“Would you like something to drink?” she asked.

“A little water, maybe,” he replied, to be polite.

“Oh, no, you must try this!” She handed him a stemmed glass of something a very pale blue in color.

Reluctantly, he accepted it and took a sip. He choked, gasped, and spat it out immediately.

The woman giggled.

He glared at her; when he had recovered his breath he asked, “What is that?"

“Just a liqueur.” She saw his anger and forced herself to stop smiling.

He stared at the glass in his hand. “Liquor? You mean distilled spirits?"

“That's right."

“I can't drink that! Strong drink is sinful!” He started to fling the glass away, then caught himself and placed it gently on a nearby table.

“You drink wine, don't you?"

“That's different."

“It's still alcohol."

“Only a little. That stuff-it burns!"

“You're not used to it, that's all. It's only about eighty proof.” She sipped deeply at her own glass, then smiled.

He shook his head. “I'm sorry, I can't drink that.” He was more certain than ever that the Heaveners were not native to Godsworld; he had never heard of anyone on Godsworld, not even the most radical of heretics, who condoned strong drink. God had given mankind the gift of fermentation, so that alcohol might ease the strains of life, but it was Satan who invented distillation, to turn the blessing into a curse.

Not that distillation didn't have its uses-alcohol made a good fuel for lamps or even some machines, but not for men.

“Oh, I'm so sorry,” Tuesday said. “Against your religion?” The phrase seemed almost mocking, somehow. “Try this, then.” The new beverage she offered was richly red.

John sipped it warily; it had a tangy, fruity taste and no alcoholic content that he could detect. “What is it?” he asked.

“Just a fruit punch.” She smiled enigmatically.

“Thank you,” John said, sipping again.

His hostess raised her own glass, still half full of the blue liqueur, then sank back onto a pile of cushions. John had not noticed them there behind her; it was as if they had slipped into place as she descended.

He found a large cushion of his own and seated himself gingerly. The thing seemed to shift about to accommodate him more comfortably, but he convinced himself that was merely overwrought imagination, brought on by the tension of being in the enemy's headquarters and being confronted by these strange events and this strange, freakish woman. “Now,” he said when he was settled, “you said you'd tell me all about this place."

“Well, no,” she answered, “I said I'd tell you about being lost and going in circles.” She shifted, leaning to one side; her dress slipped back to reveal most of one thigh.

“Tell me, then."

“You're not from the Citadel, are you? No, I can see you aren't. You came here from one of the other villages, probably one well outside Dawes’ little protectorate. You wanted to find out what was going on here-so you walked into this building, which is conveniently left open and unguarded, and then wandered about until I found you. Am I right?"

“Yes,” John admitted.

“Well, it's not surprising. But there isn't anything of any importance on this level, you know. You need to know which door leads up or down, to where everything important is."

“What is on this floor, then?” He sipped his drink.

“Oh, a lot of storage rooms and meeting rooms and machinery, I suppose. Mostly it's just corridors for people like you to get lost in, and a lot of hidden machines watching."

“Then what are you doing here? And all this?” He gestured at the room around them.

“Oh, I had this whipped up for my amusement. I don't really belong here, you know-I just came to see if there was anything entertaining on this world of yours. Dawes would have preferred to keep me out, but I'm a stockholder-she can't."

John wondered what sort of a “stockholder” she might be; this woman did not look as if she had ever handled sheep or cattle. Another question came first, though. “Who's Dawes? That's the second time you've mentioned that name.” Dawes was not a real name, any more than Tuesday was, but he guessed it to be a nickname of some sort.

“Don't you even know that? Ricky Dawes-America Dawes, that is-is the executive officer of the entire operation on Godsworld."

“What does that mean?” He ignored the weird name for the moment; it was obviously pagan, but that was hardly surprising under the circumstances.

“She's in charge-she controls the People of Heaven."

“She does? She?” John, without really intending to, made his true question very clear with his emphasis on the feminine pronoun. He regretted it immediately; some women, he knew, were discontented with Godsworld's recognition of the natural superiority of the male.

“Yes, ‘she’ does.” Tuesday seemed more amused than angry, but John decided not to pursue that; arguing with women about the proper roles of the sexes was likely to get nowhere and provoke animosity that he would do better without. He drank the rest of his fruit punch as he groped for another question.

“You know,” Tuesday said, “I'd rather talk about you-if we have to talk at all."

John shrugged.

“Have you had many women?"

Shocked at the bluntness of the question, even from a whore, John replied, “I don't talk about that."

“You don't?” She smiled.

John was beginning to dislike her smiles. “No,” he said.

“Do you do anything about it?"

He said nothing, simply sat and frowned at his empty glass. He refused to say anything in reply to such direct obscenity.

“No?” She grinned, openly mocking now. “Are you a virgin, then? Or do you prefer men?"

This was the second woman to question his manhood within the past few days; he had dealt calmly with the first, but that was before the strains of his scouting expedition. He forced himself to put his empty glass down gently, then stood up. “I did not come here so that you might insult me."

Her grin broadened. “Oh? Where do you go to be insulted, then?” She stood up in turn, and reached up to the single shoulder of her gown.

“I'll go now,” he said. He turned, but the door was closed.

She twisted something, and the dress fell away completely, leaving her naked. “I guess there's no harm in this,” she said, still smiling, “since you don't know what to do with a woman."

He turned back to face her, rage mounting within him. He tried to remind himself that anger and lust were mortal sins, but the woman stood mocking him with her stance, hips thrust forward, her hands out in a displaying gesture. He growled wordlessly.

“Take it or leave it,” she said.

He lunged at her; she fell back onto the cushions, laughing, and her hands groped for his belt, unbuttoned his pants. He no longer cared whether she was cooperating or not; he intended to prove his mastery over her. As he pushed himself between her legs she wrapped her arms around him, one hand on his back and the other on his neck; he felt a sharp prick where fingers brushed his neck, but ignored it.

Only when he was finished did the possibility of poison occur to him. He pushed himself up and rolled off her, then felt at the back of his neck.

There was a small stinging as he touched one spot; he drew back his hand and found a small smear of blood on his fingers.

“What did you do to me?” he bellowed.

“What?"

“My neck-what did you do to my neck?"

“Oh, stop shouting, it's just a little prick."

“It's not poisoned?” He calmed somewhat, and his voice dropped.

“No, it's not poisoned; why would I want to poison you?"

“I don't know; why did you prick me? What did you do it with?” He was genuinely puzzled.

She held up one hand languidly and showed him the tip of her index finger; a thin metal wire, the tip sharpened like a needle, projected from it at a peculiar angle. He could not see what held it in place.