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!" Forrester said in a voice like thunder. Symes, galvanized, threw. It flew up in the air. Forrester drew a careful bead on it, went _zap_ again with the pointed finger, and blasted the rock into dust. The silence hung on. Forrester laughed. "Not a bad throw for a mortal! And a good trick, too--a fine display!" He faced the crowd. "Now, there--what do you say to the entertainment your God provides? Wasn't that _fun_?" Well, naturally it was, if Dionysus said so. A great trick, as a matter of fact. And a perfectly wonderful display. The crowd agreed immediately, giving a long rousing cheer. Forrester waved at them, and then turned to a squad of Myrmidons standing nearby. "Go to that man and his friends!" he shouted, noticing that Symes's knees had begun to shake. The Myrmidons obeyed.