triots
downstairs, and wore in addition to the usual lightning-bolt patch the
two silver ants of a Captain on the shoulders of his uniform. He nearly
smiled at Forrester--but not quite.

"You're William Forrester?" he said.

Forrester nodded. He produced the ID card and handed it with the special
card to the Myrmidon.

"Right," the Myrmidon said.

Forrester turned right.

The Myrmidon stared at him. "No," he said. "I mean it's all right.
You're all right."

"Thank you," Forrester said.

"Oh--" The Myrmidon looked at him, then shrugged his shoulders. "You're
expected," he said at last in a flat voice. "Come with me."

He started down the hallway. Forrester followed him around a corner to
an ornate bronzed door, covered with bas-reliefs depicting the actions
of the Gods among themselves, and among men. The Myrmidon seemed
unimpressed by the magnificence of the thing; he pushed it open and
bowed low to, as far as Forrester could see, nobody in particular.

Taking no chances, Forrester copied his bow. He was still bent when the
Myrmidon announced: "Forrester is here, Your Concupiscence," in a
reverent tone of voice, and backed off a step, narrowly missing
Forrester himself in the process.

He waved a hand and Forrester went in.

The door shut halfway behind him.

The room was perfectly unbelievable. Its rich hangings were purple
velvet, draping a large window that looked out on ...

Forrester gulped. It was impossible to be this high. New York was spread
out below like a toy city.

He jerked his eyes away from the window and back to the rest of the
room. It was furnished mainly with couches: big couches, little couches,
puffy ones, spare ones, in felt, velvet, fur, and every other material
Forrester could think of. The rooms were flocked in a pale pink, and on
the floor was a deep-purple rug of a richer pile than Forrester had ever
seen.

And on one of the couches, the largest and the softest, she reclined.

She was clad only in the diaphanous robes of her calling, and she was
stacked. Beside her, little Maya Wilson would have looked about eight
years old. Her hair was as red as the inside of a blast furnace, and had
about the same effect on Forrester's pulse rate. Her face was a slightly
rounded oval, her body a series of mathematically indescribable curves.

Forrester did the only thing he could do.

He bowed again, even lower than before.

"Come in, William Forrester," said the High Priestess of