Come be my O.R.G.Y.

That delectable Tibetan, Ti Nih Baapuh, is back but Steve “The Man from O.R.G.Y.” Victor doesn't have her.

Steve is caught up in Papa Baapuh‘s out-of-whack time machine, busy grappling with gorgeous beauties of other eras (and dodging their infuriated menfolk).

All Steve can do about Ti Nih is tune in on his wrist radio and hear the sound effects that spring from her fun and games with that mysterious American “diplomat,” Charles Putnam.

Being a man from O.R.G.Y. is back-breaking work all right, all right. (It hardly gives a guy time to save the world from its own folly, thinks Steve, panting.)

But come along for the ride anyway, you won't be sorry!

Come be my O.R.G.Y.

Ted Mark

1968

CHAPTER ONE

Call me Stud!

It was the best of nights; it was the worst of nights; it was a night like all other nights — like all other nights during the past month for me, Steve Victor, that is. Which is to say the night was stuffed with love.

Love!

Shove it up your heart!

Why was I so bitter? After all, wasn’t I one man who could truly say, “The world is mine!”? Yeah, only I didn’t want it. Not this world, anyway. Zero in on the night, make the scene, and my dog-in-the-manger-ishness becomes understandable.

The scene: Saigon by starlight; a future fairyland — and a futuristic fairyland, too — neon-shiny and phallic-spired and melting into picturesque wooden huts and jagged debris and hunks of homes tossed willfully over the landscape, then rising again out of watery rice paddies to jungle trees goosing the sky; a romantic fairyland softened by the smog of night which distorted the ugly reality of vulgar architecture and war’s ruin and turned it into a shimmering make-believe of sensuality, an erotic dreamland; a scene permeated by the sweet-smelling miasma of tropic foliage only faintly tainted by the too-sweet smell of decomposing dead bodies because the wind was right; a setting palpitating to an Eastern jungle beat which was really Western artillery pounding a Vietnamese village some distance away, U.S. cannon conquering the countryside and being subtly conquered in return by an Oriental atmosphere which reduced its boom to the pulsing of ageless Vietnamese drums exorcising evil spirits with a pounding love of life. Yeah, the scene was a paradox, a maze of contradictions with Yours Truly in the center of the maze.

Close up the scene was just as unreal, but more sharply defined. At least it was sharper from where I was sitting—-or, rather, reclining, to be more exact. From my bed in the shack, I could look out the window and see a long line of Vietnamese queueing up and shuffling forward towards the door to my hut. The line was composed entirely of women.

It was sad, because those towards the end of the line were doomed to disappointment. They must have realized this, but they kept their places in line anyway. Conceivably, they might wait it out until the following night. They wanted satisfaction and the wait might be worth it to them. Only there was always the chance that they wouldn’t get it the next night either. There was always the chance that I wouldn’t survive until the next night.

You see, I was the reason the little ladies were lining up. I was the only source of satisfaction available to them in a world gone mad. I was the only sexually functioning male on earth! To put it another way, I was the most successful male whore around because I was the only one in the world. I had a monopoly on screwing; I’d cornered the market, and now the market was cornering me!

As far as sex was concerned, the world really was mine. But I was only flesh and the effort of accepting all this homage was destroying me. Now do you dig the reason for my bitterness?

If you do, you’re probably wondering how I ever got into this predicament and how the world ever got into this situation. It isn’t easy to explain, but I’ll try. And you’ll have to try to suspend disbelief if you’re going to understand.

I’ll start at the beginning. That would be about May of 1967. At that time the name Steve Victor carried some weight in certain select circles. You see, I’m the man from O.R.G.Y.

The initials stand for “Organization for the Rational Guidance of Youth.” The name is about as accurate as the term “marriage manual.” What I mean is that such booklets may have to do with marriage problems and manual techniques, but that’s hedging the question because what they really are is “how—to” opuses not so much concerned with general “Guidance,” or the hang-ups of “Youth,” as with the specifics of sex.

The Organization is primarily concerned with investigating sexual customs. As was the case with Kinsey¹ , its financing came from various foundations and institutions interested in shedding light on this most taboo topic. Unlike the Kinsey outfit, O.R.G.Y. is strictly a one-man operation -- and the one man is me, Steve Victor.

I conducted all my own investigations and always did my research personally. Nice work if you can get it? I used to think so. But that was before the demand for my services swamped the supply I’d been endowed with by nature.

Anyway, back in May of 1967, I Went to a small village in the mountains of Tibet to investigate the polyandry practiced by the natives. Polyandry is the custom of women taking two or more husbands. Tibet is one of the last places in the world where it is still followed.

It wasn’t easy to gain admission to Tibet. The country had been conquered by the Chinese and was administered by the Red Guard² . I had to pull strings to go there. And all the strings led to Charles Putnam.

Charles Putnam . . . Fit him in as a governmental parenthesis between espionage and diplomacy. Define him as a figment of the imagination without which no government can function. Picture him as a block of granite polished to high camp, made up of sartorial splendor, impeccable bearing, smooth manners—and the ruthlessness of a rhino calculating a rampage underneath it all. Know that Charles Putnam is not his real name because he has no name; officially he doesn’t exist; as a matter of fact, he doesn’t even exist unofficially. Peel an onion and the center is—nothing. Peel away the red tape of the federal government and the center is—-Charles Putnam. The only human thing about him was that he was susceptible to sexual experience-—but that’s putting me ahead of my story.

The thing is that Charles Putnam arranged for me to get into Tibet. I was accompanied by a companion who subsequently kicked off, done in by the very polyandry we were investigating, as it were -- but that too is another story³ . The important thing is that after my buddy’s demise, Putnam himself had to come to Tibet to extricate me from the idiotic, unbelievable, totally fantastic predicament into which I’d gotten.

Putnam’s concern with me stemmed from the fact that in the past I’d been of use to him in the shadowy area in which he functioned. My connections in the nether-world of sex had led him to seek me out in connection with various espionage hi-jinks on more than one occasion. He’d waved the flag in my face and I’d responded by becoming an agent for him. His getting me into Tibet in the first place was a sort of repayment. His endeavors to get me out of my fix, however, developed more from his fear that I’d compromise our government than from gratitude. It seems my disappearance from Tibet had set the Red Guard seething with suspicion, and Putnam’s tenuous connections were in danger of being snapped if he couldn’t produce me and come up with some logical explanation.

That wasn’t going to be easy. You see, there was no logical explanation. From here on, everything about what happened just becomes more and more illogical.

In a nutshell—-In Tibet I met a little sexpot named Ti Nih Baapuh whose father was an inventor. Whilst I was compiling data on the local sex picture with Ti Nih, her father came home and I’d had to grab my pants and hide. Papa Baapuh, it seemed, was not a permissive parent where kanoodling was concerned. Unfortunately, I’d hidden on the platform of one of his most recent inventions. This was a time machine which he’d never gotten to work. Alas, while I was hiding there, Papa Baapuh inadvertently crossed some wires leading to a washing machine (which he’d also invented) with some other wires leading to the time machine, and the next thing I knew I was having dinner with the Queen of Sheba back in 950 B.C. or thereabouts.

Well, I warned you that you’d have to suspend disbelief. Like the Bard said, “There are more things in Heaven and Earth . . .” and all that jazz. If it helps dispel your sense of disorientation, remember how ridiculous the plant-hopping of Buck Rogers and Flash Gordon⁴ used to be, and then pick up today’s paper and glom onto the latest news about our astronauts. Then look out the window at all the Dale Ardens and Wilmas⁵ sashaying around in Space Age miniskirts, and ask yourself the following:

Why not Santa Claus? Why not leprechauns and gremlins? Why not telepathy? Why not teletransportation? And then, why not time machines?

But don’t ask yourself why not cyclotrons⁶ ! From where (or is it when) I was sitting in Saigon, the answer only raised one more question-—the ultimate question: Why not total annihilation?

Anyway, I took the Time Machine Express back to Sheba, and then hopped a local going the other way and hopscotched the centuries, trying to get back to good Old 1967. I made it from ancient Rome to the Klondike of the early 1900s, but then I hit a snag. In one way, the snag was Charles Putnam.

While I was pogo-sticking over the panorama of history, Charles Putnam had gone to Tibet to pressure Papa Baapuh into hastening my return. However, about the same time I’d gotten bogged down in the Yukon, Putnam had fallen into the same trap which had started me on my trek in the first place. He’d succumbed to the allure of Ti Nih Baapuh, and he’d been caught with his State Department-CIA immunity down by her father. In his ire at Putnam, the Tibetan Galileo had slammed down a lever or something and I’d shot right past my time of origin and landed some time far in the future in Saigon. The last word from Putnam had been that Papa Baapuh hadn’t figured out yet how to work the time machine in reverse so that I could be transported from the future to the present. It was back to the old drawing board for the inventor, back to the sack with Ti Nih for Putnam, and back to nowhere for me for the time being. I was stuck in the future and I had to make the most of it.

Making the most of it didn’t stop me from callmg Putnam up frequently on my wrist radio to beg him to prod Papa Baapuh to greater efforts. So far, it had been to no avail. Between calls, I was managing to make a life for myself of sorts—of very bizarre sorts—in the Saigon of the future.

I couldn’t pinpoint the exact future time in which I now lived. All I knew was that some time between 1967 and Whenever it was, there had been an atomic debacle of some limited kind and people now dated everything from then. l’d landed in the year one fourteen, which meant one hundred and fourteen years after the holocaust, but whether that was a hundred, a thousand, or ten thousand years after 1967, there was no way for me to tell.

All of this, however, was overshadowed by one major change in the human condition which I’d been made aware of immediately following my arrival. This change stemmed from the overpopulation problem. The plan which was put into effect to cope with this problem was simple-—and practical—and devastating to contemplate!

All male babies were castrated at birth. All births were the result of artificial insemination. Thus the population was controlled. Thus male-female orgasm vanished from the world. Thus I found myself in a position some men might find enviable, and some might be able to appreciate was tiring, to say the least. Mine was the only penis on earth!

It took me a while to realize that the best of machinery can be worn out by overuse. It took me a while to realize because it took time before word of my endowments spread among the female population of Saigon. At first my services were limited to Denise Thang.

Denise was a luscious Vietnamese girl with a faint trace of French ancestry. She’d befriended me upon my arrival in Saigon. When she first saw my unique (in this time) male appurtenance, her curiosity had been greatly aroused as to its purpose. Action replaced words in explaining it to her, and we were soon lovcrs. Her demands grew greater with each “explanation.”

Still, there would have been no problem in meeting them if they had been confined exclusively to Denise. My problems started when Denise decided I was too good a thing to keep all to herself. Her first impulse was generous. She decided to share me with a few friends. Her next impulse was mercenary. She decided that I constituted a highly marketable luxury. And that was the start of the lines of women outside her shack. In short, Denise became my pimp!

Hell, I told myself, this was invaluable experience for the man from O.R.G.Y. What I told Denise, after a while, was something else again.

“The spirit is willing, but the flesh is pooped,” was the gist of my first mild complaint.

“Eat your oysters,” she replied.

I ate oysters until the mere thought of one was enough to make me gag. Then I put it to her more strongly. “My groin aches from overuse!” I announced.

“I’ll rub it with liniment for you,” she offered.

“Don’t touch me!” I practically screamed.

“Well, if you won’t let me help you, what can I do?” she asked logically.

“At least let me take a coffee break,” I pleaded.

“But there is no coffee. Because of the war. There’s only chicory.”

“Then I’ll drink chicory,” I agreed desperately.

“All right.” Denise humored me. “Would you like container-flavored chicory?” she asked.

“Huh? What’s that?”

“It’s an artificial flavoring for people who don’t like the taste of coffee, but dig the taste of the paper containers it comes in. I guess some people get addicted to container flavor. That way the chicory doesn’t taste so bad.”

Lewis Carroll lives! I told myself. Where else but at the Mad Hatter’s tea party⁷ could you get container-flavored chicory? “That’ll be fine,” I said aloud. “It’s the time to rest that’s important anyway, not the beverage.”

If I thought I’d made my point, I was mistaken. Denise really thought I was being temperamental and willful with my pleas for surcease from sex. She never really believed the simple truth, which was that each new performance was like being run through a phallic potato grater for me. My situation was godlike, and the particular pagan god I approximated was Norse to an extreme. What I mean is, I was Thor! I was so Thor I couldn’t even—- Well, you see what I mean.

It came to a climax (the situation, not me, not any more; I just wasn’t capable) on the particular night I described at the start of this narrative. It was during my chicory break, taken between an overly athletic Saigon laundress and an eager chorine back for seconds, that I noticed that my stock-in-trade had turned blue. It was a beautiful shade, like a cloudless sky at twilight, like the Mediterranean with the sun bouncing off it, like a star sapphire sparkling by starlight. And then, before my eyes, it changed from blue to green to red and back to blue again.

“Denise!” I called out in alarm.

“Are you ready?” she called back. “I’ll send the next lady right in.”

“No! No!” I protested. “Just come in here and look at this!”

She came in and looked. “What a beautiful shade!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands. “I’ve been trying to match some curtain material exactly that color. I’ll have to take you along for it, like a swatch.”

“Swatch, my—! Look at it, Denise! Just look!”

“Oh, my! It’s changing color! Isn’t that remarkable?”

“Remarkable, hell! What are we going to do about it?”

“Can you make it turn purple?” She stared intently.

“Don’t you understand? I’m not doing it. I can’t control it. It’s happening all by itself!”

“It is? Isn’t that remarkable?”

“You said that,” I reminded her. “The thing is, what are we going to do about it?”

“I could charge extra for women who come in while it’s happening. I mean, after all, it is an added attraction.”

“Dammit! Don’t you ever think of anything but money? This could be very dangerous! I could be very sick! And I’m not going to service any more women until it gets better!”

“But what will we do, Steve? How will we live?”

“The same way you lived before.”

“Oh, I could never do that. It’s not the same. We’ve established a much higher standard of living, and I could never be happy if I had to give it up.”

“I don’t care! I will not perform until this condition is straightened out!”

“Yes, it should be straightened out,” she agreed. “After all, we don’t want any dissatisfied customers. A fulfilled clientele is our best advertisement. Still, what can we do?”

“First of all cancel all my appointments for tonight. Get rid of all those dames waiting outside. Then I’m going to see a doctor.”

Finally, Denise agreed. She got rid of the waiting women and then we went to the American sector of Saigon to seek out a doctor. Finally we located one, a Frenchman recommended by a black marketeer friend of Denise’s. She accompanied me into his inner office where the doctor was waiting.

“Your name?” he asked by way of greeting.

“Steve Victor.”

“How do you do?” He shook my hand. “I am Dr. Louis Pasteur⁸ .”

“That’s a very eminent name,” I told him. “It has a reassuring ring to it.”

“Yes, I know.” He walked over to a sideboard and opened it. “Would you like a glass of milk?” he asked politely. He was already pouring one for himself.

“No thanks.” I declined.

Denise shook her head.

“It’s pasteurized,” he assured me.

“I expected it would be.”

“There’s even some that’s container flavored, if you prefer,” he offered.

“No, thanks.”

“Well, when did you notice the first symptoms, Mr. Victor?”

“Just today. I looked down and my genitals were turning different colors.”

“Your what?”

“My penis. I was blue at first, and then—-”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dr. Pasteur told me.

“What kind of doctor are you?” I demanded.

“A rabies specialist. I only treat cases of rabies.”

“But there can’t be many rabies cases,” I said. “Nobody gets rabies any more.”

“That’s true,” he admitted, sipping his milk contentedly. “Business is rather slow.”

“I guess it must be. When was the last case of rabies you treated?” I asked, curious.

“I’ve never had a case.” He poured himself a moo juice refill.

“Then why -?”

“We live in an age of medical specialization, Mr. Victor. Somebody had to have the dedication to specialize in rabies even if it isn’t the most lucrative field of medicine. I decided I owed it to humanity to make the sacrifice,” he gurgled.

“Very admirable,” I told him. “But I don’t really think you can help me. I don’t have rabies.”

“Of course not,” he sighed. “Nobody does nowadays. It’s really quite discouraging. Sometimes, when I’m all by myself, I just sit and pray for just one mad dog. But there are no more mad dogs anymore, only people.”

“Well, thanks anyway--” I started to leave.

“Wait a minute, Mr. Victor!” He strode over to me and whispered into my face with an air of great conspiracy. His breath smelled of milk. “Can I trust you?” he asked.

“Sure.”

“All right then. I have this little black market operation on the side.” He took a deep breath and confessed. “I’m a G.P.”

“A G.P.?”

“Yes. A general practitioner. But you must keep my secret. If it ever came out, I’d be drummed out of the A.M.A. It’s against every tenet of the Code of Specialization.”

“Your secret’s safe with me,” I assured him. “All I care about is your ability to treat my particular ailment.”

“Then just put yourself in my hands.”

.I winced.

“Now then,” Dr. Pasteur continued, “just which part of your body is it that’s bothering you?”

“My genitals, I told you,” I reminded him.

“I never heard of it,” he said firmly. “You’ll have to explain.”

I explained.

Slowly, a light of understanding seemed to break over his face. “Ah, yes. Like the appendix and the umbilical cord. One of those organs that has no function. But how is it that it wasn’t removed at birth, Mr. Victor?”

“Just lucky, I guess.”

“I’ll say!” Denise murmured.

“But removal of such vestigial organs is automatic.” Dr. Pasteur was still puzzled.

“Nevertheless, I still have mine. Look, I’ll prove it.” I unzipped my pants and showed him.

“Hmmm,” he mused. “I’ve been trying to find a tie that color. It goes perfectly with a new sport jacket I bought.”

“It can turn purple!” Denise exclaimed.

“It must be a wild sport jacket,” I said.

“Isn’t that remarkable?” enthused Denise.

“Will you please stop saying that?” I told her.

The doctor was examining the source of my trouble. “Hmm,” he opined finally, “if it turns such a pretty color, maybe it shouldn’t be removed at birth. Maybe it should be left—you know-—just as a decoration.”

“You don’t understand!” I was getting exasperated. “It’s not supposed to turn color. That’s what’s wrong with it!”

“Aha! But I have only your word for that, Mr. Victor. I mean, after all, there’s no way I can be sure of that medically when I’ve never seen one before. For all I know, its purpose is to turn color. What other purpose could it have?”

“You’d be surprised,” Denise murmured.

‘In any case,” said Dr. Pasteur, straightening up, “I know of no medical reason for the change in color. If you’re right in what you say, then perhaps the cause is psychosomatic.”

“You mean I should see a psychiatrist?” I asked Dr. Pasteur.

“That would be a good idea,” he granted.

“Can you recommend one?”

“I’m afraid not. There are no psychiatrists in Saigon.”

“You mean nobody ever suffers from mental illness here?” I was surprised.

“Certainly not. It’s against government regulations.”

“Whose government?” I wondered.

“Take your pick.” Dr. Pasteur shrugged. “The U.S. government long ago realized that mental illness is an impossibility for Americans in Vietnam. Paranoia is the American way of life here. It starts with Americans being here in the first place—the initial divorcement from reality being the reasons for being here, as it were. Once those reasons were granted, aberration became the norm. An American in Vietnam is either mentally healthy or he’s a traitor. And they shoot traitors.”

“What about the Vietnamese?” I asked.

“They survive. The centuries have made them a very practical people. They understand that the first problem is staying alive and they devote all their energies to that. It’s a full-time job not being sucked into the war by the pressures from either side. It makes for a single-mindedness that precludes falling victim to neurosis. The situation has made them the most mentally healthy people in the world.”

“Then you can’t help me,” I summed up.

