“That's a terrible thing, a terrible thing,” said Om. “Now cut the melon.”
“But it is forbidden!” said Brutha.
“No it's not,” said Om. “Cut the melon.”
“But it was the eating of fruit that caused passion to invade the world,” said Brutha.
“All it caused was flatulence,” said Om. “Cut the melon!”
“You're tempting me!”
“No I'm not. I'm giving you permission. Special dispensation! Cut the damn melon!”
"Only a bishop or higher is allowed to giv- Brutha began. And then he stopped.
Om glared at him.
“Yes. Exactly,” he said. “And now cut the melon.” His tone softened a bit. “If it makes you feel any better, I shall declare that it is bread. I happen to be the God in this immediate vicinity. I can call it what I damn well like. It's bread. Right? Now cut the damn melon.”
“Loaf,” corrected Brutha.
"Right. And give me a slice without any seeds in it.
Brutha did so, a bit carefully.
“And eat up quick,” said Om.
“In case Vorbis finds us?”
“Because you've got to go and find a philosopher,” said Om. The fact that his mouth was full didn't make any difference to his voice in Brutha's mind. “You know, melons grow wild in the wilderness. Not big ones like this. Little green jobs. Skin like leather. Can't bite through 'em. The years I've spent eating dead leaves a goat'd spit out, right next to a crop of melons. Melons should have thinner skins. Remember that.”
“Find a philosopher?”
“Right. Someone who knows how to think. Someone who can help me stop being a tortoise.”
“But . . . Vorbis might want me.”
“You're just going for a stroll. No problem. And hurry up. There's other gods in Ephebe. I don't want to meet them right now. Not looking like this.”
Brutha looked panicky.
“How do I find a philosopher?” he said.
“Around here? Throw a brick, I should think.”
The labyrinth of Ephebe is ancient and full of one hundred and one amazing things you can do with hidden springs, razor-sharp knives, and falling rocks. There isn't just one guide through it. There are six, and each one knows his way through one-sixth of the labyrinth. Every year they have a special competition, when they do a little redesigning. They vie with one another to see who can make his section even more deadly than the others to the casual wanderer. There's a panel of judges, and a small prize.
The furthest anyone ever got through the labyrinth without a guide was nineteen paces. Well, more or less. His head rolled a further seven paces, but that probably doesn't count.
At each changeover point there is a small chamber without any traps at all. What it does contain is a small bronze bell. These are the little waiting-rooms where visitors are handed on to the next guide. And here and there, set high in the tunnel roof over the more ingenious traps, are observation windows, because guards like a good laugh as much as anyone else.
All of this was totally lost on Brutha, who padded amiably along the tunnels and corridors without really thinking much about it, and at last pushed open the gate into the late evening air.
It was fragrant with the scent of flowers. Moths whirred through the gloom.
“What do philosophers look like?” said Brutha, “When they're not having a bath, I mean.”
“They do a lot of thinking,” said Om. “Look for someone with a strained expression.”