“And something for the tortoise?”
“Wine!” said the voice of Om.
“I don't know,” said Brutha. “What do tortoises usually drink?”
“The ones we have in here normally have a drop of milk with some bread in it,” said the barman.
“You get a lot of tortoises?” said Brutha loudly, trying to drown out Om's outraged screams.
“Oh, a very useful philosophical animal, your average tortoise. Outrunning metaphorical arrows, beating hares in races . . . very handy.”
“Uh . . . I haven't got any money,” said Brutha.
The barman leaned towards him. “Tell you what,” he said. “Declivities has just bought a round. He won't mind.”
“Bread and milk?”
“Oh. Thank you. Thank you very much.”
“Oh, we get all sorts in here,” said the barman, leaning back. “Stoics. Cynics. Big drinkers, the Cynics. Epicureans. Stochastics. Anamaxandrites. Epistemologists. Peripatetics. Synoptics. All sorts. That's what I always say. What I always say is”-he picked up another mug and started to dry it “it takes all sorts to make a world.”
“Bread and milk!” shouted Om. “You'll feel my wrath for this, right? Now ask him about gods!”
“Tell me,” said Brutha, sipping his mug of water, “do any of them know much about gods?”
“You'd want a priest for that sort of thing,” said the barman.
“No, I mean about . . . what gods are . . . how gods came to exist . . . that sort of thing,” said Brutha, trying to get to grips with the barman's peculiar mode of conversation.
“Gods don't like that sort of thing,” said the barman. “We get that in here some nights, when someone's had a few. Cosmic speculation about whether gods really exist. Next thing, there's a bolt of lightning through the roof with a note wrapped round it saying `Yes, we do' and a pair of sandals with smoke coming out. That sort of thing, it takes all the interest out of metaphysical speculation.”
“Not even fresh bread,” muttered Om, nose deep in his saucer.
“No, I know gods exist all right,” said Brutha, hurriedly. “I just want to find out more about . . . them.”
The barman shrugged.
“Then I'd be obliged if you don't stand next to anything valuable,” he said, “Still, it'll all be the same in a hundred years.” He picked up another mug and started to polish it.
“Are you a philosopher?” said Brutha.
“It kind of rubs off on you after a while,” said the barman.
“This milk's off,” said Om. “They say Ephebe is a democracy. This milk ought to be allowed to vote.”
“I don't think,” said Brutha carefully, “that I'm going to find what I want here. Um. Mr. Drink Seller?”
“Yes?”
“What was that bird that walked in when the Goddess”-he tasted the unfamiliar word-“of Wisdom was mentioned?”
“Bit of a problem there,” said the barman. “Bit of an embarrassment.”
“Sorry? ”
“It was,” said the barman, “a penguin.”
“Is it a wise sort of bird, then?”