“I'm afraid not. Unless, of course, you’d like to have the growth removed.”

“I wouldn’t!” I said firmly. “Thanks anyway. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye. Good luck. If you should run across a case of rabies, I hope you’ll recommend me.” Dr. Pasteur took a long swig of milk as the door closed behind us.

“What now?” I wondered aloud when we were outside.

“I think I know a man who just might be able to help you,” Denise told me.

“What kind of man? If there are no psychiatrists in Saigon -”

“He’s not a psychiatrist. He’s a Wise Man.”

“What do you mean? A guru, or something like that?”

“Something like that. Will you see him?” she asked.

“What have I got to lose?”

We found the Wise Man about where you’d expect—sitting beside a stream in the hills beyond the city limits of Saigon. I explained my problem to him. He pondered it for what seemed a long time, and finally he spoke.

“It’s immaterial.” This was his pronouncement.

I allowed as how that wasn’t too helpful.

“The thread which is your problem is extraneous to the weave.” It was intended as an explanation.

This might be true, I told him, but it was a matter of perspective. It was my “thread,” after all. And it was a matter of some concern to me that it should behave like a rainbow.

“Nevertheless, the problem of the thread is as nothing compared to the problem of the buttons,” he insisted.

“The buttons?”

The Wise Man explained. There were two buttons in the world —- theirs and ours. They were pushbuttons, natch. And they were more than symbols; they were the actual instruments by which the fabric would be disintegrated. What it boiled down to was that the fabric was the world from its beginning to its end. That end, the tail-piece of the fabric, was now in sight. The science of overkill had developed to its fullest. Each button, if pushed, would destroy not just humanity, but the planet itself. And the whole fabric of human history, according to the Wise Man, made it inevitable that the button would soon be pushed. Ergo! The problem of my you-know-what changing hue was unimportant because in the very near future it—and me and the world as well—would be reduced to nothingness.

Put that way, he certainly had a point. I had to admit that the coloration of my manhood seemed unimportant considering the total picture. But one solution to the problem of world destruction seemed so obvious to me that I couldn’t understand why the Wise Man hadn’t hit on it.

“Why not just not push the button?” I asked him.

“Because the development of humankind has made it impossible for Man to resist pushing it at this point,” he said quite simply.

“At this point?” I caught him up on it.

“Yes. It is inevitable now, but it has not always been inevitable.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just this: In the beginning stages of the weaving of the fabric, a different sort of stitch here or there might have changed the developing pattern and prevented the picture which has now emerged. Indeed, throughout the piecing together of the tapestry, there have always been specific threads which could have been left out, or changed, so that the pattern could be altered. To drop the simile and be more specific, let me put it this way: There are pivotal points in history. In retrospect they are easily seen. Had certain actions been taken—or not been taken, as the case may be – what is now inevitable would not be so.”

“Can you give me some examples of what you mean?” I asked the Wise Man.

“Yes. Let’s take a point near the beginning for instance. The development of the extension of weaponry. When early man took the step from a weapon held in the hand to a weapon which left the hand and covered distance, this first instance was such a pivotal point in history. The hydrogen bomb is the logical extension of the bow-and-arrow. Had man not developed his power to hurl against man, the ultimate disaster might have been averted.

“But you can’t change history,” I pointed out.

“Can’t you?” The Wise Man looked at me with a gaze which seemed to pierce my very soul. “Can’t you?” he repeated.

And with those words he left us. He retreated into his cave by the side of the river. I accompanied Denise back to Saigon, my problem still unsolved, the world’s problem seeming now, somehow, to be locked in the parting words of the Wise Man.

Still, I didn’t dwell on those words. Not then, anyway. I was only human, and it wasn’t long before I was back brooding on my own particular troubles again.

Denise adopted a diplomatic attitude regarding it. She didn’t press me to pick up business where we’d left off. Instead, she granted that I probably needed a rest and that I’d earned it. She invested some of the lucre I’d earned for her in a lavish penthouse apartment in the American sector of Saigon, and we moved in with the understanding that I’d take it easy for a few weeks.

It was after we’d been there about a week, one afternoon when Denise was out shopping and I was alone in the apartment, that I succeeded in raising Charles Putnam on my wrist radio. “Is that you, Steve?” His voice greeted me over the tiny receiver.

“What’s left of me,” I told him.

He ignored my whining. “What have you been doing with yourself?” he asked in a jovial tone that was far from typical of him. .

“Oh, just sitting around watching my genitals change color,” I reported.

“Really? Well, everybody gets their kicks different ways.” He dismissed my plight.

“Are you going to get me out of here and back home?” I demanded.

“You’ll be happy to hear that I’ve got Papa Baapuh working on it right now, Steve, my boy. Don’t be surprised if you get jolted any time now.”

“You mean he’s going to be able to reverse the mechanism?”

“He’s very encouraging.”

“How come?” I wondered. “I thought he was miffed at you because of Ti Nih. What made him decide to cooperate?”

“We made an agreement. I agreed to stay away from Ti Nih if he’d work on the time machine and try to bring you back.”

“Well, be sure you stick to your end of the bargain,” I told him earnestly.

There was a faint giggle in the background-—a feminine giggle.

“Don’t worry, my boy. I’ve got everything under control.”

“Yes. No worry, Steve.” I recognized Ti Nih’s voice. “Him Putnam one smart man. Him got everything go good.”

“What’s she doing there?” I yelled. “I thought you promised to keep away from her?”

“That’s right, Steve, boy.” Putnam’s tone was soothing. “I promised and Papa Baapuh promised. But Ti Nih didn’t promise anything. You can hardly expect her to stick to an agreement she had no part in making. Speaking from the point of view of a seasoned diplomat, that would be very unrealistic. And—umm—-international relations being what they are, I could hardly reject the young lady’s overtures of continuing accord, now could I?”

“Yes, you could!” I said sincerely. “This is my neck you’re playing around with, Putnam. Now get that girl out of there!”

“Me no go!” Ti Nih announced. “Me like him bed. Soft, warm, fill with much Putnam man.”

“Ahh,” Putnam purred. “That’s very relaxing, Ti Nih. That’s it. Now a little to the left. Down a little . . .”

“Putnam! This is no time to have that Tibetan Lolita scratch your back!”

“That’s what you think. Ahh, that is good! . . . Well, it’s been nice hearing from you, Steve. Call me again some time.”

“Putnam! Putnam!” It was no use. There was no response from the wrist radio. He’d hung up.

I was still brooding over the conversation when Denise returned. She jumped to the conclusion that what was bothering me was what she had lovingly labeled my “genital kaleidoscope.” I didn’t bother to enlighten her.

“I’ve bought something that might help,” she told me. “I thought about it, and I decided that it’s like a sore tooth. What I mean is, you pay too much attention to it. You keep checking to see what color it is, and thinking about it, and that only aggravates the condition. So I came up with this idea . . .”

She’d bought a spray can of gold leaf paint and the idea was to gild me. Denise’s theory was that if it was covered so I couldn’t see it changing colors, I wouldn’t brood over it so much and the condition might pass. I told myself it seemed a psychologically valid idea, comforted myself with the thought that I was only being gilded, not gelded, and finally told her to go ahead and express her artistic impulse.

Denise wasn’t too neat about it. By the time she got through, my groin was a sparkling gold, but so were other patches of skin around my body, and so was much of Denise as well. She cautioned me to let it dry before attempting to clean the areas inadvertently gold-spattered, and then went into the bathroom to take a shower herself. I lay naked on the bed hoping the air would hasten the drying process.

After a while, I got up. The shower was still running. Denise must be having a rough time getting the paint off, I reflected. Bored, I decided to look at the afternoon paper.

As I slid off the bed to fetch it, the floor came up cold against the bottoms of my feet. Denise’s slippers, a pair of very fancy pink fur mules with purple pom-poms, were right beside the bed. I slipped my feet into them and walked to the door of the apartment to see if the paper had been delivered.

It had, but the damned delivery boy had been sloppy about it. Two of the sections lay a few feet from the doormat, out in the hallway. I looked up and down the hall. It was empty. I darted out to pick up the wayward sections of the newspaper. My foot caught on the apartment door as I went and I stumbled forward. The door swung shut behind me.

I recovered my balance, grabbed the paper, and swung around to turn the doorknob. The doorknob didn’t turn! I tried again. No soap! The door had locked behind me.

I stood there in Denise’s pink slippers with their purple pom-poms and cursed. I stood there naked with my golden attributes hanging and stuck one finger on the doorbell while I pounded on the door with my other hand. Then I stopped and listened. My only reward was the sound of the running shower. I realized that Denise couldn’t hear me over the noise of the rushing water.

Suddenly, from down the hall, I heard the sound of a door opening and of voices bracing each other farewell. Not knowing what else to do, I dived for the elevator and pushed the button. There was still a modicum of luck left to me. The elevator was right at the penthouse floor. The doors slid open immediately and l plunged inside. I pushed the button to close them again before whoever was leaving that other apartment could join me in the elevator.

My predicament had me rattled. Obviously, I wasn’t thinking too clearly. I pressed the button for the lobby floor, an action prompted by two muddy reasons. Firstly, I wanted to get the elevator off my floor before that other party could open the door by pressing the button on the wall outside. Secondly, it occurred to me that I might be able to reach the lobby and attract the attention of the doorman there. He had a duplicate key to my apartment and I figured I could go down and up without anybody seeing me.

I figured wrong. I was just congratulating myself on the rapid descent of the elevator when it slid smoothly to a halt. The doors opened. Four people got on, two men and two women.

“Lobby?” one of the men said in a friendly tone, looking directly into my face.

I could only nod.

Once again the elevator started downward. The man was an American diplomat type in evening dress. Now, casually, his eyes dropped. They bounced back up, startled, and looked into my face again. They stared at me like twin question marks.

“It’s cooler,” I said weakly.

Immediately, I was sorry I’d spoken. Now the man’s three companions took notice of me. One of the women, a dowager with blue-gray hair, fastened on the frilly pink and purple slippers I was wearing. She gasped audibly. Her eyes met mine, dropped, and then she gasped again—even louder this time.

“It must be a masquerade party,” the other woman whispered to her.

“Must be,” the second man agreed. “That gold thing he’s wearing couldn’t be for anything else. What’s it supposed to be anyway?”

“Should I ask him?” the first man suggested.

“Don’t you dare!” the dowager hissed. “Whatever it is, it’s disgusting!”

“Oh, I don’t know,” the other lady murmured. “It has a certain fascination.”

“It must be new,” the second man observed. “You can still smell the paint.”

“Stop whispering!” the dowager commanded. “Just ignore him!”

We rode the rest of the way down in silence. The palms of my hands were slippery as I tried to keep them clasped in front of me. The sweat was pouring off my forehead too. I’d never been ignored so ostentatiously and intensely in my life. I really had to admire the way they worked at it once they’d decided that was the thing to do.

After an eternity, the elevator finally hit the lobby. Just in time. Another moment, and I think my nerves might have cracked. I might have succumbed to one or another of the crazy impulses which had seized me. I might have broken out into a wild dance, or thumbed my nose at the dowager, or seized one of the pink slippers between my teeth and made growling noises right in their faces. But I was saved by the doors sliding open.

I threw politeness to the winds and darted from the elevator. My knees were weak and so I leaped behind a drapery in the lobby and sat down. I had to have time to pull myself together. So, as 1 said, I sat down.

I sat down right on-top of a dinosaur egg!

CHAPTER TWO

The thing about dinosaur eggs is that you’re not really likely to recognize one even if you happen to be perched on it. What I mean is, if you’ve never seen a dinosaur egg before, it looks like a smooth, grayish, oval-shaped rock. If there happen to be a lot of other rocks around, you’re not likely to make the distinction immediately. Not unless you happen to be an expert on ova.

I was no expert. I had a nodding acquaintance with chicken eggs and could usually spot one without any trouble -- particularly if it was fried sunnyside up and framed with sizzling bacon. But dinosaur eggs? Well, I can’t remember their ever having been on the menu at Bickford’s. I never would have guessed that’s what I was sitting on, until -

Until the dinosaur came along!

They say that when a novice hunter faces his first charging lion, it’s not unusual for him to display buck fever. This malady is expressed by the hunter freezing, becoming incapable of movement, even of such a simple movement as pulling the trigger. The obvious conclusion is that fear has immobilized him.

I don’t know about lions, but where dinosaurs are concerned, the obvious conclusion is erroneous. The sight of a charging dinosaur filled me with fear all right, but the fear didn’t paralyze me. On the contrary, it had the effect of an unexpected thumbtack jabbed into my posterior. One look and I leaped like a kangaroo high on pep pills and raced for a grove of trees a little distance away like the grove was home base in a game of ringalevio⁹ and Herr Dino was the neighborhood bully trying to tag me with a broken beer bottle. Like my shrink used to say: “When you have a roving anxiety complex, it attaches itself to whatever is handy.” The dino was handy. Too handy!

Yeah, I showed the white feather. But don’t be too hard on me. After all, lots of dinosaurs were carnivorous. This was a bit of data I picked up once when I was a kid and my public school class was taken on a field trip to the local Museum of Natural History. There was this pile of bones set up in the center hall there and it was a dinosaur skeleton, and the Teach said how back in prehistoric times many dinos had been meat-eaters. It stuck in my mind because of what happened when I went home to dinner later that night.

“Eat your spinach!” my mother had said. “You have to eat your vegetables if you want to grow up to be big and strong and healthy.”

“Mater,” I’d pointed out, “there’s a bug in your logic. Consider brachiosaurus. This giant-sized prehistoric reptile always ate its vegetables. But one swipe from King Kong’s paw and it was a dead pigeon!”

“Don’t argue with your mother! Eat your spinach!” my father had growled.

“Pater,” I’d attempted to reason with him, “think about what eating vegetables did to the roc. This huge herbivorous bird devoured vegetables, and look what happened to it. It flew around in ever decreasing concentric circles until finally it flew up its own anus. That’s what eating vegetables did to the roc!”

“I’ll ‘roc’ you!” Dad had thundered, swatting me across the dinner table. My father, you see, had never heard of the theories of permissive parenthood. It was a traumatic bash, and it made a very deep impression on me.

It wasn’t as traumatic, however, as having an angry dinosaur charging me. Just knowing that the beast was carnivorous filled me with the insecure feeling of a lamb chop on sale at the A & P, a lamb chop looking out the window of the freezer compartment and into the eyes of a bargain-hunting housewife. Identifying that way, you can see why I bolted.

Herr Dino (or maybe it was Frau Dino; I didn’t take the time to investigate) bounded after me in hot pursuit. Seeing this, I redoubled my pace, my gilded unmentionables swinging wildly in advance of my flight, the purple-pink slippers kicking up the prehistoric ooze at my heels. Naked I fled; naked the dinosaur pursued.

I beat him to the grove by a length and a half. Not bad for a muddy track. I was well up the first tree by the time he crossed the finish line. Pulling myself as high up in the Winner’s Circle as I could get, I thumbed my nose at his futile efforts to dislodge me by shaking the tree.

After a while the dino gave up and loped back to the egg. He (or she; search me) perched on the egg and leveled a steady and unfriendly squint in my direction. When I experimented with climbing down the tree, the beast was up and loping towards me immediately. I hauled my golden gifts back up to safety and the dino reassumed its eggy seat.

About a half hour later the second race began. The dino was in the running again. His competitor was a naked gentleman who’d attempted to cross the clearing where the egg was being mothered (or fathered; suit yourself; personally, I don’t give a damn). Halfway across, man and dino spotted each other and they were off and galloping.

It was damn near a photo finish. The man was scrambling up my tree when the animal reached the base and snapped a toothpaste commercial at his bare, hairy posterior. I reached down, grabbed the Piltdownish¹⁰ looking gent under the arm and hauled him to safety before those teeth could render him half-assed. I thumbed my nose at the dino. He grunted like an earthquake showing off and ambled moodily back to the egg. He sat down on it and continued to stare at us. His attitude seemed to say he could wait.

The naked Neanderthalian (if that’s what he was¹¹ ) was also staring. My unexpected appearance and rescue of him had obviously filled him with surprise. Now, as he eyed my pink feet with their purple pom-poms and my gold-sparkling groin-ery, his surprise turned to awe. He jumped to a conclusion. This was expressed by his falling to his knees with his head between his outstretched hands and his rump bobbing in the leaves as if it personally wanted to give obeisance to me for its escape from the dino molars. Considering his precarious perch on the tree branch, it wasn’t an easy position for him to maintain. I grabbed him by one uncivilized armpit before he could topple. Even as I held him, however, he continued to genuflect. It was obvious that he thought I was some sort of god he had to thank and pay homage to at the same time.

“Relax, buddy,” I told him in a kindly voice. “I did what anybody would have done. I’m nothing special.”

He obviously wasn’t convinced. The expression on his face said he was puzzling over the proper etiquette to please this “god” with whom he shared the tree. He kept looking from me to the dull sun in the sky, as if convinced that was my point of origin.

“I’m not from Heaven,” I told him. “There’s nothing magical about me. I’m just an ordinary Joe like yourself.”

He muttered something that sounded like “glugwhumpf,” folded his hands and set them down before my gilded testes as if dedicating himself to them.

“Okay.” I moved back nervously. “Thanks. So we’re friends. My name’s Steve.” I pointed at myself and repeated the monicker. “Steve.”

A few more times, and he seemed to understand. He pointed at me and grunted something that also sounded vaguely like “Steeb.” Then he pointed at himself and said “Crap.”

“You shouldn’t be so self-deprecating,” I told him.

“Crap,” he repeated, sticking his middle finger against his belly again.

Well, if that was his name, that was his name. What’s in a name, after all? A rose by any other name would smell as sweet. Crap, however, did not smell like a rose. He smelled like . . . Well, like his name. He smelled like Crap.

“Your deodorant’s letting you down,” I told him in a friendly tone.

He smiled, jabbed himself again, and said, “Crap.”

I deduced this conversation was going to be difficult. It was sad. Two men treed by a dinosaur in an evolving world, and we just couldn’t seem to communicate. I Wondered if Crap felt as alienated as I did.

In the silence, I took a good look at him. Crap was about five-two, very stocky, very muscular. He had a scraggly beard and very long, unkempt hair. At first glance, I missed his not carrying a guitar¹² .

His skin was a sort of an off-white gray, very pale, but tough looking like the hide of an animal that spends most of its time outdoors. His forehead was very high and his features were quite flat, the nose wide, the cheekbones large but not defined, the eyes very small and close together and lost in a flat desert of flesh. His legs seemed quite short and were bowed; his arms, however, were very long, almost gorilla-like, and his hands dangled all the way to his knees.

“Steeb.” Crap interrupted my appraisal. He’d crawled out on the branch and knelt there, watching the dinosaur. Now he pointed and I looked.

A second dino had appeared on the scene. It had come up to the first one and was nuzzling it like a teen-age kid making a pass at his girl friend in the balcony of a movie theatre. The first dino got up off the egg and nuzzled back flirtatiously.

Well, there’s no accounting for taste. I mean, I would have thought that a dino wouldn’t have much appeal—even to another dino. But in this case, at least, beauty was in the eye of the beholder. I’d been wrong in thinking esthetics might have played some part in the extinction of the dinosaur. From the way those two dino kids carried on, it became obvious that cupid wasn’t at all choosy about who he laid his arrows on. They bounded across that plain panting with passion all the way and disappeared over the hill to what I assumed must be the local dinos’ Lovers’ Lane.

As soon as they were gone, Crap and I shinnied down the tree. He picked up the club he’d dropped at the bottom and looked at me questioningly, as if wondering if I was going to go along with him. Hell, I hadn’t made a date for that night anyway, so I followed him.

