"Well, then," Forrester said, his bearing perfectly calm, even though he could feel his stomach sinking to ground level, "how do you know it's an honor?" The thought that had crossed his mind was almost too horrible to retain, but he had to say it. "Perhaps," he went on, "I've offended the Gods in some unusual way--some way very offensive to them." "Perhaps you have." "And perhaps," Forrester said, "they've decided on some exquisite method of punishing me. Something like the punishment they gave Tantalus when he--" "I know the ways of the Gods quite well, thank you," the High Priestess said coolly. "And I can tell you that your fears have no justification." "But--" "Please," the High Priestess said, raising a hand. "If the Gods were to punish you, they would simply have sent out a squad of Myrmidons to pick you up, and that would have been the end of it." "Perhaps not," Forrester said, in a voice that didn't sound at all like his own to him. It sounded much too unconcerned. "Perhaps I have offended only the Goddess herself." The idea sounded more plausible the more he thought about it. "Certainly the All-Father would back up his favorite Daughter in punishing a mortal." "Certainly he would. There is no doubt of that. And still the Myrmidons would have--" "Not necessarily. You're well aware of the occasional arguments and quarrels between the Gods." "I am," the High Priestess said, not without irony. "And it does not appear seemly that an ordinary mortal should mention--" "I teach History," Forrester said. "I know of such quarrels. Especially between Athena and Aphrodite." "And?" "It's obvious. Since I'm an acolyte of Athena, it may be that Aphrodite wished to keep my arrest secret." "I doubt it," the High Priestess said. Forrester wished he could believe her. But his own theory looked uncomfortably plausible. "It certainly looks as if I'm right." "Well--" For a second the High Priestess paled visibly, the freckles that went with her red hair standing out clearly on her face and giving her the disturbing appearance of an eleven-year-old. No eleven-year-old, however, Forrester reminded himself, had ever been built like the High Priestess. Then she regained her color and laughed, all in an instant. "For a minute," she said in a light tone, "you almost convinced me of your forebodings. But there's nothing in them. There couldn't be." Forrester opened his mouth, and _Why not?_ was on his lips. But he never got a chance to say the words. The High Priestess blinked and peered more closely at his face, and before he had a chance to speak she asked him: "What happened to you?" "A small accident," Forrester said quickly. It was a lie, but he thought a pardonable one. The truth was just too complicated to spin out; he had no real intent to deceive. But the High Priestess shook her head. "No," she said. "Not an accident. A fight. Your hands are skinned and bruised."