tip of
his index finger in a pencil-thin beam. It sped toward the falling
pebble, speared it and wrapped it in coruscating splendor. Then the
pebble exploded, scattering into a fine display of flying dust.

The crowd stopped moving and singing immediately.

Only the musicians, too intent on their noisemaking to see what had gone
on, went on playing. But the crowd, having seen Forrester's display and
heard his oath, was as silent as a collection of statues. When a God
became angry, each was obviously thinking, there was absolutely no
telling what was going to happen. Foxholes, some of them might have told
themselves, would definitely be a good idea. But, of course, there
weren't any foxholes in Central Park. There was nothing to do but stand
very still, and hope you weren't noticed, and hope for the best.

Even Gerda, Forrester saw, had stopped, her face still, her hand lifted
in a half-finished wave, the plastic cup forgotten.

_I've got to do something_, Forrester thought. _I can't let this kind of
thing go on._

He thought fast, spun around and pointed directly at Ed Symes, standing
in the water below the bridge.

"You, there!" he bellowed.

Symes turned a delicate fish-belly white. Against this basic color, his
pimples stood out strongly, making, Forrester thought, a rather unusual
and somewhat striking effect. The man looked as if he wished he could
sink out of sight in the ankle-deep water.

His mouth opened two or three times. Forrester waited, getting a good
deal of pleasure out of the simple sight. Finally Symes spoke. "Me?"

"Certainly you! You look like a tough young specimen."

Symes tried to grin. The effect was ghastly. "I do?" He said
tentatively.

"Of course you do. Your God tells you so. Do you doubt him?"

"Doubt? No. Absolutely not. Never. Wouldn't think of it. Tough young
specimen. That's what I am. Tough. And young. Tough young specimen.
Certainly. You bet."

"Good," Forrester said. "Now let's see you in action."

Symes took a deep breath. He seemed to be savoring it, as if he thought
it was going to be his very last. "Wh--what do you want me to do?"

"I want you to pick up another stone and throw it. Let's see how high
you can get it."

Symes was obviously afraid to move from his spot in the water. Instead
of going back to the land, he fished around near his feet and finally
managed to come up with a pebble almost as big as his fist. He looked at
it doubtfully.

"Throw!" Forre