It was almost dark by the time we reached our destination. This was a spot set in the hills like a large bowl. Rocks formed a craggy rim around a flat, plateaulike surface there. A group of perhaps twenty people—-men, women and children—-were collected there. They were all as naked as Crap.

His appearance was greeted with respectful jubilation. From their attitude it was easy for me to see that he was a sort of headman, or chief, to the group. He introduced me reverently, and it followed that the whole bunch of them were soon on their knees, obviously accepting Crap’s identification of me as a god. Their eyes were very large as they bowed and scraped, paying homage to my golden testicles and my pink-and-purple hooves.

Thus I became the god-in-residence of this caveman clan. And I was treated as befits a god, too. The choicest cuts of dinosaur steak were reserved for me. (Of course, dinosaur steak being somewhat less tasty than average horsemeat, even the prime cuts left something to be desired by my gourmet palate.) I was waited on hand and pink-and-purple foot. I was covered with the warmest hides at night and fanned with large leaves against the sun of the day. Indeed, being a god was such a soft life that I soon showed signs of developing a Buddha-like paunch.

Only one thing troubled me. Because of the particular bodily area which had been gilded, Crap and his clan jumped to the conclusion that I must be a particular kind of god. You guessed it. They pegged me as a god of fertility. And it quickly became obvious that they expected me to exercise my godhood in this area.

I’d fallen out of the future Vietnam frying pan into the Cro-Magnon (or thereabouts) fire. My gold-plated groin was once again in demand. Only the filles in this particular fire weren’t exactly calculated to inspire even the most phallic of gods.

I don’t want to be unkind, but these chicks had all the appeal of a batch of Darwinian rejects. Let me describe them. Each was built close to the ground, with legs like tree stumps carved into longbows, long, dangling arms, shoulders and breasts that rippled with muscles, and haunches hairy as an unmilked peyote. Facially, they resembled the grinning fossils they would one day become—flat-boned and monkeylike. Moustaches were common among them and full sets of teeth weren’t. There wasn’t one of them that was calculated to make me want to end my sex fast.

Still, I must admit that their lack of appeal didn’t seem to turn off the other men. On the contrary. Sex was one of the functions that was performed as regularly as hunting, or eating, and it was performed publicly and without any inhibition. For instance-—

See that female over there, bending over the cooking cauldron? Now watch as the male with the fish strung around his neck comes up behind her. See them couple! (“Isn’t that remarkable?”) Notice how she doesn’t even seem to notice the dead fish dangling over her shoulder and under her nose. See how she keeps stirring the cauldron without missing a stroke? Catch that! She’s adding seasoning. Now she tastes the contents of the pot and it’s impossible to tell whether her sigh is from its flavor or because she and the man have just attained mutual satisfaction. He disengages and walks off—all in the day’s work. And not once has she even bothered to turn around to see which of the males of the tribe has seen fit to brighten her day!

That’s the way it went. At any time of day or night, I might see open sex activity. The ability of these people to do two things at once never failed to amaze me. A man might sit skinning a hide and a woman would come up to him and sit on his lap facing him and they’d make it while all the time he’d keep on working at his task. This happened while they were eating, fishing, or washing the hides they used for blankets, or during any of the other activities in which they engaged.

Hell, why not? They had a whole planet just waiting to be populated. After a while, I began to think it was damn conscientious of them.

After a while, also, they accepted the fact that I was taboo sexually. They grasped the concept that my golden testes were symbolic and that my gilded phallus was not meant to be utilitarian. I felt somewhat more secure after that.

It was about this time that I began to notice Geek. What attracted my attention was the fact that he never left the campsite. Every morning Crap and the other men went out hunting and stayed away until the sun began to set. But Geek always remained behind with the women and children.

So did I. But that was different. I was a god. From the way the others treated Geek, it was obvious he wasn’t in the same category as I was.

Their attitude towards him was indulgent, but not respectful. It almost smacked of his being the world’s first welfare case. Yet, while he wasn’t a provider, Greek always seemed to be busy.

Since we were the only two men around during the day, it was natural that we should become friendly. Verbal communication was impossible, but we did manage with gestures to reach each other to some limited extent. For lack of anything better to do, I became a sort of kibitzer watching Geek perform the tasks he set himself each day.

They were more varied than you might think. Take his artwork, for instance. On a large boulder, off to one side of the plateau, Geek had etched drawings with a stone he’d sharpened for the purpose. He showed them to me hesitantly, quite modest about his accomplishments.

He had reason to be modest. The drawings were lousy. Some day it would probably be lucky where Geek’s foothold on posterity was concerned that most archeologists don’t qualify as art critics. Geek was either myopic, or else he didn’t have the talent to draw what he saw. His sketches of the people of the tribe were anatomically inaccurate, shakily executed, and esthetically lacking. He was about as qualified to be artist-in-residence as I was to be god-in-residence.

His people looked like rocks, his rocks looked like dinosaurs, and his dinosaurs looked like doodles. Also, he had a pornographic bent. However, his pictorial graffiti were so out-of-whack with reality as to misrepresent the entire history of the copulation of the species.

Geek also whittled—-but no more successfully than he sketched, I’m afraid. The result of his working for hours over a piece of wood with a sharp-edged stone was frequently no more than a pile of shavings. The women of the tribe would use the shavings to start the evening fire.

Sometimes he just sat and combed animal hides with a piece of stone, seeming to take pleasure in the luster they’d reflect from the sun. Other times he’d just sit and stare, as if weighed down with intricate thoughts. It was hard for me to decide if he was the tribal dropout, or the clan intellectual. Well, down through the ages, that distinction would never be an easy one to make.

When I’d gotten to know him fairly well, Geek let me in on his pet project. He always worked on this one at some distance from the tribe where they wouldn’t be able to poke fun at him as they frequently did. When he showed me what he was working on, I realized that Geek was also an inventor—-and the nature of the invention on which Geek was working shook me up.

“The hydrogen bomb is the logical extension of the bow-and-arrow.”

That’s what the Wise Man back in Saigon had said. He’d pointed out that the advent of the bow-and-arrow was a pivotal point in human history. He’d implied that if it had never been invented, the ultimate atomic doom of man might be avoided. And now here I was looking at the world’s first bow-and-arrow in the process of being invented by my friend Geek!

“The step from a weapon held in the hand to a weapon which left the hand and covered distance” foretold disaster according to the Wise Man. It was a little more complicated than that, of course. A rock or a spear could be thrown. It was the weapon which was propelled by more than the mere muscle of Man which had to be guarded against. The bow-and-arrow Geek was working on was just such a weapon.

What an opportunity! Right now, I, Steve Victor, was in a position to save the world from its ultimate destruction. Now, perhaps millions of years before the problem would become manifest, I could prevent it from ever happening. All I had to do was stop Geek from inventing the bow-and-arrow!

One nice thing about being a god is that you usually get your way. Geek didn’t stand a chance. One gesture with my pink-slippered foot, one wiggle of the purple pom-pom, and the disapproval of the entire tribe fell on him. I frowned and his fellow cavemen saw the hand of the devil in Geek’s creativity. They smashed the devil’s handiwork to smithereens and Geek went back to his rock carvings, saved from further wrath by the benevolence of my godhood. I felt pretty smug about it. I’d kept the bow-and-arrow from being invented and in so doing, perhaps I’d altered the course of history and enabled Man to save himself from himself. In a way, such an accomplishment really was godlike.

But if I was a god, I still had my problems in the heavenly hierarchy. I’d been trying to solve them by rousing Charles Putnam on the wrist radio, but for a while he just didn’t answer. Then, finally, he did.

“Steve, my boy,” he greeted me, “what have you been doing with yourself?”

“I’ve been being a god,” I told him.

“The strain must be too much for him,” Putnam said. It was an aside and it came through the tiny receiver muflied.

“Who are you talking to?” I demanded.

“Ti Nih,” he admitted.

“Putnam, what are you trying to do? You know that if her father catches you two together my chances of getting back are nil.”

“You’re just jealous, Steve,” he decided. “Steve Victor is a jealous god.” He chuckled.

“Don’t be irreverent,” I cautioned him.

“Steve, you’re flipping!”

“It wouldn’t surprise me if I was. First you lose me in the the future and now you’ve got me back with Peter Piltdown. What happened?”

“Papa Baapuh couldn’t control time distance in reverse. He says the only way he can work this gismo is by sending you all the way back and then bringing you forward to the future slowly.”

“I’ve gone that route once already,” I reminded him. “And look what happened.”

“Can’t be helped. It’s the only way he can do it.”

“A11 right then. But what’s holding him up? Why doesn’t he start jumping me forward?”

“The way he explains it, that big jump put a strain on the machine and he blew some kind of doohickey. He’s got to make another one before he can start bringing you forward.”

“How long will that take?”

“He’s working on it. You can’t hurry these things. It’s a matter of creativity.”

Creativity! I wondered if I mightn’t start Geek working on the problem from this end. It would keep his mind off the bow-and-arrow; he and Papa Baapuh were brains of a feather; and two heads were better than one even if one was prehistoric. The trouble was Geek would have to invent a washing machine first. I discarded the idea.

“Well, if he doesn’t get a move on, I may end up lining the stomach of a dinosaur,” I told Putnam.

“Nonsense, my boy,” he reassured me. “Dinosaurs don’t eat gods.” Ti Nih giggled.

“Putnam, will you get that girl out of there before you get caught!”

“Don’t worry. We’re very discreet. And after all, I have to do something to pass the time.”

“Pass some my way,” I told him moodily. “Like a billion years or so, I think.” I broke the connection and brooded about Putnam’s lack of concern with my plight. I didn’t have much time to brood. The very next morning things began popping. Using the sign language by which we managed to communicate, Crap got across to me that the men of the tribe were off on a very special venture and that they wished me to accompany them so that the magic of my godhood would insure its success.

It was all very mysterious, but I went. After all, a god has a responsibility to those who worship him. Conscious of my deification, I couldn’t let them down.

After a day’s march, we camped for the night. Midway through the next morning, We reached our destination. For the first time the nature of the venture on which we were embarked became clear to me.

Crap gathered the men behind an outcropping of rock on a small hill. From here we could see a clearing without being seen by the members of the tribe which had settled there. We waited until the men of the tribe had gone off on the day’s hunt. Only the usual collection of ugly, naked, prehistoric cavewomen were left. The purpose of the raid, it seemed, was to kidnap some of them as mates.

First, led by Crap, the men made obeisance to me. They knelt in front of me, one by one, and touched their foreheads to the tip of my gilded wand. Since my gold-painted organs had labeled me specifically as a god of fertility, my presence was particularly important in this raid for a fresh supply of mates.

I watched from the hill as they descended on the clearing. There was nothing subtle about their courtship methods. They fell on the women with clubs, conked them over the head, and dragged them off by their hair. Not much attention was paid to the selection until a half-dozen or so had been dragged back to the shelter of the hillock. Then Crap made an inspection of the female booty.

The raiders evidently had had some experience in forays of this sort. They seemed to know just how hard to bop the women so that they’d be rendered unconscious without actually harming them. I appreciated the knack when I saw that by the time the women were dragged back to where I was waiting, most of them were regaining consciousness.

As a beauty contest judge, Crap could never have made it in Atlantic City. By my standards the three women he picked to keep were the ugliest of the bunch. Two of the three he motioned back to the clearing were almost as ugly as those he kept. But the third reject was something else again.

She was a blonde, about five-two, slender but voluptuous. Taller and thinner than the other women, she stood out among them like a race horse in a herd of oxen. Somehow, genetics had skipped a few millennia and this girl wouldn’t have been out of place as a Playboy center spread. The contrast was marked.

Where their features were anthropoid, hers were cleanly etched, marked by high, well-defined cheekbones, a pert little nose and bright blue eyes set far apart. Her hair was long, a shiny yellow, and hung in ringlets rather than in the scraggly fashion of the other women. Her breasts were high and cone shaped, rather than shapeless and saggy, her waist was small, her hips well defined, quite different from the thickness and squat demeanor of the others. Her legs were shapely and slender, alluring rather than grossly utilitarian. She was a knock-out, a diamond in a rough field of cracked glass.

But there’s no accounting for tastes. To Crap she was double ugly and the runt of the litter. He saw her as a three-legged kitten to be put out of its misery.

His solution of what to do with her was in keeping with his appraisal. There wasn’t a murmur of disapproval when he tied some rocks around her neck and led her to the bank of a nearby stream. All of the others—-the raiding men and their victims—seemed to look upon disposing of her by drowning as a mercy killing.

I couldn’t buy it. Eyeing her beautiful nudity, consigning her to death by drowning seemed like a helluva waste of pulchritude to say the least. So I exercised my godhood and remonstrated with her would-be executioners. Since I was a god, they bowed to my wishes and spared her life. The result was that she became my responsibility.

In accomplishing this, I created a myth. To Crap and the others, it seemed like I was exercising my godhood in establishing a tolerance of the underdog, a sort of Messiah-like guardianship of the weakest of the weak. Since they would never have regarded her in this fashion, they took my consideration of her right to live as further evidence of my godhood. They didn’t quite understand it, but they accepted it as a whim of a god who could find value in the life of an inferior being, a value which they couldn’t see themselves, but nevertheless wouldn’t question.

Thankful to be alive, the blonde stuck to me like glue. When we got back to our plateau, she stayed at my side as if she was afraid that if she left me, she would indeed be killed. She was quite pitiful, since she accepted the standards around her and seemed to tacitly grant her inferiority to the other women. On the other hand, she was female enough to direct her attention to my corporeal side, rather than strictly to my godly attributes.

This became interesting after nightfall. The tribe was all bedded down when she crept under the hides I used as blankets and timidly snuggled up to me. By this time, it had been a while since my penal problems had been bugging me, and I must admit that she elicited a certain response from me. To be honest, I would really have had to be other-worldly to resist her.

Her body was warm—-indeed, burning—as she pressed against me. I became acutely aware of the nipple of one of her breasts digging into my forearm. It was quite rigid, and the soft flesh surrounding it was rising and falling rapidly with her daring to approach a god on so earthly a level.

However, I soon threw my godhood to the winds. The feel of her quivering thigh under my hand was enough to remind me of how long it had been since I’d performed as a man. Her hot breath in my ear made me completely forget that gods weren’t supposed to indulge in such activities. I embraced her and she responded with a fury of passion that I imagine must have been bottled up inside her for some time.

Her sharp little teeth nipped at my shoulder. Her moist hands slid over my chest and belly and trembled as they grazed the golden proof of my godhood. She pressed her breasts against my chest until I could feel the mingling of our heartbeats.

I slid my hand down her back until I felt the deliciously fleshy globe of her derrière. She squealed at the caress and her mouth slid down from my shoulder and over my chest in a flurry of kissing bites that aroused me greatly. “Gramble gruk,” she whispered in my ear passionately.

“You can say that again,” I told her, stroking her smooth belly and allowing my fingertips to trail over the soft, downy triangle pointing the way to her pulsating love nest.

“Gramble gruk,” she repeated, writhing under my touch.

Whatever it meant, I was for it. I kissed her on the lips. For a moment she stiffened, as if surprised by a contact she’d never known before. But her attitude quickly changed and her soft lips seemed to melt under the pressure of mine. When the tip of my tongue touched hers, it was as if a spark had passed between us and ignited her. Sharp nails raked my back and her body arched against mine with a hunger that said her shyness towards my godhood had been forgotten.

When the kiss was over, she was panting and thrashing about wildly. She seemed to be everywhere at once, assaulting my body with an eager—yet somehow tender— violence. She continued to use her nails and her teeth, but despite her frenzy she used them with control. She grew less active-—although her body became taut as an over-wound spring—when my hand found its way between her creamy thighs to play with the slippery little clitoris nestled there.

She moaned as I manipulated the sensitive polyp of distended flesh. Her hands fluttered to her breasts and she squeezed them. Then she cupped them and drew my mouth to the long, hard tip of one of them. I caught it between my lips and she moaned again.

I let one of my legs fall across her hip and her body arched to meet me. My golden saber of desire slid up thighs that were soft and burning. And then it filled her pulsing cup of passion and the rhythmic sounds of our love-making filled the primeval night.

The girl was as wild as the time and the place. The ecstatic climax of our first joint venture only whetted her appetite. Judging by what followed, that appetite was insatiable. Here, wrapped up in one small package, was all the erotic pressure represented by the long lines of women in Saigon. Then it had been so great that I’d had to flee it. Now, after three encores, I merely fell asleep.

It was dawn when I awoke. The blonde was gone. Some time during the night, she’d stolen silently away.

I was surprised. It wasn’t mere ego that told me I’d given her satisfaction. She’d made it obvious that her reverence for my golden sword had grown with activity. So why had she fled?

The answer came later in the morning, after Crap and the other men had left for the day’s hunt. Geek and I were the only males left at the campsite. We sat out in the mid-morning sun and watched the women at their tasks of cooking and washing and the children playing at some prehistoric game of tag.

A sudden movement on the side of one of the hills ringing the plateau caught my eye. I called Geek’s attention to it and we strode over to the other side of the clearing for a closer look. From our new vantage point, we could make out a group of naked cavemen with clubs. My blonde playmate was with them.

My assumption was that it was a return raid and they were after our women. Geek thought otherwise. He managed to get across to me that it wasn’t the women they were after, but me! The blonde had reported on the potency of my godhood, and they had come to steal the golden god of fertility and claim him for themselves. Watching her point me out, seeing the men gesture towards me as if making plans for my capture, I realized that Geek was right.

It’s nice to be wanted, but-— But there can be drawbacks. I began to appreciate that a few moments later when they launched their attack.

Our Women ran squealing. Geek retreated behind a rock. The invaders descended on me and pinned me to the ground. It was then that I realized with horror that they didn’t want all of me, but only the golden portion they considered magical. They had sharpened the edge of a flat rock and now they bent over me to dis-attach the particular items they idolized. The blonde stood there, over me, pointing out the spot where they should cut to insure the neatest separation. It was a little like a housewife instructing her husband as to the best place to make the initial mcision in carving up the Thanksgiving turkey.

But this turkey wasn’t ready for the pot! I kicked out with a drumstick and caught one of them in the bread-basket. As he doubled over, I winged another with a solid right cross and knocked him off his perch on my breast. With his weight no longer pinning me, I was able to scramble to my feet and run. I got my ‘part-that-goes-over-the-fence-last’ out of there as fast as I could.

Geek was standing in the entrance to a cave, motioning me to seek refuge with him there. He hurled rocks at my pursuers and I gained the time to get there. Geek gathered more rocks into a pile so we’d be ready for them. The cave was very shallow and I realized we were really cornered there. I’d soon be one detesticled god, unless-—

I spotted a stout tree branch among the kindling which had been stored in the cave against the rain. It was in the shape of a Y. Some carved-up dinosaur meat was also stored there. Looking at the branch and the discarded dino entrails, I had an idea.

I dug a hole right at the entrance to the cave and embedded the Y-shaped branch there solidly. Then I carefully selected a length of dino gut and tied both ends of it to the points of the Y. I pulled back on it with my weight and the whole branch came back under the pressure. That was bad. But the string of gut was elastic, and that was good. I got Geek to lean against the base of the Y so that his weight would counter mine when I pulled back on the dino gut. It worked. By putting a stone in the center of the gut sling, I could fire it with great force and velocity. Much larger stones could be fired that way than could be thrown. They would travel faster, and farther, and they would hit harder.

