Burke twisted his mouth into a thin, wry smile. "Would you disown mighty Dionysus?" he queried coolly. "Would you drive from your midst the giver of grapes and wine and joy?" "Dionysus--!" In awed whispers, the name ran round the crowded room. For the fraction of a second, Minos' gaze flickered. Only then, a new storm of belligerence seemed to shake him. He strode forward, shaking his fist. "We'll see, dog! We'll see! The oracle shall decide!" The whole throne-room quivered with sudden hushed fear. "Make way!" roared Minos. "Make way to the shrine, that the oracle himself may judge this mocker!" Then, to Burke: "--And if he declares you false, you dog, you'll wish I'd thrown you to the Minotaur before you die!" He pivoted; stalked down an aisle formed by the onlookers. Roughly, Burke's guards shoved him along behind. A stone-walled well loomed, with broad steps leading down. --The lustral area! The sacred place of purification that Sir Arthur Evans first had assumed to be a bath! Only now, it was turning out in reality to be for revelation, not purification; a holy of holies where Man could receive the pronouncements of the gods. The guards let go of Burke when he reached the steps. Apparently they had no intention of following him down into the pit itself. Of a sudden he felt strangely nervous. His knees showed a tendency to shake. But he couldn't let that happen, and he knew it. Not if he wanted ever to leave this weird place alive. So he straightened his shoulders and clenched his teeth and strode boldly after King Minos. * * * * * With every step, the biting, acrid smell grew stronger. Burke almost choked on it. He found himself wondering if perhaps the oracle spoke in trances induced by vapors; if maybe this pit were outlet for a pocket of some sort of natural gas. Not even a whisper rose from the watchers in the throne-room. The only sound was the scrape of his own shoes upon the stone. Then, at last, he and Minos reached the bottom of the stair. Dramatically, the sea-king threw wide his arms. "Mighty oracle of Zeus, it is your chosen one who calls!" he thundered. "Speak to me! Tell me--tell all of us--if this creature here beside me is a god!" Silence. "Speak, oracle! Give us your answer! Is this truly Dionysus? Or is it but a man, a blasphemer we should slay?" More silence. Burke choked on a sudden impulse to laugh. To think of it--a twentieth century man and a Bronze Age sea-king, together in this dank, smelly hole, calling on the gods for a revelation! And what if the oracle's secret really turned out to be gas? Might it prove his own salvation--or at least give him a quick and easy death? For instance, suppose he were to flick the wheel of his pocket lighter--would the all-pervasive smell explode or burn? "Oracle, I am your chosen one, King Minos! I command you--" Quietly, Burke palmed the lighter. "Speak, oracle; speak!"