The penguin croaked at him and waddled off into the darkness.
The philosophers looked very embarrassed. Then Ibid said, “Foorgol the God of Avalanches? Where's the snowline?”
“Two hundred miles away,” said someone.
They waited. Nothing happened.
“Relic of an outmoded belief system,” said Xeno.
A wall of freezing white death did not appear anywhere in Ephebe.
“Mere unthinking personification of a natural force,” said one of the philosophers, in a louder voice. They all seemed to feel a lot better about this.
“Primitive nature worship.”
“Wouldn't give you tuppence for him.”
“Simple rationalization of the unknown.”
“Hah! A clever fiction, a bogey to frighten the weak and stupid!”
The words rose up in Brutha. He couldn't stop himself.
“Is it always this cold?” he said. “It seemed very chilly on my way here.”
The philosophers all moved away from Xeno.
“Although if there's one thing you can say about Foorgol,” said Xeno, “it's that he's a very understanding god. Likes a joke as much as the next . . . man.”
He looked both ways, quickly. After a while the philosophers relaxed, and seemed to completely forget about Brutha.
And only now did he really have time to take in the room. He had never seen a tavern before in his life, but that was what it was. The bar ran along one side of the room. Behind it were the typical trappings of an Ephebian bar-the stacks of wine jars, racks of amphorae, and the cheery pictures of vestal virgins on cards of salted peanuts and goat jerky, pinned up in the hope that there really were people in the world who would slatheringly buy more and more packets of nuts they didn't want in order to look at a cardboard nipple.
“What's all this stuff?” Brutha whispered.
“How should I know?” said Om. “Let me out so's I can see.”
Brutha unfastened the box and lifted the tortoise out. One rheumy eye looked around.
“Oh. Typical tavern,” said Om. “Good. Mine's a saucer of whatever they were drinking.”
“A tavern? A place were alcohol is drunk?”
“I very much intend this to be the case, yes.”
"But . . . but . . . the Septateuch, no less than seventeen times, adjures us most emphatically to refrain from-
“Beats the hell out of me why,” said Om. "See that man cleaning the mugs? You say unto him, Give me a-
"But it mocks the mind of Man, says the Prophet Ossory. And-
“I'll say this one more time! I never said it! Now talk to the man!”
In fact the man talked to Brutha. He appeared magically on the other side of the bar, still wiping a mug.
“Evening, sir,” he said. “What'll it be?”
“I'd like a drink of water, please,” said Brutha, very deliberately.