When the raiders started for us again, I fired the first stone and then another and another as fast as I was able. It occurred to me that I could fire more than one at once if I used smaller stones, so I began mixing up loads of small rocks with occasional shots of really hard-hitting large ones. Met by this barrage, the cavemen were quick to retreat out of range.

We rested. Geek made enthusiastic sounds to compliment me on my godly ingenuity. I was feeling pretty smug about it myself until just what I had done suddenly dawned on me.

I had invented the slingshot! I had made the first catapult! I, Steve Victor, had kept Geek from creating a bow-and-arrow on the theory that if Man’s weaponry was limited to objects held in the hand, or launched by his own muscle, then the H-bomb wouldn’t evolve and he wouldn’t destroy himself. So I had stopped Geek. And now I myself had done the very thing I’d prevented him from doing!

Steve Victor had invented the slingshot! Steve Victor was the discoverer of the principle underlying all mechanistic weapons. From the slingshot would come the giant catapult and the cannon and the rifle and the guided missiles and the rockets and, eventually, the ICBM with its nuclear load! Steve Victor—not some nameless caveman-—had taken the first step in the destruction of the world.

The Wise Man had pointed to a pivotal point in history and said that if it could be changed, the future could be changed. And I had tried to alter that pivotal point and instead I’d come up responsible for creating it! The implications increased as I watched the cavemen massing for their next attack.

They had picked up flat pieces of wood and rock and were holding them in front of them as they came. First the weapon—the slingshot—and then the counter-weapon -—the shield. First the guided nuclear missile—and then the missile interceptor. And then, inevitably, the missile to pierce the screen of interceptors. Such was the chain of destruction I, Steve Victor, had set in motion.

Now I used large rocks fired by the sling and the impact on their shields was enough to propel the attackers backwards and sometimes enough to shatter the shields themselves. This time, when the raiders retreated, it was for good. Seeing that we had routed them, Geek and I were jubilant. We each grabbed a handful of rocks and gave chase, pausing every couple of feet to hurl a stone after them.

Reaching the top of one of the hills, I stopped short to hurl the rest of my stones at the fleeing brutes. Geek, following at full speed, barreled into me. He knocked my feet out from under me and I went sprawling, face first, into what should have been the primeval slag.

Only it wasn’t. Instead my nose skidded off the rim of a hard, cylindrical object which, due to the force with which I’d encountered it, became wedged around my jaw, cheekbones, and the top of my head. I was stuck!

My head was stuck in a hand-crafted, ornately sculpted, jewel-encrusted, priceless Grecian urn!

CHAPTER THREE

“What’s a Grecian urn?”

“Two hundred a week, maybe, if he owns the restaurant.”

So goes the old gag—and admittedly it should. What’s a Grecian urn? All I know is that this one was a chamber pot! Yep, a hand-crafted, ornately sculptured, jewel-encrusted, priceless bedpan! I’d nosedived into it, and now I couldn’t get my head out. There are, believe me, more sweetly perfumed receptacles in which to put one’s nose.

I made noises like an asthmatic astronaut out of oxygen. Magnified by the metal encasing my head, they bounced off my eardrums with the dissonance of a stereo woofer having a dogfight with its tweeter. I scrambled to my feet and clutched the rim of the urn with both hands in an effort to free myself. Fortunately, the chamber pot had not been used recently.

Aside from the aroma, how was it in there? Very dark! Very dark, indeed!

Faintly, once I stopped verbalizing my predicament, the sound of a Greek lute reached my trapped ears. It was playing something vaguely Zorba-ish¹³ . Without meaning to, I responded. I’d been dancing around anyway in my efforts to dislodge my noggin. Now my feet fell in with the lute rhythm and I was doing a cockamamie version of a Greek dance.

It worked out well. Inadvertently, I snapped my fingers on the final beat and the pressure of the movement hit just the right spot to pry the chamber pot loose. It flew off my face.

But freedom shed no light immediately. It was just as dark outside the chamber pot as it had been inside it. And the sound which followed only told me that wherever I was, I wasn’t alone. I deduced that the utilitarian urn had bounced off somebody else’s cranium.

Silence followed the initial roar, and then, finally, there was light. It came from behind me. I wheeled around, squinted, and made out a burly fellow in Macedonian battle garb holding a torch. Turning back, I spotted the chamber pot.

It was between two hands in the process of lifting it off a bruised head. The hands were attached to an extremely handsome young man in his early twenties. He was lying on a rather elaborate pallet.

What made it seem so elaborate was that I could now see that I was inside a tent. From the battle gear, it was obviously the tent of a Greek warrior. From the lush furnishings, I guessed this lad to be a very high-ranking warrior.

I’m not usually so slow witted, but my tumble had dazed me, and it was only now that I realized I’d taken another jump on Papa Baapuh’s Time Gismo. At least, judging by my surroundings, it had been a jump forward. That was something to be grateful about. If I’d gone any further back than I’d been, I might have found myself floating around the universe waiting for Mama Earth to cool off her lava and jell.

Less lucky was the fact that the VIP in whose tent I’d landed was coming on like Zeus with heartburn. And I was the cook who’d mis-mixed the ambrosia. He was belching angry syllables as if they were bolts of lightning crackling at all too mortal me.

It was Greek to me. Classical Greek—which was another break. If I’d been dropped in Greece circa 1967, I wouldn’t have had the lingo to ask directions to the men’s room. But Classical Greek was something else again. I’d had to master it when I was going for my Ph.D. back in college. It was necessary because I’d been writing a thesis on the evolution of scatology and its relevance to sexology and a large chunk of research material was in Classical Greek which had never been translated.

I’d slaved over that paper. Scatology? I’d brooded at the time; scatology? A lot of crap!

But I’d been wrong, and now I was damn glad of the experience. I understood every word the angry man was shouting. Since most of them were scatological anyway, it wasn’t hard.

Pointing at me and shouting at the sentry with the torch, the man in the bed was demanding to know how I’d gotten into his tent. Bewildered, the sentry was protesting that he’d been standing guard outside and that I hadn’t come past him. He also insisted that none of the eight other guards stationed around the tent had left his post. Eight guards? I mused to myself. The angry young Greek must be a very, very VIP all right.

Now he bounded out of bed and circled the interior of the tent, stooping to examine the pegs holding the canvas down. Obviously, he thought I must have crawled under the tent or cut my way inside. But he couldn’t find any evidence to back up his theory, and finally he turned and addressed me directly.

“Assassin!” he accused. “What manner of weapon is that to kill a mighty monarch?” He gestured towards the fancy bedpan. “Have you no knife, no spear, no club?”

I held out my empty hands to show him I was unarmed.

“You wish to destroy the myth with the man, eh? You come not only to kill, but to degrade. Who sent you? Darius the Persian? I thought better of him, enemy though he is, than to stoop to this.”

“The only Persian I know is a pussycat named Horace,” I told him truthfully. “And she doesn’t even have any claws.”

“Horace? She?” He snorted. “You speak with a trident tongue.”

“Let’s leave my dentures out of this. The reason she’s called Horace is that the girl who owns her never thought to check until after she had kittens.”

“That’s just like a Persian,” he sneered. “No morals. And how could a girl have kittens?”

“She didn’t. Horace did.”

“Either way it’s supernatural. For a male cat, or a female human being to produce kittens is equally fantastic.”

“That’s logical,” I granted,

“I’m always logical. I studied with Aristotle,” he told me proudly.

That rang a bell. A warrior who rated eight guards, referred to himself as a monarch and spoke of Darius the Persian as an enemy; a royal youth who spoke Greek and had studied with Aristotle; he could only be one man —Alexander the Great!

“Are you Alexander the Great?” I asked him.

“I am Alexander of Macedon, ruler of all the Hellenic Isles, soon to be ruler of Persia and Egypt and other lands as well. The Great?” The phrase pleased him. “By Zeus! Why not? Who is greater? Nobody! Yes, I am Alexander the Great!”

“Nice to know you, Al.” I tried to be ingratiating. “I’m Steve Victor.”

“Stevictor.” He ran the names together and it came out Athenian. “You are a Greek?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Males that give birth,” he mused. “Humans delivered of kittens. And do you claim to be a god too?” It was a sneer, but there was just a hint of doubt in his voice.

“No. I’m a man. Just like you.”

“I am not a man,” he roared. “I am Alexander, Son of Zeus! I come from Olympus to conquer the world.” The light of the fanatic shone from his eyes. He really believed what he was saying. He waved to the sentry to come closer to me with the torch and strode towards me himself. “Let’s have a look at my fellow god,” he added sarcastically. As the light now illuminated my torso for the first time, Alexander stopped in his tracks. “By my father! What manner of assassin is this who comes to kill me as naked as a babe? Why have you no clothes?”

“It’s a long story,” I answered. “You see, I locked myself out of my apartment and—”

“Silence!” He moved a step closer. His eyes fell to my feet and he stopped again. “What manner of shoddy shodding is that?” He pointed at Denise’s pink and purple bedroom slippers.

“Shoddy shodding?” I was incapable of indignation too. “I’d hate to tell you what the lady these belonged to paid for them.”

“It is fit footwear only for Pan, the lesser of the woodland deities,” Alexander said insultingly. “Are you covering the cloven hooves of a goat, then?”

“I’ve got a bunion or two, but my tootsies are not c1oven,” I told him stiffly. “And neither are yours. Yet you say you are a god. Aristotle would point out that one doesn’t need cloven clodhoppers to be a god.” What the hell! Alexander seemed hung up on this superstitious nonsense, so why not throw him a few curves?

I didn’t have to throw the next one. He tossed it to himself. Standing right in front of me now, the reflection of the flickering torch bouncing off my gilded genitals caught his eye.

“The Golden Phallus!” Alexander exclaimed. He became very pale. “Then you are from Olympus!”

Why not? I was moving up in the world. From a caveman’s god to a Greek deity struck me as some kind of promotion. Particularly since no less a personage than Alex the Great—who, after all, considered himself a god too—now seemed to be granting me similar status.

“It takes one to know one,” I told him charitably.

“Then you do confirm that I am descended from Zeus?” he asked in a very low voice so that the guard might not overhear the doubt implied by the question.

“You’re every bit as much a god as I am,” I assured him.

“It’s very good of you to say so.” He was hooked. “And now I’ll have somebody to talk to. Frankly, just between us deities, being a god is a lonely business. I mean, you just can’t avoid talking down to people. You can’t really relate, if you know what I mean.”

“Oh, I do,” I agreed.

“Back to your post,” he ordered the sentry. When the soldier had gone, Alexander turned to me warmly. “Now that we’re alone,” he suggested, “we can have a real god-to-god talk.”

Well, people in the same line of work do have a lot of things in common. Alex’s side of the conversation went along with that assumption. He came on like it was Lights Out at sleepaway camp and first confession of those whispered fears about getting warts on your hands, or could it really make you go crazy. It got so sticky chummy in that tent I almost expected him to get all choked up with did I worry about being adopted when I was a little kid the way he did.

He came close at that. Still in the god-to-god bag, I listened sympathetically to Alex’s self doubts about his godhood. You see, godding it wasn’t just his thing, it was also his hang-up. Like most hang-ups, it stemmed right from the old family oak.

Look at it this way. Napoleon’s father made it with his mother, and how would that make you feel if it was your mother? The best historical authorities cannot say with certainty that at the age of six Caligula did not wet his pants. And at some time, somebody must have toilet-trained Hitler!

Alexander the Great? Well, with Al it was the father bit. Plus playing Oedipus to Mama, of course. Actually, it was classical. Which, I suppose, is only fitting.

His father was Philip of Macedon, an overly authoritative type with a great deal of unsuppressed violence. He spent his life overcompensating for his poor self-concept. As a Macedonian, Phil was a member of a minority group despised by the Greeks. One Athenian blueblood described him as “not even a barbarian from a respectable country—no, a pestilent fellow of Macedon, a country from which we never got even a decent slave.” Philip responded by chopping up Greeks until he’d almost, but not quite, minced them into a Greek salad of unity to fill his own personal salad bowl. It was left for Alexander to add the Persian dressing and other Eastern spices. This was only just, since as a boy Alexander received much of the overflow of his father’s sometimes hostile authoritativeness.

All right, Zigmund, ve miggzing ein Freudian stew, it should coming up one conqueror of Die Welt. Already, in the pot ein Prussian Vater plus a couple siblings Alexander wipes out and now he should compete mit der Vater- vigure, what kind dumplings we gonna dump in? Prosit! Heil! for Alte Heidelberg! Ziggy, du bist 100% right. Add ein Mama what iss overindulgent, overprotective, overambitious, overseductive and an Uber-Mama all the way. Plus she should be meshuginah in der Kopf und dig a bissel blood in her beer just like Papa does. Ziggy, ah so, just such a bitch iss Olympias, Mutter of Alexander Der Grosse.

A kinder view would be that Olympias was simply one of those unfortunate women who suffer from premenstrual tension—and menstrual tension and postmenstrual tension as well. That would be a day-to-day evaluation. The larger picture might show that she suffered the frustration of ineptitude prior to puberty, aggressive nymphomania for the next thirty-odd years, and feelings of deprivation and resentment from then until she was finally laid in her grave. Naturally, the poor woman had to let off steam. She did this in two ways.

The first was murder. Having the heads lopped off slaves was merely an apéritif for Olympias. The main dish may well have been Philip of Macedon himself. Historians disagree as to the role she played in his assassination. But there’s no doubt about her having had dessert. After Philip was dead, she killed the child of his second wife while the mother held it in her arms, and then slowly strangled the mother—a rather lengthy operation during which Olympias delivered a running monologue filled with the sort of taunts and barbs that really hurt a person. Example: “You really should do something about your breath, dear; it’s no wonder your‘ mother preferred your sister to you”-—and wringing her neck all the time.

Olympias’ second outlet was Alexander. From the first, although Philip had other sons, Olympias campaigned to insure that Alexander would be the heir to the throne. The most important part of her campaign lay in convincing Alexander from earliest childhood that he was more than a king, more than his father, indeed, that he was a god, the son of Zeus himself.

As Olympias presented it to Alexander, Philip was merely a tool to forge the army which his son would then take over and use to conquer the world. Historically, she was right. That’s exactly what happened. And in order for it to happen, Alexander had to believe that some nine months before his birth, while Philip was out massacring Greeks, Olympias received a caller from Mount Olympus—Zeus himself-—who bedded her down and planted the seed which would be Alexander.

Some kids believe in Santa Claus. Alexander believed he was a god. But there comes a traumatic time when kids find out there is no Santa Claus and Mama has feet of clay ever after. Only with Alex it was reversed. First he spotted Mama’s feet of clay at the time that she disposed of Philip’s second wife. Then he began to wonder if she could have lied to him and if maybe he wasn’t really a god.

That’s where it was at right now. Despite the triumphs he’d already racked up in Greece, and in Persia too, Alex had secret doubts about his divinity. That’s why he was so happy to have another god with a golden phallus to confirm it. But there was one ultimate confirmation he sought, and after some hours of god-talk, he confided it to me.

“A long time ago another son of Zeus walked the earth not far from where we are right now,” Alexander told me earnestly. “He came in the guise of a Phrygian peasant named Gordius. Zeus heralded his coming. He commanded the people to select the first person who rode up to the temple in a wagon as their king. Gordius came and the prophecy was fulfilled. He founded the city known as Gordium. Subsequently, Gordius dedicated the wagon in which he’d come to the gods. In doing so, he made a prophecy. He declared that whoever should succeed in untying the complex knot of cornel bark holding the yoke to the pole of the wagon should rule all of Asia. Through the centuries many great warriors have tried to solve the problem of the knot. But none has succeeded. And none has conquered all of Asia. I shall loose the sacred knot. Then will I know that I am truly a god. Darius the Persian can wait. We start for Gordium tomorrow.”

So there it was! “If—!” the Wise Man of Saigon had said. “If Alexander the Great hadn’t hacked the Gordian Knot to pieces . . . humanity might have chosen the road to its salvation instead of the path to its destruction.” And now here was Alexander telling me that it the Knot confirmed his godhood, he would be sure of his right to conquer the world.

But what if I could stop him? The whole course of history would be changed. And ultimate extinction might be avoided! I didn’t know how I was going to do it, but I decided that somehow I would keep Alexander from shattering the Gordian Knot. With that firmly in my mind, I drifted off to sleep, Alexander’s voice still confessing his dreams of glory to my ears.

The next morning, he had servants bring me the finest clothes so that I might keep covered the evidence of my divinity. I replaced Denise’s slippers with leather-thonged sandals and donned the splendiferous tunic of a high-ranking Macedonian officer. Dressed thusly, I accompanied Alexander to a council of war with his advisors.

The situation was that Darius the Persian had retreated with his army to the mountains separating the plains from the sea. Alexander’s captains wanted to pursue him iminediately. But Alexander stood firm. First he would detour to Gordium to satisfy the prophecy, and only then would he wheel back to face Darius. Shortly before noon the army, led by Alexander, got under way for Gordium.

If Alexander was a god, he was a working god. He was everywhere on the line of march, his voice a whiplash snapping out orders, straightening a line of foot soldiers here, seeing to the transport of giant catapults there, checking the steeds of the cavalry, straining beside his men to lift a broken chariot so a wheel might be removed and replaced. He treated his army the way a master carpenter looks after his tools -- constantly on the alert to be sure all would be at peak efficiency when the time came for their use. At the same time, he drove them hard, and it was long after nightfall before he called a halt and gave the order to set up camp.

I dined with him in his tent. We did not dine alone. There was a lady whom Alexander was eager to have meet me. Her name was Dymitria.

Originally Dymitria came from Thebes. She had been the daughter of a great and noble household there before Alexander razed the city during one of the highpoints of his bloody campaign to unite the Greek city-states. Now she was his paramour. There were many ramifications to this situation, but I didn’t become aware of them until the next day.

That evening, Dymitria came on much more like the lady of the manor than the backstairs concubine. She turned the rough interior of the tent into a grand Theban dining room. The most gracious of hostesses, she put me completely at my ease. Her conversation sparkled with wit and her beauty was tangible balm after the exertions of the day.

That beauty might have served as a model for the sculptors who immortalized Greek womanhood in the form of goddess statues. A tall girl in her early twenties, Dymitria had proud, patrician features, a strong jaw-line, a perfect nose, pronounced cheekbones, all softened by wide-set, soft blue eyes and full lips that always seemed soft and moist and on the verge of pursing to be kissed. She had long, flowing, black hair which framed her face like a halo and drifted down over the gown she wore. The gown was typical of the Theban garb favored by noble ladies; it was white and loose, falling to her ankles and held at one shoulder by a knot. The other shoulder was bare, revealing a complexion that was pure alabaster softness. Far from being concealed by the gown, her physical charms were enhanced by it. Large, high breasts rippled enticingly under the material when she moved. A silken cord gathered the folds of material at her waist stressing its tininess and the voluptuous jut of her hips. Without being able to see them, I knew her legs would be long and slender. A tall, proud beauty—such was Dymitria.

Her effect on Alexander was obvious. There was a sort of unspoken power struggle going on between them. I didn’t quite understand it, yet somehow it seemed to me that she might be winning. A part of this seemed to be Alexander’s anxiousness to convince her of my godhood.

“Stevictor is a god recently arrived from Olympus,” he told her.

“A god?” The look she shot me was polite, but speculative. “Like you are a god, my liege?” There was a faint teasing note in her voice as she turned back to Alexander.

“Not the same,” he granted. “Excepting that we both are deities. Stevictor is a god of fertility, while I am a god of war.”

“Indeed? Well, of the two, what woman would not be more intrigued by the former?”

