Sam stood. “I will return later, or send for you.”
“I hope so. . . . Another drink?”
Sam shook his head. “I go to become Siddhartha once more, to break my fast at the hostel of Hawkana and announce there my intent to visit the Temples. If our friends are now gods then they must commune with their priests. Siddhartha goes to pray.”
“Then put in no words for me,” said Jan, as he poured out another drink. “I do not know whether I would live through a divine visitation.”
Sam smiled. “They are not omnipotent.”
“I sincerely hope not,” replied the other, “but I fear that day is not far off.”
“Good sailing, Jan.”
“Skaal.”
Prince Siddhartha stopped on the Street of the Smiths, on his way to the Temple of Brahma. Half an hour later he emerged from a shop, accompanied by Strake and three of his retainers. Smiling, as though he had received a vision of what was to come, he passed through the center of Mahartha, coming at last to the high, wide Temple of the Creator.
Ignoring the stares of those who stood before the pray-o-mat, he mounted the long, shallow stairway, meeting at the Temple entrance with the high priest, whom he had advised earlier of his coming.
Siddhartha and his men entered the Temple, disarming themselves and paying preliminary obeisances toward its central chamber before addressing the priest.
Strake and the others drew back a respectful distance as the prince placed a heavy purse in the priest’s hands and said, in a low voice:
“I’d like to speak with God.”
The priest studied his face as he replied, “The Temple is open to all. Lord Siddhartha, where one may commune with Heaven for so long as one wishes.”
“That is not exactly what I had in mind,” said Siddhartha. “I was thinking of something more personal than a sacrifice and a long litany.”
“I do not quite follow you . . .”
“But you understand the weight of that purse, do you not? It contains silver. Another which I bear is filled with gold—payable upon delivery. I want to use your telephone.”
“Tele . . . ?”
“Communication system. If you were of the First, such as I, you would understand my reference.”
“I do not . . .”
“I assure you my call will not reflect adversely upon your wardenship here. I am aware of these matters and my discretion has always been a byword among the First. Call First Base yourself and inquire, if it will put you at ease. I’ll wait here in the outer chamber. Tell them Sam would have words with Trimurti. They will take the call.”
“I do not know. . .”
Sam withdrew the second purse and weighed it in the palm of his hand. The priest’s eyes fell upon it and he licked his lips.
“Wait here,” he ordered, and he turned on his heel and left the chamber.
Ili, the fifth note of the harp, buzzed within the Garden of the Purple Lotus.
Brahma loafed upon the edge of the heated pool, where he bathed with his harem. His eyes appeared closed, as he leaned there upon his elbows, his feet dangling in the water.
But he stared out from beneath his long lashes, watching the dozen girls at sport in the pool, hoping to see one or more cast an appreciative glance upon the dark, heavily muscled length of his body. Black upon brown, his mustaches glistened in moist disarray and his hair was a black wing upon his back. He smiled a bright smile in the filtered sunlight.
But none of them appeared to notice, so he refolded his smile and put it away. All their attention lay with the game of water polo in which they were engaged.
Ili, the bell of communication, buzzed once more, as an artificial breeze waited the odor of garden jasmine to his nostrils. He sighed. He wanted so for them to worship him—his powerful physique, his carefully molded features. To worship him as a man, not as a god.
But though his special and improved body permitted feats no mortal man could duplicate, still he felt uneasy in the presence of an old war horse like Lord Shiva—who, despite his adherence to the normal body matrix, seemed to hold far more attraction for women. It was almost as if sex were a thing that transcended biology; and no matter how hard he tried to suppress the memory and destroy that segment of spirit, Brahma had been born a woman and somehow was woman still. Hating this thing, he had elected to incarnate time after time as an eminently masculine man, did so, and still felt somehow inadequate, as though the mark of his true sex were branded upon his brow. It made him want to stamp his foot and grimace.