a lemming for self-destruction. And, for Forrester,
the point had been proven.

Yet now that the human race had been saved, there were still men who
griped about the Gods and their return. Forrester silently wished the
pack of them in Hades, enjoying the company of Pluto and his ilk.

At the corner of 34th and Broadway, as he came out of the subway
tunnels, he bought a copy of the _News_ and glanced quickly through the
headlines. But, as always, there was little sensational news. Mars was
doing pretty well for himself, of course: there were two wars going on
in Asia, one in Europe and three revolutions in South and Central
America. That last did seem to be overdoing things a bit, but not
seriously. Forrester shrugged, wondering vaguely when the United States
was going to have its turn.

But he couldn't concentrate on the paper and, after a little while, he
got rid of it and took a look at his watch.

Twenty to six. Forrester decided he could use a drink to brace himself
and steady his nerves.

Just one.

On Sixth Avenue, near 34th Street, there was a bar called, for some
obscure reason, the _Boat House_. Forrester headed for it, went inside
and leaned against the bar. The bartender, a tall man with crew-cut
reddish hair, raised his eyebrows in a questioning fashion.

"What'll it be, friend?"

"Vodka and ginger ale," Forrester said. "A double."

It was still, he told himself uneasily, just one drink. And that was all
he was going to have.

The bartender brought it and Forrester sipped at it, watching his
reflection in the mirror and wishing he felt easier in his mind about
the whole Tower of Zeus affair. Then, very suddenly, he noticed that the
man next to him was looking at him oddly. Forrester didn't like the look
or, for that matter, the man himself, a raw-boned giant with deep-set
eyes and a shock of dead-black hair, but so long as nobody bothered him,
Forrester wasn't going to start anything.

Unfortunately, somebody bothered him. The tall man leaned over and said
loudly: "What's the matter with you, bud? An infidel or something?"

Forrester hesitated. The accusation that he didn't believe in the
practices ordained by the Gods themselves was an irritating one. But he
could see the other side of the question, too. The tall man was
undoubtedly a Dionysian; and, more than that, a member of a small sect
inside the general _corpus_ of Bacchus/Dionysus worshippers. He held
that it was wrong to distill grap