“You see, Stevictor? Already she has turned us into rivals. Is Dymitria not remarkable in her guile?” He said it good-naturedly, but I thought I detected his nose swerving just a wee bit out of joint.

“Remarkable,” I agreed.

“More wine?” Dymitria held the jug over my glass.

“No thanks. I think I’ve had enough.”

“Are you afraid your specialized godhood might be affected?” She was laughing at me.

“Not at all.”

“Well, wine sometimes works that way with men,” she remarked. “But I suppose it’s different with gods.”

“I suppose so,” I replied noncommittally.

“You have seen evidence of his godly talents?” she asked Alexander.

“I have.”

“As strong as the evidence of your own godhood?” A hint of sarcasm.

“Dymitria dare not come right out and say it, but she has doubts about my godhood,” Alexander told me. “One day I may have to prove it to her by striking her with a bolt of lightning.”

“Don’t be drastic,” I advised him. “Even a god would spare such loveliness.”

“Why, thank you, Your Godhood,” Dymitria purred.

“Then I am to be spared an exhibition of your own godly talents?”

“You certainly are!” Alexander was firm. “But if you doubt them, I have no objection to Stevictor showing you the proof.”

“Oh, I’d like to see that!” Dymitria clapped her hands.

“Modesty forbids,” I muttered.

“A modest fertility god?” Dymitria shook her head. “Doesn’t that hamper you in your work?”

“Nonsense!” Alexander was insistent. “Show her the proof!”

There was no way out of it. Delicately, I lifted the skirt of my tunic. Dymitria dropped her eyes in a ladylike fashion, looked, and then averted her gaze.

“You see!” Alexander said triumphantly as I straightened my tunic.

“I see.” Her voice was without inflection.

I wondered what she really thought. I was still wondering later that evening when I was drifting off to sleep. The next morning I found out.

Dymitria was a skeptic.

The way I found out said she was a lot of other things as well. It happened in the morning, before the day’s march got under way. I had finished breakfasting with Alexander and was strolling around the campsite by myself. It had been set up in a clearing to one side of a deep well. Now the well was deserted as the army formed itself to leave. It was deserted, that is, except for Dymitria. I spotted her as I walked towards it.

She was engaged in a very odd activity. She was gathering very heavy rocks from around the clearing and piling them up alongside the well. There was quite a stack there already, and as she saw me coming, she ceased her activity. “What are you doing?” I asked her as I reached the well. “I’ll show you,” she answered pleasantly. “Look here.”

She leaned over the edge of the well and pointed downward.

I leaned over beside her and looked. “What?” All I could see was pitch blackness.

“There. Lean way over and you’ll see.”

I leaned over. “I still don’t see anything,” I told her.

“Lean over further.”

I leaned over further. “I still don’t--”"

Dymitra shoved hard against my buttocks and I went plunging over the side of the well!

Flailing with the initial impact, I somehow managed to twist my body so that my feet were descending first. My hands barely grabbed onto a narrow ledge running around the inside of the well at about ground level. It stopped my dive and I hung there precariously by my fingertips. Dymitria leaned over the well and started pegging small rocks at my clutching hands. That was the moment when it flashed through my mind that Dymitria was a skeptic. She didn’t really believe I was a god.

At that moment, I didn’t exactly believe it myself. Gods don’t drown in wells. But the numbness setting into my fingers told me I was scant seconds from doing just that. Perhaps closer, I realized, as one of Dymitria’s stones bounced off a knuckle.

“What are you doing?” Alexander’s voice, from the world beyond the well!

“Nothing.” Dymitria was too calm. “Just dropping pebbles in the well. I like to hear them splash.”

Splash, hell! “Help!” I screamed succinctly.

Alexander’s face appeared over the side of the well.

“Bitch!” He pushed Dymitria away. He grabbed the rope holding the bucket and swung it to where I could reach it. I almost fell grabbing for it, but luck was with me. With Alex pulling the rope from above, I braced my feet against the sides of the well and managed to climb out.

“Phew!” I gasped for breath. “Thanks,” I said when I was able to speak. “That was close. Why did she do a crazy thing like that?”

“To prove to me that you are not a god.” Alexander scowled. “When I find her, she’ll be punished.”

“Where did she go?”

“She ran off to the woods. But she’ll be back.”

“I’ll keep an eye out for her,” I told him sincerely. “She tried to kill me. She may try again.”

“Perhaps. Just stay away from wells when she’s around.”

“Why wells? Won’t she try some other way?”

“I don’t think so. Wells are her favorite form of execution.”

“What do you mean?”

He explained. It seemed that a couple of years back when the Greek city of Thebes had been in rebellion against Alexander, he had fallen on it with his army like a ton of masonry. He’d decided to make an example out of Thebes for the other city-states which grumbled under his rule. So he’d ordered his conquering troops to destroy the city, to pillage it thoroughly, to burn all the buildings, to kill every man, woman and child they could lay their hands on, and by all means to rape every Theban female before slaughtering them.

One of his Macedonian officers had led a marauding band to the home of Dymitria’s father. Here, all in the household had been killed and Dymitria had been repeatedly raped. However, before his death, Dymitria’s father had hidden the wealth of his household. The Macedonian officer was loath to put Dymitria to death before finding out where the treasure was hidden. So, logically, he decided to torture the girl to make her reveal the hiding-place before killing her.

But Dymitria surprised him. Before the torture could begin, she succumbed to the mere threat of it and agreed to take him to where the treasure had been concealed. The officer’s men were still busy looting, burning and killing, so he accompanied Dymitria by himself. That was his mistake.

She led him to a well behind her father’s palace and told him the treasure was at the bottom. It was a very shallow well, and if it had been daylight the Macedonian could easily have seen the bottom. But it was night and even by the light of the moon he couldn’t quite make out whether there was anything in the well or not. As she had with me, Dymitria urged him to lean farther and farther over the edge until he was in position for the shove that pushed him into the well.

Since it was shallow, the fall merely shook him up. Immediately, he began shouting for his men to help him. But there was no one in earshot save Dyrnitria. And she was obsessed with only one idea-—to still the voice which had commanded the indignities forced upon her.

She could have fled and perhaps gotten away completely. But her urge to vengeance was stronger than her urge to survive. She stayed and began bringing large rocks to the well and dropping them over the side, one by one. She labored for hours in the moonlight, continuing to drop the stones long after the voice was stilled. Stone upon stone she dropped into the well. And when Alexander’s men found her at dawn, the well was filled with rocks almost to the brim. They didn’t even attempt to extricate the Macedonian. It was obvious that the mere weight of the stones covering him must have been enough to kill him. instead, they brought Dymitria to Alexander so that their leader might devise some fittingly diabolical punishment in keeping with the murder of one of his officers.

Alexander, however, was impressed by the will of the girl who could spend an entire night wreaking vengeance. Also, when Dymitria showed defiance towards him, he was intrigued. When she openly challenged his claim to godhood in front of his men, it became more important to him to convince her than to kill her. So, for these reasons, he spared her life and added a concubine to his entourage instead of another corpse.

From these beginnings had developed a classical love-hate relationship. Outwardly, Dymitria treated him with respect-— even love -- but underneath she always seemed to be laughing at his pretensions. And this, perversely, kept Alexander’s interest in her at a high pitch.

So she had tried to kill me only in order to bug him. I understood that. But understanding didn’t make me forgiving. I gave Dymitria a wide berth during the rest of the march. What “punishment” Alexander had decided on for her, I never found out. Whatever it was, it couldn’t have been too bad. She rode in his chariot most of the time and there didn’t seem to be any ill will between them.

Meanwhile, I’d been planning what I was going to do when we reached Gordium. Somehow, I had to find the ox-cart with the Gordian Knot before Alexander did and hide it some place where he couldn’t find it. My plans were vague, but I knew that somehow I had to get into the city before his forces descended on it.

My opportunity came a few nights later. We had camped for the night on the outskirts of Gordium. Word of our arrival had preceded us. Some representatives of the city had come to call on Alexander. They wished to surrender without a fight with the understanding that he would spare their city. While he was meeting with them, I sneaked out of camp and into the city itself.

The cart with the Gordian Knot wasn’t too hard to find. It was enshrined in a courtyard in front of the Temple of Zeus. There was only one problem. It was bigger than a breadbox!

What I mean is, I couldn’t exactly slip it into my pocket and slip off with it. Even if I hadn’t cared about being noticed, I didn’t have the strength to tow the thing away unaided. It was an ox-cart, and what I needed was an ox to move it. It was late at night and I just might get away with it unnoticed—if I had an ox.

“Don’t move!”

I had been standing and staring at the ox-cart with my back to the temple when the voice snapped out. It was accompanied by the point of a spear playing dominoes with the third and fourth vertebrae of my spine. My left buttock developed a sudden, overwhelming itch. I didn’t scratch it. I just followed instructions. I didn’t move.

“What do you want here?” the voice demanded.

It was a long story and I decided not to tell it. I didn’t answer.

“Turn around.”

I turned around. I found myself facing some sort of guard in uniform. His spear at my belly, he held a torch high and scrutinized me.

“You’re a Greek,” he decided. “But you’re early,” he added.

“Early?”

“Yes. The surrender isn’t supposed to take place until tomorrow. And the terms are that you Greeks are supposed to spare our holy places.”

“You mean those are the terms you’re asking for,” I reminded him.

“Oh! So it’s like that!” His spear nudged me more intimately, more uncomfortably. “I think the High Priest had better see you.”

The guard ushered me through the Temple of Zeus to a large antechamber behind the main hall of worship. There were several doors leading off the antechamber and he knocked at one of them. After a moment we entered and were in the presence of the High Priest.

The sentry explained the circumstances. The High Priest listened and then turned to me. “What do you want here, Greek?” he asked.

On the spur of the moment, I decided to gamble. “I am more than a Greek,” I told him in my most stentorian, deepest voice. “I am from Mount Olympus itself.”

“You claim to be a god?” The High Priest was dubious.

“I have proof that I am a messenger of Zeus.”

“Indeed?” The High Priest shot the sentry a look that said keep a sharp eye, this kook might be dangerous. “What is your proof?”

I took a step forward, the guard right behind me, the tip of his spear causing muscular pain and backache. “I will show you the proof,” I announced pontifically. I raised the skirt of my tunic and revealed my golden gonads. It occurred to me that if my ploy didn’t work the High Priest might take this as some sort of sacrilege and I might lose them. The thought made me go rigid with fear.

The sudden rigidity clinched it. When I’d first revealed myself, the High Priest’s eyes had widened. But now he gasped audibly. When he sank to his knees in front of me, I knew he bought my godhood.

Still on his knees, he waved the guard out of the chamber. “What is your will, oh messenger of Zeus?” he asked then.

I told him I had been sent by Zeus to hide the sacred ox-cart before it could fall into the hands of Alexander.

“But will he not agree to the terms of the treaty and spare our religious artifacts?” the High Priest wanted to know.

“I do not know whether he will agree or not. I only know that the auguries say the ox-cart must be hidden. It is the word of Zeus.” I was getting the hang of being a god; when in doubt, refer to a higher authority.

“It is the Gordian Knot that Alexander seeks,” the High Priest guessed.

“Yes.”

“But many conquerors have tried to solve the puzzle of the Knot and failed. Why should there be concern over this Macedonian?”

“If he finds it he will not play fair. The prophecy of the conqueror who unties the Knot becoming the ruler of the world is trickier than it appears to be. Alexander will find the loophole in the Knot.”

“There is no loophole!”

“I was speaking allegorically,” I explained.

“So how else should a god speak?” the High Priest mused. “Very well. If it is the wish of Zeus that the ox-cart be hidden from Alexander, then it shall be so.” He summoned the guard. “Fetch an ox immediately, and hitch it to the cart of Gordius,” he instructed him.

When this was done, the High Priest and I drove the cart to a secluded gully on the far side of the city. Here we unhitched it and covered it with large branches of leaves. When it was completely hidden, the priest led the ox back to the temple. I walked with him as far as the city and then detoured around it to return to Alexander’s camp. I congratulated myself on a good night’s work and fell into a sound sleep.

The next morning, without having to toss a spear anger, the army of Alexander made its triumphal march into the city of Gordium. While Alexander was involved in the administrative details of the tribute to be paid him, I wandered about the city on my own, taking in the sights as it were.

Towards mid-afternoon, I grew tired. I hadn’t had too much sleep the night before. I was on the far side of the city, so I walked out beyond the walls, found a grassy knoll and curled up under a tree. I was just dozing off when I spied a shimmery figure approaching me through the dazzling beams of sunlight.

As the figure drew closer, I squinted. I made out the features and sat bolt upright. It Was Dymitria.

I was in the shadow of the tree and she didn’t see me. I watched as she went over to a small brook at the base of the knoll, removed her sandals and dipped a toe into the water. She tossed her head, satisfied with the temperature. Then she walked along the edge of the brook until she reached a clump of bushes directly down the hillock from where I was. Here she removed her gown and stretched luxuriously, gloriously nude in the sunlight.

I caught my breath. Dymitria appeared for a moment like some statue of a woodland nymph. But when she moved, she was all woman-—the total female animal. She cupped her hands under her large, perfectly shaped breasts and held them to catch the rays of the sun. It was as if she was making an offering. The sun was behind me, still blinding her to my presence, and while she didn’t know it, the offering was being made to me.

Then she turned away. Her hips swayed enticingly and the plump, molded cheeks of her derrière rippled as she waded into the brook. Then they were covered as she stood in the water waist-high, caught some water in her hands and splashed it over the long, red tips of her breasts. She shivered visibly and the tips grew redder and longer. She laughed, a free, uninhibited laugh, brought the fingers of one hand together and strummed the tips of her breasts with obvious pleasure.

She ducked under the water completely for a moment. When she stood erect again, her lustrous, ebony hair was wet and spread out over her body like a fan. It stuck to the curve of her breasts and the red tips peeped out between the strands erotically.

I was aroused. I was about to be a lot more aroused. Thinking herself alone, Dymitria didn’t hesitate to give her feelings free reign.

She emerged from the pool and stretched out on the grass, lying on her back. Droplets of water glistened on her creamy flesh. Lying thus, her head thrown back, she stroked her breasts. Her hands slid further and further down her body as she was caught up in the sensation. Her long legs bent and unbent alternately, the knees rising and falling as her hips slowly writhed. Her hands drifted down over her hips, guiding them. Then the fingers trailed over the exquisite thighs, parting them and dipping into the apex of the triangle of soft, black curls.

Dymitria tossed more frantically now, one of her hands completely out of sight. I could hear her breathing grow heavier. Her body arched like a bow. It became very taut and stayed that way for a long moment. Then she laughed aloud, a long laugh, half a cry, and her nether-cheeks came down hard on the grass-once, twice, three times.

She lay still now, her breathing subsiding. After a moment she stretched like a cat and turned over on her stomach. She propped her head up with one hand under her chin, shielded her eyes against the sun’s glare with the other hand and surveyed the landscape. That’s when she first saw me.

Startled, Dymitria leaped to her feet. She darted behind a bush and looked at me again. “You were watching!” she called accusingly.

“I was.” I admitted it.

“Why didn’t you make your presence known?” Her face was indignant over the top of the bushes.

“I’m an erotic god,” I reminded her. “I would never interfere with such pleasure.”

“I don’t believe you’re really a god,” she said defiantly.

“You’ve seen the proof,” I reminded her.

“I’m not sure what I saw. I didn’t really have a chance to examine it.”

I was sorely tempted to tell her to come on up now and examine it at her leisure. But I couldn’t forget that she’d tried to kill me. Attracted as I was, I managed to hold on to a modicum of caution. Dymitria, however, soon dispelled it.

“If you are a god, then you must be immune to the charms of women,” she said.

“I’m not that kind of god,” I wavered.

“I’ve never known a god before.”

“What about Alexander?”

“Oh, come on. He’s not really a god, is he?”

“He thinks he is.”

“And you think you are.” There was a challenging note in her voice.

“I know I am.” I corrected her.

“Are you now?” She came out boldly from behind the bush and started up the hillock towards me. Her nude body took on the flush of heat in the sunlight. When she reached me I could see a few tiny beads of perspiration glistening in the deep cleavage between her breasts. Breathing hard, she stooped over and lifted the skirt of my tunic. Her breasts swayed deliciously as she stooped over me. “It really is gold,” she said with wonder. Her hand dropped and she grasped me. “But it doesn’t feel like gold,” she said, squeezing her fist gently in time with the throbbing.

That did it! It may have looked like gold, but it wasn’t really made of metal after all. I grabbed a handful of Dymitria’s hair and pulled her face to mine. Her lips were warm and clinging. They parted willingly for the duel of our tongues.

I pulled her to the grass and my hands moved over that luxurious body with a sense of touch that seemed to feed on itself with the feel of her soft, warm flesh. Her breasts were wondrous soft, but their long, ruby tips were hard and quivering and burning in my palms. Her legs grew feverish under my caresses and her eyes smoldered with desire. I stroked the lovely globes of her buttocks and she strained upwards, the ebony triangle thrashing wildly with the urgency of her passion. When I touched the near-purple length of her swelling clitoris, she cried out and dug her nails into my shoulders.

I moved over her now and her legs shot wildly into the air, locking around my neck as my golden godhood buried itself. We moved together then, rocking to a frantic rhythm and lost to everything but the pure sensation of the act. I felt like I was being consumed in a fiery furnace, yet nothing could have made me stop stoking that fire. Noth- ing, that is, except the final, ultimate explosion which seized us simultaneously and actually propelled our locked bodies down the slope of the hillock with its mad intensity. We lay there like that for a moment, exhausted, before we finally broke apart.

Catching my breath, I rolled away from Dymitria. My eyes had been closed and now I opened them. When they focused, it was with a shock that drove the recent pleasure right out of my skull.

Alexander the Great was standing a few feet from where we lay!

His face was like thunder! His whole body quivered with a jealousy too great for words. He held a naked sword in his hand. Slowly, a roar of rage built deep in his throat and finally burst from his lips. With it, he leaped for me. I jumped to my feet and started running.

I ran as hard as I could. I didn’t look back. I knew what was behind me. I had a feeling I was better off not knowing how close behind. Over the crest of the hillock, down the slope on the other side, across an open field, into a grove of trees-—I ran.

The land fell away again and I found myself scrambling down the sides of a gully. It was a moment before I realized it was the gully where the High Priest had hidden the ox-cart with the Gordian Knot the night before. I didn’t dwell on that fact. The swish of Alexander’s blade at my rear made me tumble into the gully with even greater haste. I dived into the camouflage we’d set up to conceal the cart. Alexander thrashed about behind me. His Greek curses rang in my ears. I got the cart between him and me, crouched down and hoped he wouldn’t see me. The hope was in vain. A sudden roar told me I’d been spotted. His sword came crashing down towards my head. I managed to move just in time. The blade whistled in my ear and slammed down, connecting precisely where the pole of the wagon was joined to the yoke.

The Gordian Knot was shattered!

I’d brought about the very act I’d tried to guard against. I’d led Alexander right to the cart and provoked him to smash the Knot. Instead of preventing the disastrous course of history, I’d provoked it!

Alexander swung his blade a second time. Wedged against the wheel of the cart, there was no way I could avoid it. The severing of my head from my shoulders seemed a foregone conclusion.

It seemed as inevitable as Alexander’s severing the strands of the Gordian Knot!

CHAPTER FOUR

There’s no business like show business!

“All right. All you Greek extras for the Persian rape scene line up over there. The Emperor wants to select the principals himself.” The speaker was a Roman centurion. The tongue he spoke was Latin. Fortunately, I speak Latin. “You there!” He leveled a finger at me. “Why are you on your knees like that with your hands on top of your head?”

