scattered outside it, were feeling the first itch of restlessness.

  Soon the Grand Procession would begin, starting as always from the Temple-on-the-Green and wending its slow way northward to the upper end of Central Park at 110th Street. Then the string of worshippers would turn and head back for the Temple at the lower end of the Park, with fanfare and pageantry on a scale calculated to do honor to the God of the festival, to outshine not only every other festival, but every past year of the Autumn Bacchanal itself.

  The Autumn Bacchanal was devoted to the celebration of the harvest, and more specifically the harvest and processing of the grape. All the wineries for hundreds of miles around had shipped hogshead after hogshead and barrel after barrel of fine wine--red, white, rose, still, or sparkling--as joyous sacrifice to Dionysus/Bacchus, and in thanks that the fertility rites of the Vernal Bacchanal had brought them good crops. Wine flowed from everywhere into the city, and now the immense reserves were stacked away, awaiting the revels. Even the brewers and distillers had sent along their wares, from the mildest beer to vodka of 120 proof, joining unselfishly in the celebration even though, technically, they were not under Dionysian protection at all, but were the wards of Ceres, the Goddess of grain.

  Celebrants, liquors, chants, preparations, balloons, confetti, edibles and all the other appurtenances of the festival spiraled dizzyingly upward, reaching proportions unheard of throughout history. And, in a back room at the Temple-on-the-Green, the late William Forrester sat, trying to forget all about them, and suffering from a continuous case of nerves.

  Diana marched up and down in front of him, smacking her left fist into her calloused little right palm. "Now listen," she said crisply. "I know you're all hot and bothered, kid, but there's no reason to be. You're doing fine. They love you out there."

  "Sure I am," Forrester said, unconvinced.

  "Well, you are," Diana said. "You just got to have confidence, that's all. Keep your spirits up. Tried singing?"

  "Singing?"

  "Singing, kid. Raises the spirits."

  Forrester blinked. "Really?"

  "Take it from me," Diana said. "How about Tenting Tonight?"

  "How about what?"

  "Tenting Tonight," Diana said. "You know."

  "I--guess I do." Forrester wished that Diana would do more than treat him like a pal. She was a remarkably beautiful woman, if you liked the type, and Forrester liked virtually any type.

  Now, success appeared to be within his grasp. But it did seem an odd time to bring the subject up. Oh, well, he thought, maybe she was just trying to cheer him up and had picked this way of doing it.

  It worked, too, he told himself happily.

  He cleared his throat. "Where?"

  Diana stared. "Where?"

  "That's right," Forrester said. Something was going wrong but he couldn't discover what it was. "The tenting."

  "Oh," Diana said. "Right here. Now. Raises the spirits."

  "I should say it does!" Forrester agreed enthusiastically. "But after all--right here--"

  "Don't worry about it, kid. Nobody will hear you."

  "Hear me?"

  "Anyway, it's nothing to be ashamed of. Lots of people do it when they feel low."

  "I'll bet they do," Forrester said. "But it's different with you and me."

  "Me?" Diana said. "What do I have to do with it? I just told you--"

  "Well, sure. And here and now is as good a time and place as any."

  Dia
na stepped back a pace. "Okay, let's hear it. Sing!"

  "Sing? You mean I have to sing for my--"

  "I'll join you," Diana said.

  Forrester nodded. He was beginning to get confused. "You'd better," he said.

  "Tenting tonight on the old camp grounds," she sang. "Now come on."

  Forrester coughed. "Oh," he said. "Sing."

  "Sure," Diana said, and they went through the song together. "How about another chorus?" she asked.

  "It's all right, Diana," Forrester said, knowing she preferred the name to her Greek one of Artemis. "I feel fine now."

  "Well," Diana said in a disappointed voice, "all right."

  What surprised Forrester most was that he did feel fine. All the Gods had helped him in the past several months, but Diana had been especially helpful. As a forest Goddess, and as Protectress of the Night, she'd been able to tell him a lot about how an orgy was arranged. He had often wished that she would teach by example, but now, he discovered, it was too late for wishing.

  She was, he told himself with only faint regret, just like a sister to him. Or even a brother.

  "I guess everything will be okay," he said. "Won't it?"

  Diana clapped him on the back. "You're going to be great. Just go out there and show 'em what kind of a God you are."

  "But what kind of a God am I?"

  "Just keep cool, kid. You won't fail me--I know it."

  "I'll try," Forrester said. "Only I'm getting nervous just sitting around here. I wish we could go out and stroll around; we've got plenty of time, anyhow."

  Diana nodded. "It's ten minutes yet before the Procession starts. I suppose we might as well take a look around, kid, if it makes you feel better."

  "It might."

  "Fine, then. But how do you want to go?"

  Forrester blinked. "How?"

  "Invisibility," Diana said, "or incognito?"

  "Oh," Forrester said. Then he added: "You're asking me?"

  "Of course I am, kid. Now, look: this is your celebration, remember? You're Dionysus. Got it? Even in my presence, you act the part now. You ought to know that."