I was on my knees like that with my hands on top of my head because I was still waiting for Alexander’s descending sword to lop off my head. But I didn’t bother trying to explain. Somehow I had the feeling that the centurion wouldn’t dig. I did what he asked. I fell in line with the others.

The line was made up of naked men. That explained why my own sudden, naked appearance in their midst had gone unnoticed. I was right in style—-except for two things. The first was the fact that all of the male bodies except mine had been heavily anointed with scented oils. The second was my gilded gonads. The goldenness stood out like a sore thumb.

However, at first it went unnoticed. The men standing on either side of me were too occupied with their own gripes to pay any attention to my special attributes. “If anybody’d told me I’d end up a bloody faggot actor, I never would have joined the Praetorian Guard,” the man on my left grumbled.

“You can bet it was different when Claudius was emperor,” the man on my right agreed. “Soldiers were soldiers then!”

“Now Nero’s turning us all into chorus boys,” the first man griped.

“The Empire’s falling to pieces, and what does he do?” the second wanted to know. “He keeps half the army at home so he can stage his damn fool Greek pageant.”

“It’s all Poppaea’s fault. She encourages him.”

“Yeah. Rome hasn’t been the same since he knocked off his first wife and married her.”

Nero? Poppaea? Rome? I was beginning to get my bearings. Papa Baapuh’s time machine had whisked me out from under the Greek sword in the nick of time. And now, unless I was very much mistaken, I was in Rome in the time of Nero. I fished for confirmation.

“Have either of you two fellows noticed any big fires in Rome lately?” I asked innocently.

They looked at me blankly. “Not unless you mean the kind of fires Poppaea’s always stirring up,” the one on my left replied. “Two years of being married to Nero, and she makes no secret of wanting a man to quench her fires!”

That told me what I wanted to know. Nero had married Poppaea in 62 A.D. after murdering his mother and his first wife. If that was two years ago as the soldier said, then the year I found myself in must be 64 A.D. That was the year of the conflagration which destroyed Rome. But it evidently hadn’t taken place yet. I was mulling over what this might mean to me when the centurion ordered the line of men to attention.

Nero had arrived. Poppaea was with him. They started at the far end of the line and walked slowly down it. Every so often they would stop and discuss the genital qualifications of one of the men. Occasionally, Nero would order the centurion to make a note that a particular man’s talents were to be put to use. From what I could gather, Nero himself was producing and directing some sort of spectacular Greek pageant and this was a casting call for the orgy scene.

Coming down the line, Nero looked like an oversized bowling ball topped with a maraschino cherry. He was almost as fat as he was tall and his cheeks and nose had the ketchupy color that comes from consistent overindulgence of food and strong drink. He was a young man, still in his twenties, but he’d let himself go to corpulent seed.

Poppaea, his wife, formerly his mistress, was an attractive contrast. About an inch taller than Nero, she was one of those blonde Italian girls with the kind of fair complexion that testifies to the nomadic drift from North to South. She was well-stacked, and her Teutonic face was pretty without being beautiful. As she walked down the line of naked men, her expression seemed a mixture of sensual interest and aggressiveness. It implied that perhaps she might enjoy slashing her way down the line with a scythe.

Both she and Nero did a double take when they reached me. Nero was the first to raise his eyes. “You!” he said. “What’s your name?”

“Steve Victor.”

“Stand at attention when you address Caesar!” the centurion barked.

I stood at attention. All of me. Poppaea gasped.

“How is it that you have painted yourself so?” Nero demanded.

“Just a personal fetish,” I said helplessly.

“Well, I like it,” Nero decided. “It fits right in with the concept of splendor I wish this pageant to convey. I am pleased with your originality.”

“Caesar is pleased. Thank Caesar!” the centurion snapped.

“Thanks, Caesar,” I said.

“Bow, dog!” the centurion snarled.

I bowed.

“Why is your body not oiled like the others?” Poppaea asked.

“No matter.” Nero saved me from improvising an explanation. “He will oil it for all future rehearsals and for the performance. Now, Victor, can you use that weapon you have so ingeniously gilded?”

“As far as I know it’s in working order,” I assured him.

“Good. I shall stage the orgy scene so that you will be its focal point. It will make for an artistic arrangement.”

“A star is born,” I muttered to myself.

“What?”

“Nothing, Caesar. Thank you, Caesar.”

He beamed approval. Poppaea beamed lust. The two of them continued down the line.

When they reached the end, the centurion dismissed us. I trailed along after the other naked men from the large hall where the audition had been held to one equally large beyond it. This hall was lined with benches. On the benches each of the men had left a pile of his clothing. One of them was in for a surprise because there was now one more man than there were piles of clothes—and I was determined not to end up odd man out.

I helped myself to one of the stacks, dressed quickly, and followed the first few men outside before the theft could be detected. Not knowing what else to do, or where else to go, I continued trailing after the small group as they ambled through the nighttime streets of Rome. Eventually they came to a barracks and I followed them inside.

I was in luck. Part of the legion housed in the barracks was off on a campaign, and so there were plenty of spare bunks. I picked one on the other side of the room from those that were occupied, slipped out of the uniform I’d stolen, and got under one rough blanket. More men drifted into the barracks for the next hour or so. Then it became very quiet. Only the sounds of sleep breathing and an occasional snore broke the silence. I took advantage of my relative solitude to raise Putnam on my wrist radio.

“Steve,” he greeted me. “This is a surprise. I thought you’d been eaten by a dinosaur or something.”

“I’ve been busy,” I told him. “I’ve been knocking around with Alexander the Great and mulling over Gordian Knots.”

“Too busy playing with puzzles to call up and say hello.” Putnam sounded hurt. “Didn’t it even occur to you that I might be worried about you?”

“Putnam,” I reminded him, “you’re not my mother.”

“I worry just the same.”

“I’m touched. But if you’re so worried, why the hell don’t you get on the ball and bring me back home? Or are you too busy playing kitchy-koo with Ti Nih to be bothered?”

“Now that’s not fair, Steve. Ti Nih’s just as concerned as I am. You’d be surprised how often it takes our minds off what we’re doing.”

“As one grows older, the flesh grows weaker. And you’re not as young as you used to be, Putnam,” I reminded him nastily. “But let’s get back to my problem. I take it that Papa Baapuh fixed the doohickey that blew out.”

“If he hadn’t, you wouldn’t be where you are -- wherever that is.”

“Well, if it’s fixed, then why am I still here? Why can’t he just jump me forward again right away? Why can’t he keep doing that until he brings me all the way back?”

“We don’t have enough power, Steve. It takes time to generate. After all, his equipment is pretty primitive. Besides, you know how temperamental Papa Baapuh is. Most of the time he spends meditating with the lamas. He has to be handled with kid gloves to put in as much work on the time machine as he does. So you’ll just have to be patient.”

“Sure. What I need is a hobby to take up my spare time,” I told him sarcastically. “Maybe I should go m for amateur theatrics.”

“What do you mean?”

I told him about Nero and the pageant.

“Wait a minute,” Putnam said slowly when I was finished. “Is this pageant built around the fall of Troy?”

“It’s Greek, from what I can gather. From what I saw, the theme might be the fall of Troy. Why?”

“Because your boy Nero has a great finale planned,” Putnam told me. “According to the history books, he’s going to do a solo on some kind of stringed instrument and burn Rome to the ground.”

“You mean that bit about Nero fiddling while Rome burns is for real? I always thought it was just a legend.”

“No, it really happened. But more important—and more appalling—is what happened because of it.”

“What’s that?”

“Nero will need a scapegoat to blame the fire on. He’ll pick the Christians. This will be the beginning of the persecutions of the Christians by the Romans. Among the first victims will be Saint Peter and Saint Paul. Thousands of Christians will be martyred. That pageant with its fiery musical conclusion will trigger one of the bloodiest periods of wholesale slaughter in history.”

“That’s too bad. But what can I do about it?”

“Well, you might hide his violin—-or whatever he calls the instrument he plays.”

After I hung up on Putnam, I thought about it. Once again, it seemed, I was right on the tip of one of the pivotal points of history. The slaughter of the Christians would give sanction to the most inhumane side of mankind’s nature. And that sanction would snowball down through the centuries until the logic of complete annihilation would gain acceptance. If possible, I had to stop it from happening. I had to stop Nero from setting Rome afire -- so that he would have no excuse to begin the persecution of the Christians.

The next day I saw my first early Christians. The squad of Roman soldiers I’d infiltrated was rousted out early in the morning to break up a gathering of Christians on the outskirts of the city. Although the persecutions hadn’t really begun in earnest yet—the days when Christian flesh would become a staple of leonine diet still lay in the future-—there was a Roman policy of harassment towards the sect and it was common procedure to disperse their meetings. The procedure this entailed was interesting to observe.

The Captain of the Roman legion approached the elderly gentleman who seemed to be the leader of the Christians. They had a long, polite conversation in which the ground rules were laid down for what was to follow. It was agreed that the Christians would be ordered to disperse and understood that they would refuse to do so. They would then be arrested. It was further understood that the Christians were completely committed to nonviolence and would resist arrest by nonviolent means only—which is to say that some of them might let their bodies go limp. Since they were nonviolent, there would be no unnecessary force used to make the arrests and certainly no brutality would be exercised by the Roman soldiers. A spot was agreed upon where the arrested Christians would be herded before being marched off to the calaboose. It was all supposed to come off very peacefully. At least that was the agreement between the establishment and the dissidents.

What actually occurred was this: The Christian spokesman went back to his followers and explained what was to happen. The Roman Captain went back to his men and ordered them to follow him to where the Christians were gathered. When they reached them, the Captain gave the order for the Christians to disperse. The Christians sat down on the ground, locked arms and started singing a hymn. The Captain turned to his men, waved his spear high in the air and shouted-—

“All right, men, let’s move these mothahs!”

The Roman soldiers moved in on the Christians. They would grab one who had gone limp, haul him over to the area designated for arrest, and then order him to stand up. I watched the pattern repeated a few times. “Stand up!” a soldier would order a Christian. The Christian would attempt to stand and a soldier on the other side of him would kick him in the head. “All right! If you won’t stand up, We’ll make you!” A spear would rake a set of Christian ribs.

“I love you,” the Christian would sigh, trying to get to his feet. “I forgive you.”

This would drive the soldiers to renewed fury. “Take a bath!” they’d howl. They’d kick or club the Christian each time he tried to get to his feet. And each time he fell back down again, they’d order him to stand up.

Finally, all of the Christians who hadn’t bolted had been herded into the designated area. Primitive wooden sawhorses had been set up there to keep them together. These formed a square. Then the Roman soldiers removed the sawhorses from one side of the square. A small troop of Roman cavalry—-about six horsemen—immediately galloped into the area swinging clubs.

Throughout all of this, I faked the action without actually hitting anyone. When it was over, I turned to one of the other soldiers and asked him if perhaps we hadn’t been unnecessarily rough. His responses rang down the centuries.

“They shouldn’t have attacked us,” he said. “They’re supposed to be nonviolent.”

“You’re right,” I agreed. “I saw at least three Christians deliberately hitting soldiers’ billies with the tops of their heads. But was it really necessary to trample them with horses?”

“They raise that kind of fuss, the horses get skittish. They shouldn’t torment the poor beasts.”

“Then you wouldn’t say you were guilty of brutality?”

“Brutality, hell! It was a splendid example of tactical riot control! I think we behaved with admirable restraint. I’ll bet the authorities compliment us for being so restrained in the face of provocation. These dissenters have to be made to realize that the right to dissent carries with it the responsibility to behave in an orderly fashion.”

I looked at the beaten, bedraggled and blood-soaked Christians being marched away by the soldiers. I wondered if they were more aware now of their “responsibility to behave in an orderly fashion.” I marveled at the faith that kept them from rising up and smiting their oppressors, the faith that prohibited them from meeting force with force, the faith that seemed to enrage the soldiers more than anything else about the Christians. It took guts to turn the other cheek so that one could be struck upon it. It always would take guts—whether the scene was Rome in 64 A.D., or Washington, Berkeley, or New York City in 1967. Guts!

Marching the prisoners back, I eavesdropped as one of them fell into conversation with a Roman soldier. The soldier, tough, grizzled looking, one of the more enthusiastic club-wielders a short while before, was now attempting a reasonable attitude towards a young Christian whose cheek was clotted with blood. The Christian seemed completely without animosity as he talked with the soldier.

“What I don’t understand,” said the soldier, “is just what it is you agitators want.”

“Peace,” the Christian told him.

“You don’t believe in fighting for your country?”

“I don’t believe in killing.”

“Wouldn’t you defend yourself if you were attacked?”

“I was attacked. I didn’t defend myself,” the Christian reminded him.

“That makes you a coward,” the soldier decided.

“If I ran away, I would be a coward. I didn’t run away.”

“What do you want to stir up trouble for?” the soldier tried a new tack.

“We don’t. We oppose the war in Britain and the conquests in Spain. Rome isn’t defending herself there. Rome is the aggressor. We believe that aggression is wrong.”

“That’s treason you’re talking, buddy!” The soldier was getting angry. “You’re undermining our boys overseas.”

“On the contrary, I support them. I say bring them home. That’s more supportive than grinding them up for cannon fodder.”

“You’re saying you know better than Caesar what’s good for the country.”

“Render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s and unto—”

“Dialectics!” The soldier cut him off. “Don’t you realize we have to pacify Britain and Spain in order to secure our own boundaries from attack? If they went, then one country after another would fall to the barbarians and soon Rome itself would fall.”

“Britain and Spain are a long way from Rome. And there’s been no attempt to attack us in those quarters-—-only an attempt by the populace to defend itself against our invading legions.”

“You care more about the barbarians than you do about Rome!” the soldier countered. “Why, you people are trying to undermine the whole basis of Roman society. I’ve heard you talking. You want to do away with slavery!”

“All men are brothers. There can be no masters and no slaves.”

“Without slavery, the Roman economy would be ruined!”

“If it is an evil economy based on slavery, then it should be destroyed.”

“There! See! You have no respect for law and order!”

The soldier was fuming. “Anybody can see what you’re trying to do. But what I don’t understand is what you hope to gain by it.”

“The Kingdom of Heaven,” the Christian murmured.

The soldier ignored the remark. “I mean, from what I’ve seen of you Christians, there can’t be much money in it.”

“There are more important things than material wealth,” the Christian replied.

“Like what?” The soldier was skeptical.

“Love.”

“Well, I like a little piece myself now and then . . .” The soldier smirked.

“If it is truly love, then it is no sin.”

“Sounds to me like that would take half the fun out of it.” The soldier chuckled. “I mean, it’s more enjoyable if the wench puts up a little bit of a fight.”

What we have here, I thought to myself, is a failure to communicate.

The Christian merely sighed.

The soldier, receiving no answer, changed the subject again. “Why do you want to go around antagonizing people?” he demanded. “Why do you try so hard to be different from everybody else?”

“We don’t try so hard. It’s just that our beliefs set us apart.”

“It’s not just your beliefs. Look at the way you dress. Look how dirty you are. And why do you wear those beards?”

“We dress in poor clothing because we know our garments will be ripped when you arrest us. It would be foolish to wear good clothing. We’re dirty because you dragged us through the mud. And lots of people who aren’t Christians wear beards. Our Saviour wore a beard. And his hair was as long as that of many of the men you taunted today.”

“Oh, come on now!” The soldier sneered. “Everybody knows you Christians never take a bath.”

“That’s not true!”

“You calling me a liar?” The soldier became menacing.

“No, brother.” The Christian sighed again. “Your error may be honest. But it is an error. I had a bath this very morning.”

“Well, you sure don’t look it.” The Roman guffawed.

“I imagine not.” The Christian smiled wryly. “But it’s good Roman dirt that cakes my body. And I paid for it with my bruises.”

The soldier waved it aside. “All I know is that being poor is no excuse for being dirty,” he told the Christian smugly.

“I agree. Cleanliness is next to godliness.” The Christian spread his hands and smiled at the soldier.

The soldier fell silent then. Evidently he decided it wasn’t worth the trouble to bait the Christian further. Or perhaps—just perhaps—the Christian had made a slight dent in his thinking. Perhaps, one day, another soldier, or his descendants, would see the light.

So smile as the skulls split open and tell yourself that that’s the way the Kookie crumbles. But is it? That’s what I was asking myself again now. Or is it possible to turn back the tide of brutality? If the early Christians hadn’t been martyred, then perhaps the later Christians might not have been so ready to become the club-wielders. If Nero could be stopped from kicking off the campaign to Christians before he started, then perhaps mankind’s killer instinct might be diverted. That’s where I came in. I was going to try to stop Nero. I was going to try to stop him from setting fire to Rome because if the fire was prevented he’d have no need to make the Christians the scapegoat, no need to murder them in droves for committing the crime he’d really committed himself.

But how was I going to stop him? I didn’t know the answer. Coming to his attention at the first pageant rehearsal was a break. Now it was up to me to capitalize on that break.

My chance came with the final rehearsal for the pageant. It took place in the afternoon. The pageant itself was to commence at nightfall and continue for many hours. The theme was the fall of Troy. It was to be acted out to the accompaniment of a recitation by Nero himself. This was to be verbal. Nero hadn’t yet come up with the inspiration for his fiery musical finale. But he would.

Meanwhile, he was busy directing the orgy scene in which, thanks to my golden equipment, I was to play a major role. Using the arena ballroom of his palace for this dress -- or, rather, undress—rehearsal, Nero arranged the participants with all the painstaking attention to detail of a department store window dresser getting ready for Christmas. He was everywhere at once, arching a leg here, plumping up a naked breast there, polishing up a bit of oiled epidermis, making patterns of haunches and hips, setting up every detail of the orgy for the opening tableau and then standing back to survey the total effect. Finally satisfied, he gave the signal for the rehearsal of the orgy to commence.

I was paired off with a beautiful olive-skinned girl who really had come to Rome from Greece. Nero had picked her because he liked the way her skin tones contrasted with my golden gonads. As we posed, immobile, for the tableau, the girl told me her name—Melissa—and I told her mine. As the orgy began, we fell into conversation. “I was lucky to get this part,” she confided as I let amber wine trickle from a goblet onto her naked breasts. “This is the only pageant this year and my agent wasn’t even sure he could get me put on as an extra.”

“Then you’re an actress by profession?” I asked, cupping one of her large breasts so that the long nipple peeped out between my fingers with a single wine drop glistening on the tip,

“Oh, sure. But it isn’t easy, let me tell you.” She ran her nails diagonally across my chest, leaving a long, red welt. “The way things are these days a girl could starve to death. Are you an actor?” she asked, biting my ear.

“Not really. I was just sort of recruited for this.” I licked the wine-drop off with my tongue and the elongated nipple pushed out even further.

“Good!” Nero called. “Very good, Victor. Now turn her slowly over so that the audience will be able to see all her charms.”

I turned Melissa over and stroked her haunches. She made them ripple under my touch and squirmed as she stretched out across my lap. “It’s a hard life for a girl,” she told me. “Most of the men you come in contact with just want to make out and they aren’t really interested in your career at all.”

“No! No! No!” Nero marched over to us. “Not like that, you silly girl. You’re covering his golden organs. Symbolically that’s the most important thing in this part of the pageant. You must never hide it.” He grabbed one of Melissa’s plump cheeks and shifted her rudely. Then he grabbed me and positioned my attributes so that they glittered against her quivering nether-cheeks. “There! That’s better!” He wiped some of the grease from his hands onto his toga. “Continue! Go on now!”

Melissa dropped gracefully to her knees and stroked me. “In your case, I guess it’s type casting.” She chuckled.

“I guess so.” I pushed down hard on the back of her neck and she was prevented from replying.

“Not too much,” Nero called, cautioning Melissa. “We don’t want this scene to end prematurely.” Melissa ceased her ministrations. “Now rise and embrace,” Nero ordered. “No! No! No! Not like that! Can’t you cheat? Cheat on the embrace so that the golden focal point won’t be missed by the audience. That’s it.” He beamed momentarily, and then his expression changed to a frown. “Now what’s the matter? Why have you separated?”

“It’s this damn oil. It’s very slippery.”

“It’s hard to maintain a grip.” Melissa backed me up.

“You’re supposed to be actors!” Nero stamped his foot. “You’re not supposed to let minor mishaps throw you off your performance. Now try again!”

We tried again. It was a difficult business. I clasped my hands behind Melissa’s back and she leaned far backward, both of us arching our bodies so that the fulcrums making contact would be visible. The trouble was that we kept skidding off one another’s oiled surfaces.

“Try it horizontally,” Nero suggested.

We stretched out. But as soon as I climbed over Melissa, I slid down the length of her legs and landed on my rump. “We’re just too well oiled,” I told Nero.

“The Greeks of Troy managed it,” he pointed out. “I don’t see why you’re having so much trouble recreating the scene.”

“Do not distress yourself, Caesar.” Poppaea came up behind him. “We’ll just skimp on the oil for the pageant. And when their bodies are actually locked in lovemaking, it won’t be so difficult for them to maintain contact. Their own natural passion will keep them from skidding.”

“Do you really think so?” Nero asked.

“I’m sure of it,” Poppaea reassured him.

“Very well then.” Nero clapped his hands for attention. “We’]l break now,” he told the orgy assemblage. “I want you all to get a few hours’ rest. Remember, the pageant starts just after sundown. Everybody be at the Colosseum by then and you’ll be assigned your order of appearance in the program and placement for the tableau. That’s all for now.”

Melissa stretched and got to her feet. “One nice thing about working for Nero,” she told me, “is that he isn’t one of those octopus producers who crawls all over a girl. I hate that type who are always trying to mix business with their sex life. It makes a girl feel cheap. With me, business is always business!”

“That’s the best way,” I agreed.

“Yes. Well, I’ll see you later at the orgy.” Melissa shot me a parting smile of a friendly co-worker and left.

“You there!” Nero was pointing at me.

“Yes, Caesar?”

“Come along with us.”

I fell in with Nero’s entourage, walking directly behind him and Poppaea, the centurion at my side. We left the arena ballroom and walked through the hallways of the royal palace. “What does he want me for?” I whispered to the centurion.

“He’s going to have your hair dyed golden to match your you-know-what. He says it will be just the touch for the tableau.”

“Is it true blondes have more fun?” I wondered aloud.

“You’ll find out,” the centurion assured me.

“It’s true.” Poppaea, having overheard, turned around and smiled at me. She tossed her blonde curls seductively. Nero didn’t notice. He was busy expounding on his own latest train of thought. “I was wondering about the finale and I’ve just had an inspiration,” he informed Poppaea. “When my oral recitation is over, I shall play music. First, I will create the illusion of a conflagration behind me, and then I shall play while it blazes. It will be magnificent!”

“I really wish you wouldn’t play with fire,” Poppaea told him.

“Don’t worry. It’s perfectly safe. I know what I’m doing.”

“It could be dangerous,” she insisted. “It could get out of hand.”

“Nonsense!” Nero waved her objections aside. “It will be just the finishing touch to make the pageant a master-piece. My playing, of course, is the crux of it.”

So there it was -- spelled out for me. If Nero couldn’t make any music, there would be no fire to blame on the Christians, no reason to package them for lion food. The whole problem centered on Nero’s fiddle. If he had no fiddle, it could be stopped. It was up to me to get that stringed instrument away from him. But how?

It was quite a while later before I was pointed towards an answer. In the interim, I was taken to Poppaea’s hairdresser to have my locks bleached. When the process was completed, I was directed to the Emperor’s apartment to show him the result.

I found Nero and Poppaea in the lavish sitting-room between their two boudoirs. Nero was pleased. “The perfect finishing touch,” he enthused over my platinum pate.

“My dear, it’s done wonders for you,” Poppaea cooed.

“Thanks.” I held my hands in front of me like a makeshift fig leaf. I felt as if my scalp was crawling with neon.

Poppaea continued to gurgle over the transformation. Nero, however, turned his attention elsewhere. I watched as he opened a chest and removed from its velvet-lined interior a stringed instrument. He picked it up with loving care and nestled it against his chest as if it were the most precious and fragile of infants. He drew a bow across it lightly. It was the tenderest of caresses. “Ahh,” he sighed.

“You lavish more love and attention on that catgut than you do on me,” Poppaea complained.

“There is no instrument like it in the world,” Nero told her. “Without it, I would be lost. There would be no finale to the pageant. It will kindle the spark by which the glorious and fiery downfall of Troy will be brought to life again for the Roman people.”

I eyed the instrument. If I could get my hands on it before the pageant . . . But how? 1 was still pondering that when Nero dismissed me.

“Rest up,” he told me. “I want your finest performance tonight. And be at the Colosseum before midnight. That’s when the orgy scene will be enacted. And right after that, the grand finale of music and flame.” He began to play wildly.

He was still playing, and Poppaea was holding her ears, as I left their chambers. Out in the hall I had a sudden inspiration. There was a small storage room directly across the hallway from their apartments. I darted over to it and entered, leaving the draperies across the opening slightly ajar, so that I’d have a view of that other door by which I’d just left them. I intended to bide my time, awaiting an opportunity to slip back in and snitch Nero’s noisemaker.

There was a lot of time to bide. I don’t know how many hours went past before I saw Nero exit to oversee the start of the pageant. I was in luck. He didn’t have the fiddle with him.

Of course that still left Poppaea, but I took the chance that she’d be resting in her boudoir. When Nero had vanished down the hall, I crossed over and entered the sitting room once more. It was dark there and it took me a few seconds to orient myself.

I groped my way over to a table at the far end of the room. Dimly, I could make out the fiddle lying there. I had just picked it up when the flicker of a candle appeared at one side of the curtain.

I froze.

The curtain parted and Poppaea appeared carrying the candle. She looked for all the world like Lady Macbeth. She was wearing a loose, flowing, white robe which spread out like a tent to the floor. Her blonde hair had been undone and combed out so that its length spread over her shoulders and breasts. Evidently I must have made some noise to attract her attention. Now she peered through the darkness, her blue eyes questioning over the flickering candle.

Poppaea came closer, and then she saw me. She stopped in her tracks. I was holding the fiddle behind my back, so she couldn’t see it. I watched the expression on her face change from surprise to puzzlement to knowing sensuality.

“You saw Nero leave,” she guessed.

“I saw Nero leave,” I admitted.

“And you came back for me, you impetuous boy!”

Well, why not? As a reason, it would serve as well as any other. “I came back for you.” I made sure my voice was husky and insinuating.

“Nero would kill you,” she informed me. “Slowly,” she added.

“Then maybe I’d just better leave.” I started to edge towards the door, still holding the fiddle behind me.

“Has the courage which brought you so far waned now that the prize is within your grasp?” Poppaea murmured. “Take heart. Nero will be busy getting the pageant under way. He won’t be back until it’s time for him to fetch his instrument for the finale. We have oodles of time.”

It had to be. I stashed the fiddle carefully behind a large couch and approached her. She held her arms wide to receive me. We kissed for a long moment. The Roman candle sputtered and went out.

Poppaea set it down and we sank to the couch together. Her body was firm and warm and eager. My hands confirmed the memory of what my eyes beheld the last time I’d seen her. “My golden god of virility,” she sighed as I raised the voluminous gown she was wearing.

It was a bit much to live up to, but I did my best. In fairness, Poppaea inspired my best. The Roman Empress took to the couch as eagerly as a nymphomaniac who’d just escaped from a nunnery.

The hot flame of her tongue investigated my ear. Sharp teeth sank into my shoulder. Her breasts pulsed under the thin, silken material as I stroked them. They were soft and high, but the nipples were hard and straining to be freed.

I had the skirt up over her knees now. The flesh of her legs was warm and trembling. She thrashed about on the couch, her ample hips grinding, her small, tight derrière tensed and bouncing. She guided one of my hands to her belly and I could feel it rippling under the silk. Poppaea was whispering urgent Roman obscenities now and kicking her legs to free them of the folds of her gown. She clenched at me with one of her fists, then grabbed with both hands and shuddered with delight. As her fingertips trailed lower, I shuddered a shudder or two myself.

I pushed the gown all the way up to her shoulders. She pulled my face down to her breasts and I covered them with kisses, finally drawing one rigid tip deep into my mouth. Her nails dug into my bottom as I flicked at the nipple with my tongue. I let my hand wander up the inside surface of her flushed thighs and they parted to allow it and then clenched spasmodically as my questing fingers found their target. I parted the soft down and her “little man in the boat” leaped to the prow to bedew my fingertips. She cried aloud at the contact and her legs swung straight up in the air, swaying from the fulcrum of her excited hips.

She pulled me over her then and locked her legs around my hips. I lunged forward and it was like being gripped by a fiery vise. I could feel her muscles rippling over the entire surface of my golden love machine. The steady quivering against the tip told me I was right on target.

I stopped thinking about it then. We were both caught up in a wild rhythm that carried us from the couch to the floor without being aware of it. We were halfway across the floor when Poppaea cried her ecstasy aloud and my explosive release mingled with hers.

If I momentarily thought it was over then, I was wrong. Poppaea didn’t even break for a second. She kept right on going, her excitement carrying me along with her.

She scrambled over my body until we were juxtaposed and her long blonde hair trailed over my thighs. That old Roman dinner gong had rung. The feast of her nether chamber was spread before me and I raised up to sample its feverish honey. She responded by engulfing my edible root and I became dizzy with the delights provided by her womb at the top.

The means justified the ends. When it was over, I lay there like a stone, exhausted. I bounced back quickly, though, when the door opened.

Poppaea leaped to her feet and the gown rippled down to cover her body and flow over the floor. Fortunately it was dark and whoever had entered couldn’t see us as yet. Then the intruder spoke and his voice identified him as Nero.

“Why is it so damn dark in here?” he asked, annoyed. Ah, here’s a candle,” he added after a moment.

Still on the floor, I peered into the darkness frantically, seeking a hiding place. As the candle flickered to life, I chose the only one readily available. I crawled under Poppaea’s voluminous skirt and arranged its folds to conceal me. She squealed as my nose became wedged against the source of our recent mutual delights.

“What was that, Poppaea?” I could picture Nero peering over the candle flame.

“Nothing. You startled me. That’s all. I was dozing.”

“Dozing? Standing up? Like a horse? You must have centaur blood,” Nero decided.

“I mean I was daydreaming.”

“Why are you standing there like that?” Nero’s voice was closer.

“Like What? This is the way I always stand.” She let a little wifely annoyance creep into her voice. “Don’t pick at me. What are you doing back here anyway?”

“The orgy scene is due to start soon. And then the grand finale. I came back for my instrument.”

“Well then, take it and go and stop pestering me.”

“All right. It’s right on the ta— It’s not there. I was sure I left it there. Perhaps it’s fallen.” His voice was very close now and I guessed that he was on his hands and knees looking for the fiddle.

Despite his proximity, I remembered that I was there for a reason. I had to get that fiddle before he did. Thousands of Christian lives depended on it.

I reached out from under Poppaea’s skirt, groped behind the couch, latched onto the fiddle and pulled it under cover with me. The movement tickled Poppaea. She shifted her legs, pressed down against my face and giggled.

“What’s funny?” Nero was still on the floor looking for the fiddle.

“You are. Crawling around that way.”

“Where can it have got to?” Nero whined plaintively. “I can’t find it anywhere.”

“Be careful! You’ll set my gown on fire with that damned candle! Wait! What are you doing?”

“I just want to see if you’re standing over it. I’m just lifting your gown so—-”

The top of Nero’s head bumped against my chest. He raised his head, clipping my jaw and knocking my head back into Poppaea’s breadbasket. She grunted. I gasped. Nero found his voice.

“What are you doing here?” he roared.

“I dropped something,” I said weakly. “I was just trying to find it.”

“Poppaea!” The roar became a bellow. “What is this man doing under your skirts?”

“Quite well,” she replied with a sigh of mingled memory and resignation. “Quite well indeed.”

“So that’s it!” Nero stood up.

He towered over me. It made me feel at a disadvantage. I countered the feeling by standing up myself. “Now I know this looks bad,” I began placatingly.

“Bad! Bad! Man, there isn’t a seer in all Rome that would predict a future for you longer than about five minutes!”

“Now don’t jump to conclusions,” I suggested.

“Caesar has found you with Caesar’s wife!” Nero thundered.

“But Caesar’s wife is above approach,” I remembered.

“Nice try,” Poppaea granted.

“And what have you got there?” Nero stared. “My instrument! Ooooooohhhhh! Now you’re gonna get it! Caesar’s wife is bad enough. But Caesar’s instrument! That’s a sacrilege against the arts! Guards!” he roared. I sensed a lack of hospitable feeling in his tone. I had that uneasy feeling you get when your host begins to yawn, that feeling that says maybe you’ve worn out your welcome. Maybe I’m oversensitive, but when the two guards came through the door waving their swords, I decided to split.

I ran through the arch on the far side of the room and out onto the balcony. Nero grabbed a sword from one of the guards and took off after me. “Come back here with my instrument!” he howled.

I climbed to the railing of the balcony and jumped to an adjoining one. “Never!” I yelled back. “You’re not going to fiddle tonight!”

“Why not?” He leaped after me. “What have you got against my playing?”

“I’m a music lover,” I told him nastily. I scrambled over the balcony and down the wall, half climbing, half falling.

“Be careful with that instrument!” Nero followed me. “It’s priceless!”

On the ground, I ran alongside the building. Nero was closing the distance between us, his sword slicing the air, the tip perilously close to my retreating backside. As I ran, I looked frantically around for something with which to defend myself.

I latched onto the only possibility. The patio alongside the building was lit by slow burning torches. I grabbed one of them from its holder and wheeled to face Nero.

He braked to a halt as I thrust the flaming torch at him. Momentarily confused, he backed away from its heat. I took advantage of his reaction and started running again, the torch held high in one hand, the fiddle clutched under my other arm.

I rounded the corner of the building. There were some bushes there. I darted behind them, intending to try to hide from Nero. There was an open window there and I thrust the torch inside it. This way the flame wouldn’t give me away, but I kept my grip on it just in case I needed it to defend myself again.

Crouching there, I watched Nero turn the corner on the run. He passed me, then halted. My maneuver hadn’t worked. He guessed I was hiding in the bushes. He began stabbing at the shrubbery with his sword, coming closer to my hiding place with each stab.

Finally, he came too close for comfort. I swung the torch out from behind the window where I’d been holding it and poked it through the bushes to where Nero was standing. He jumped back with an oath and I took off again.

“Fire!” Somebody screamed behind me. “Fire!”

I took a quick look over my shoulder. Evidently in pulling the torch out from behind the open window, I’d set the draperies ablaze. Also the shrubbery where I’d been standing was crackling away. Together they were merging into a nice size blaze.

With Nero still behind me, I jumped through an open window and back into the palace in an effort to shake him off. Oops! The torch I was carrying connected with the window hangings and they burst into flame. Nero came through the flames screaming. “You’re setting my palace on fire!” he yelled. “It’s a Christian plot!” he concluded. “You’re trying to burn down Rome.”

“It was an accident,” I hollered back at him.

“Watch what you’re doing! There! You’ve done it again. Now you’ve set the divan on fire! And be careful of my instrument!”

“If you hadn’t waved that sword in my face, it wouldn’t have happened,” I told him.

“I’m going to do a lot more than wave it in your face,” he promised grimly.

We were racing down the hallway now. I was swinging the torch behind me in order to make him keep his distance. Unfortunately, this had the effect of setting quite a few other things afire. Eventually I reached the end of the hall and ran out the front door of the palace. Nero was still chasing me as I started racing down one of the main streets of Rome. Behind us, his palace was an inferno shooting flames towards the sky.

Nero caught up with me, forcing me to turn and once again face him. We were in front of a stable. He hacked at me with his sword. I swung back at him with the torch.

“Look out!” He ducked. “Now look what you’ve done!” The torch had ignited a haystack and the stable burst into flames. “Klutz! Oh, no! The granary’s in back of the stable. It’s catching! There goes a year’s supply of wheat. It’s a Christian plot! You’re trying to burn Rome down! That’s what you’re trying to do!”

I didn’t stick around to argue. Nero was punctuating his outrage with sword-thrusts aimed at severing my golden uglies from my torso. Once again I turned tail. Behind me the granary was shooting off fireballs. Several other structures sprang into flames as they landed.

I bypassed the Colosseum and it wasn’t until I reached the soldiers’ barracks on the other side of it that Nero once again caught up with me. This time his fury was almost too much for me. His sword sent the torch spinning from my hand. It landed inside one of the barracks. Within moments, all of them were aflame and the Colosseum was ringed by fire.

I got away from Nero again and ran inside the Colosseum. I clambered over the bleachers, stepping on people, but not stopping to apologize. Behind me I could hear Nero climbing and cursing.

The view from the top row of bleachers was impressive. All Rome was ablaze. The entire city was going up in flames. Far from preventing Nero from setting fire to the city, I’d put it to the torch myself. Oh well, I thought, you can’t win them all.

Nero had me cornered now. Some of the guards had come to his aid. There was just no place left for me to run. As a last futile gesture, I chucked his fiddle at him with all my might. Nero had quick reflexes. He dropped his sword and caught it. Then four brawny guards had me and I realized it was useless to struggle.

Nero crowed over my defeat. “A Christian plot,” he announced. “Rome is in flames and you’ll pay. All you Christians will pay. But most of all you! Yes! You’re going to play your part in the finale of the pageant. You’ve arranged for this magnificent fiery background and now your death will be part of it.”

I was taken down to the center of the arena. Four horses were brought out. My legs were tied to two of them, my arms to the other two. Then they were pointed in four different directions.

“When I reach the climax of my song,” Nero instructed. The four soldiers standing in back of the four horses with their whips raised nodded their understanding.

Nero tucked the fiddle under his chin. “Do you have anything to say?” he asked me.

“Play ‘Melancholy Baby,’ ” I suggested.

He shrugged and started to play. It wasn’t “Melancholy Baby.” What it was was a pretty square tune. As music-to-be-drawn-and-quartered-by, it definitely lacked the appropriate grandeur. As a fiddle player, Nero was a great tyrant. But then there are those who think Senator Murphy¹⁴ was a second-rate tap-dancer and that as an actor Governor Reagan¹⁵ rated next to a pair of eggs, sunnyside up. There was not reason to be surprised that Nero had a long way to fiddle before he’d match Jack Benny¹⁶ . Still, his efforts did build to a crescendo of sorts.

Rome burned. Nero fiddled. And I waited for each of my arms and legs to start out on independent journeys. An impossibly high-pitched squeak from the fiddle and four whips cracked simultaneously. The taffy-pull was on, and I was the taffy. There was an agonizing pain, an indescribable strain, and then—

A puff of smoke, the odor of sulphur and brimstone, and the horses changed into four naked witches stationed at my limbs while a Spanish warlock stared at my golden genitals with his jaw hanging open in astonishment. His look seemed to say he’d gone through this ritual many times, but he’d never conjured up anything like this before!

CHAPTER FIVE

Look at it this way. You’re sitting around the ouija board holding hands, never figuring anything’s going to happen, and all of a sudden the ghost of your Uncle Herbert pops out of the woodwork. Or you’re skipping along the sidewalk silently chanting “step on a crack, break your mother’s back,” and you walk in the house and find Mumsy in traction. Or maybe it’s as simple as wishing your boss would drop dead and immediately he has a heart attack.

What I mean is, how would it grab you? You’d be surprised, maybe appalled, probably aghast at your powers. Perhaps you’d done the same thing a hundred times and nothing happened. But now, suddenly, inexplicably, there’s a result. It would scare the living daylights out of you.

That’s what it did to the practitioners of witchcraft who’d been going through the rites of summoning up a demon. They’d gone through the ceremony many times, but the results were always symbolic and they never figured to be anything but symbolic. Yet now, inexplicably, a real live demon with golden gonads had appeared.

Me!

The four naked witches backed off from me and joined the warlock behind the bonfire. Several others huddled there, pointing at me and speaking in low, awed voices. They’d been summoning demons for many a midnight, but now that they’d landed one, they didn’t know what to do with him.

It was easier for me. I had some practice in being awe-inspiring. I’d been a caveman deity and a Greek god. Making it as a demon shouldn’t be too tough.

For the moment, however, I was giving thanks to my own personal deity, Papa Baapuh, for jumping me forward in time before Nero’s horses had made off with my limbs. As I digested the fact that I really had escaped death, I started to consider the situation. I was flat on my back on a sort of plateau nestled among rocky hills. A full moon shone down on me. The bonfire was at my feet, only a couple of yards away, and the witchcraft enthusiasts crowded close together on the other side of it. Long goose feathers formed an outline around my body. They tickled. My head rested in a sticky pool of chicken blood which wasn’t doing my blonde dye job any good. I knew it was chicken blood because the wrung-out carcass of the dead bird lay a few aromatic inches from my nose.

Not knowing what else to do, I stayed put. I tuned in on the murmur of conversation, seeking some hint as to the where and when of my situation. It wasn’t too difficult to piece together certain facts.

For one thing, they were speaking Spanish. For another, there was some talk of starting back for Madrid, and so I deduced I must be in Spain, not far from Madrid. They were buzzing with anxiety over what might happen if they were discovered by Torquemada’s men. This told me that the period must be the Spanish Inquisition, the reign of Ferdinand and Isabella. Torquemada was the Chief Inquisitor of Spain during that time.

From what they were saying, I gathered that the rites in which they’d been engaging were forbidden by Torquemada and that the penalty for participating in them was torture and death. My sudden appearance had multiplied their fear of punishment. If Torquemada were to find out that they had actually summoned up a demon, there was no telling what horrendously slow and sadistic penalties he might inflict before granting the blessing of death. But there was also the hope among them that I might indeed be Wica, the Wise One, supreme demon who might be pitted against Torquemada and vanquish him.

But if I wasn’t, if I was a lesser demon, if Torquemada exorcised me, then any who had contact with me would be fair game for his wrath. For this reason, none of them, including the chief warlock, was willing to risk speaking with me. They feared there might be a spy among them. The upshot was that they crept away in small groups and very shortly I found myself lying there all alone.

I got to my feet. I felt very stiff, but I didn’t stretch. I’d already been stretched enough to last me the rest of my life. I definitely had the feeling that I’d grown.

I glanced around me, and that’s when I spotted her. She was crouching in the shadows off to one side of the bonfire, watching me. She was dressed now, wearing a high ruffled gown with a long, sweeping skirt, but I recognized her nevertheless. The shimmer of her long red hair against startlingly white skin wasn’t easily forgotten. She had been one of the naked witches I’d seen dancing at my feet before.

“Buenas noches.” I greeted her in Spanish.

“Buenas noches.” Her voice trembled.

“Are you afraid of me?” I asked her in Spanish.

“Si.”

“Don’t be. I won’t hurt you. Come closer.”

She circled the bonfire and stopped a few paces from me. She was holding a bundle under her arm.

“Are you really Wica, the Wise One?” she asked.

Well, why not? “Si,” I told her. “What have you got there?” I pointed at the package.

“Clothing for you. I thought--”

“Good thinking. Even Wica can’t wander around in the buff.”

I took the package and started to dress. The garb wasn’t exactly to my taste. Short pants with ruffles aren’t my idea of mod sartorial splendor, and when your knees are as knobby as mine, you don’t favor skin-tight hosiery. But beggars can’t be choosers, and so I hooked my garters and straightened my seams. At least it served to cover my gilded glory. “What’s your name?” I asked my benefactress.

“Maria Rosalia Carmelita Mendoza Alvarez Senapinoma Mendicino.”

“You must have a hell of a time endorsing checks,” I observed.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Nothing. What do they call you when they don’t want to sound like an ad for California wine?”

“I don’t understand.”

“What do they call you for short?”

“Doña Maria.”

“Why did you come back, Doña Maria? Why did you bring me clothes?”

“It was my duty.”

“Your duty?” I didn’t follow that.

“I am a witch.”

“And a pretty bewitching witch at that,” I granted, running my eyes over her slender and voluptuous figure in the firelight. “But there were other witches here. Why you?”

“I am also the loyal handmaiden of Queen Isabella. I am a lady of the Court and devoted to the Crown—-as well as being dueña to the Princess Joanna.”

“But what does all that have to do with me?” I wondered.

“If you are truly Wica, then the Queen must meet with you.”

It was my turn not to understand now. I told her so.

“It’s rather complicated, but I will try to explain,” Doña Maria said. “It has to do with Tomas de Torquemada, the Grand Inquisitor of Spain. Today he has become the most powerful man in Spain, more powerful, even, than the King and Queen. And the main reason his power exceeds theirs is because his influence on them is so great that it often supersedes their own judgment.”

“Because he’s responsible to Rome,” I guessed.

“No.” Doña Maria shook her head. “That’s not true. The Inquisition in Spain is not the same as in other countries. It is much harsher and it is the personal instrument of Torquemada. Far from being beholden to Rome, he is strongly opposed by Pope Sixtus IV. The Mother Church deplores his excesses and has repeatedly tried to mitigate the bloodshed he causes in the name of Christianity. To some extent, during the fourteen years he has held power, these efforts have been successful. But he grows stronger all the time. And the throne of Spain is in his debt for political favors he has granted in the name of the Inquisition. Many an enemy of Ferdinand and Isabella has been exiled or burned as an heretic. Many a property has fallen to the crown—although most of the wealth of Torquemada’s victims has accrued to him personally. But the most important hold he exerts on the King and Queen is that he’s convinced them that he’s divinely appointed and that the Inquisition is God’s will. They truly believe this.”

“Because they truly believe they themselves rule by divine right,” I deduced.

“It’s not the same thing. They really do rule by divine right. They were born to rule. But Torquemada schemed his way to his present position. Nor is he satisfied with that. The plan he is proposing to the King and Queen is so horrendous that a veritable river of blood will flow if he is successful. This year of Our Lord Fourteen Hundred and Ninety-Two could go down in history as a year of unbridled slaughter.”

The year 1492 would be remembered for something else entirely, but I saw no point in mentioning it to Dona Maria. Instead, I asked the obvious question. “What is Torquemada proposing?”

“Escalation.” Dona Maria told me in a word. “His greed for wealth and power knows no bounds. He proposes that all Moslems, Jews, Gypsies, and practitioners of witchcraft be put to the torch, or run out of the country. He says he wants only one religion in Spain. But he goes even further than that. Already, many Moors and Jews and others have converted to Christianity in order to stay alive. Now Torquemada seeks the Crown’s sanction to persecute these converts as false believers. And every day I see Their Majesties swayed more towards granting him permission to loose all-out persecutions. He has to be stopped. And that is why I appeal to you, Wica.”

“What can I do?”

“You are a demon summoned from the nether regions. I have seen you conjured with my own eyes. You have supernatural powers. I beg you to use them to stop Torquemada. The greatness that is Spain must not be lost to his lust for blood.”

Here it was again. Thousands upon thousands of innocent people would die during the Spanish Inquisition in the years beginning with 1492. I was being asked to stop that slaughter. Once more I was face to face with a pivotal point in history—a history of man’s inhumanity to man. Could I prevent the Spanish inquisition from exploding into wholesale carnage?

“I’ll do what I can,” I promised Doña Maria. “But to be honest I have no idea how to begin.”

“I do,” she told me. “I’m very close to Queen Isabella. She trusts me and believes me. When I tell her that you’re a genuine demon, she’ll accept my word. Then it will be up to you to influence her and the King.”

“Suppose she believes you and decides that’s a good reason to turn me over to Torquemada? After all, isn’t that what the Inquisition is all about? Isn’t it supposed to exorcise evil spirits?”

“There is a danger there,” Doña Maria admitted. “I think I can convince her that you are a beneficent spirit. But there’s always the chance that she’ll think I’ve been possessed by you. It’s just a chance we’ll have to take.” “What about the consequences?”

“We would both go to the stake. You would be burned as an evil spirit. I would be burned as a witch who has been possessed.”

“Does Queen Isabella know of your involvement in witchcraft?”

“Si. But she has kept my secret.”

“How come?” I wondered. “After all, if she buys the Inquisition . . .”

“Queen Isabella doesn’t believe in putting all her eggs in one basket. She is somewhat convinced that Torquemada points the way to heaven, but still she has enough doubt to hedge. She even encourages me to witchcraft because if that is true salvation, then she is sure of having a friend among the witches.”

“And do you believe witchcraft is true salvation?”

“Until tonight I had secret doubts. But since your manifestation, Wica, I can no longer doubt. I truly believe that you can save Spain from Torquemada.”

On that note, Doña Maria led me from the hidden plateau of the witches to a road up in the hills. There was a coach waiting there and the driver didn’t comment as we climbed aboard. Evidently he required no instructions as to our destination. As soon as we were inside, I heard the crack of his whip and soon we were galloping over a rather bumpy road.

We reached Madrid about an hour later. Shortly thereafter we entered the gates of the castle. The way the sentry bowed before the crest on the coach told me that Doña Maria must indeed be a person of some influence in the royal household.

We entered the premises to more bowing from the guards stationed there. Doña Maria led the way through the main hall and up the stairs. We entered a large, ornately furnished antechamber. She bade me sit down there and wait for her to summon me. Then she vanished through a door flanked by two more uniformed guards. They saluted her with their lances as she passed them.

I looked around me with casual interest. There were four guards in all. The other two were stationed just inside the doorway to the hall by which we’d entered. There was also another man waiting in the antechamber. I looked at him curiously.

He was a dumpy little fellow with a pot belly and a ridiculous fringe of hair around a balding pate that was reminiscent of Curly of the Three Stooges. I judged him to be around forty years old. His nervousness was apparent in the way he kept shuffling through the sheaf of charts and maps he clutched in his lap. He’d obviously dressed with care, but his garb was threadbare, almost shabby, and even though he slumped it stretched too tightly over his paunch. After a few moments of silence, the guards evidently decided it was safe to kid him in my presence. “Hey, Cristobal,” one of them jeered, “don’t you ever get tired sitting out here waiting to see the Queen? She’s never gonna agree to see you. Why don’t you just give up?”

“She’s my last hope,” the little man replied. “King John of Portugal refused to back my venture. After almost eight years of supplication, King Ferdinand turned me down. Only Queen Isabella can convince him to change his mind.”

“Why should she do that?” a second guard taunted. “You’re a crazy man, Cristobal, and everybody in Madrid knows it. And it’s lucky for you that you are. If you weren’t crazy, Torquemada would barbecue you for heresy. And you’d deserve it, going around telling everybody that the world is round.”

“The world is round.” The little man sighed patiently.

“Then how come people don’t fall off it?” a third guard demanded.

“People are falling off all the time,” I murmured.

“What was that?” The fourth guard peered at me.

“Nothing.” I outstared him.

“You still believe you can reach India by sailing in the opposite direction?” The fourth guard turned his attention back to the little man.

“Si!”

“You will sail right off the end of the earth,” the first guard sneered.

“If the earth was flat. that would be true. But it is round.”

“You know what’s wrong with you?” the second sentinel asked. “You’ve got a mammary complex, that’s what. You see everything shaped round like a booby. You were probably weaned too early.”

“At least my mother wasn’t flat-chested.” The little man showed a spark of anger.

“Don’t get smart now!” The third guard was hostile. “Just because you’re Italian and fanatic doesn’t mean you can insult a Spanish soldier.”

“I’m not fanatic!” the little man said, his voice rising fanatically, the light of a zealot shining from his eyes.

“Don’t get excited, Cristobal Colon. You’ll split your colon.” The fourth guard guffawed.

“And then you’ll only be a semi-co1on!” The first guard slapped his knee.

“And a half-assed one at that!” The second guard hee-hawed.

“My name is Cristoforo Colombo,” the little man protested stiflly.

“Maybe that’s what it is in Italian, but in Spanish it’s Colon,” the third guard told him. “And by the way, how’s your brother Spastic?”

I winced.

“My brother’s name is Bartholomew,” the little man said wearily. “And the world is round!”

“If the world is round, then why do you suppose that all the people in it think it’s flat?” the fourth guard asked reasonably. “Do you think they’re all mistaken? Do you think only you are right?”

“Si.”

“Look here.” The first soldier showed himself something of a philosopher. “If everybody agrees that the world is flat, then that’s what it is. That’s how it is with reality. Don’t you see? Reality is whatever everybody agrees it is.”

“The world is round!” Colombo repeated stubbornly.

“That only proves that you’ve lost touch with reality,” the first soldier told him.

“And if I prove it’s round?”

“Then everybody will agree it’s round and that will be reality. But until everybody agrees, then the world is flat. And if you don’t agree, then you’re avoiding reality. And if you do that, you’re nuts!”

“Reality is what is—not what people think it is,” Colombo insisted.

“Reality is what people decide it is,” the first soldier insisted.

“And if you persist in disagreeing, then you’re alienated,” the second soldier pointed out.

“With me, alienation is a way of life,” Colombo said.

“That sounds pretty detached,” the third soldier decided. “How do you expect people to like you with that attitude?”

“It’s nice to be liked, but sometimes it’s better to be left alone,” Colombo replied.

“See!” The first soldier felt he’d proved his point. “Now you’re withdrawing all the way. That’s what happens when you turn your back on reality.”

“Reality is a crutch,” Colombo concluded. “It’s truth that counts. And the truth is that the world’s round!”

“Oo-oo-oh! Is he stubborn!” The fourth guard threw up his hands in disgust. “Stub-bor-ren!”

At this point Doña Maria emerged and beckoned to me. “The Queen has agreed to see you,” she said.

The soldiers stood aside respectfully as I followed Doña Maria from the antechamber. The little man looked more wistful than envious at my being granted an audience. His expression said that he would continue to wait patiently no matter how long it might take.

Queen Isabella was a faded Spanish beauty of some forty years. She was spread out over a chaise longue nibbling at a box of chocolates when I entered. Prodded by Doña Maria, I bowed very low and stayed bent over until the Queen spoke. “You may rise,” She said.

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” I straightened up.

“Doña Maria tells me that you are a demon.” The Queen peered at me shrewdly. “You don’t look like a demon. You look the same as any other man.”

“Naturally,” I told her. “If I looked like a demon, I’d be burned at the stake in a wink. Being a demon, naturally I take the trouble to disguise my demonic nature.”

“That makes sense,” the Queen granted. “But then how can I be sure you really are from the nether-world?”

“That is a problem,” I admitted.

“Perform some magic,” the Queen ordered. “That will prove that you really are what you say you are.”

It was a tall order. For a moment I was stymied. Then I had an inspiration. “If I can make you hear a voice from the nether-world, Your Majesty, will that convince you?” I asked.

“Si.”

“All right then.” I fiddled with the dial of the wrist radio.

After a few seconds there was a burst of song from the tiny speaker. “All we ask is a chance . . . A chance to get into your house . . . A chance to get into your mouth . . .” I flicked it off and looked at the Queen.

She was impressed. “Does everybody speak English in? the nether-world?” she wanted to know.

“Not everybody,” I answered.

“Do they always sing there?” she wondered.

“Not always.”

“What does it mean, what they were singing?”

“It’s a secret chant,” I told her. “Only us demons know what it means.”

“It sounded obscene,” she decided.

I couldn’t argue with that. Frankly, it sounded obscene to me, too.

“But then I suppose that’s to be expected,” the Queen continued. “After all, witchcraft is obscene. Isn’t that true, Doña Maria?”

“It is erotic, Your Majesty,” Doña Maria admitted. “But it’s only obscene if you look at it that way. The important thing is that I have summoned Wica here to help you with the problems of your sovereignty. He has agreed to put his supernatural powers at your disposal.”

“I am convinced that he is a demon,” the Queen said. “But how do I know he is a beneficent and not an evil spirit? How do I know it wouldn’t be best to have Torquemada exorcise him right out of this world?”

“How do you know that Torquemada is not really a servant of the devil?” I countered quickly.

“That is a point, Your Majesty.” Doña Maria backed me up. “After all, even Rome has questioned the authenticity of his Inquisition. You’ve been going along with him for years and the country is in a chaos of fear. I have risked my life by telling you of my practice of witchcraft, and I have only done so out of loyalty to Your Majesty. Believe in Wica as I do.”

The Queen thought a moment and then nodded. “Very well.” She turned to me. “What is your advice, Wica?”

I’d been thinking about that while I waited in the antechamber. Now I had an answer ready. “Firstly, do not sanction Torquemada’s plan to drive the Moors, the Jews, the Gypsies and the witches from Spain,” I told her. “Stop this slaughter before it starts. These people help Spain and keep it strong. Don’t stamp out their vitality.”

“All right,” the Queen agreed. “For the time being I will use my influence to see that my husband, the King, holds Torquemada within bounds.”

“I have a second piece of advice,” I told her.

“Si?”

“There is an Italian sailor waiting in the antechamber. He has been trying to see you for some time.”

“I know him. He is reported to be a madman. He raves about the world being round. He is obsessed. I have just about decided to turn him over to the Inquisition.”

“Don’t do that,” I advised. “Instead, grant him an audience. Hear him out. Give him the financing he asks for his expedition. He will discover many new lands for Spain and bring you much wealth and glory.”

“Are you trying to tell me that the world is round? That’s ridiculous!”

“Is it any more ridiculous than the voices you heard singing before?” I pointed out. “All things are possible.”

“Wica has spoken,” Doña Maria told the Queen. “I beg Your Majesty to heed his advice no matter how outlandish it may seem.”

“Very well. I shall do so,” the Queen agreed.

The audience was over. I followed Dofña Maria from the room. As we emerged, a page summoned Columbus to the Queen’s chambers. I noticed with satisfaction the looks of astonishment on the faces‘of the four guards.

Doña Maria arranged for sleeping quarters for me at the castle. When she had left me, I stretched out on the sumptuous featherbed and thought over my new situation.

So far I had been successful in thwarting Torquemada and preventing the worst phase of the Spanish Inquisition from starting. If I could maintain my influence with the Queen, then I might indeed succeed in rewriting one of the bloodiest pages in history. But would I be able to do that? And what about Torquemada? What sort of man was he? ‘What would he do to combat my interference? I fell asleep wondering about that. By the time the following night was over, I knew.

That night began with Doña Maria taking me by coach to a large house on the outskirts of Madrid. Earlier in the day, she had given me some idea of what was to take place there. She had arranged a meeting of witches to pay homage to Wica. And Wica—-me, that is—was expected to bestow his “blessing” on the witches. That much I understood. What I didn’t understand until I got there was the exact nature of the “blessing” I was to bestow.