First of all, there was Gerda. And then, as an acolyte, he was proscribed by law from brawling. No one would hit an acolyte; and if the acolyte were built like Forrester, striking another man might be the equivalent of murder. One good blow from Forrester's fist might break the average man's jaw.
That was, he discovered, a surprisingly pleasant thought. But he made himself keep still as the fat fool went on.
"Funny she didn't attend," Symes said. "But maybe she's gotten wise to herself. There was a celebration up at the Temple of Pan in Central Park, starting at midnight, and going on through the morning. Spring Rites. Maybe she went there."
"I doubt it," Forrester said instantly. "That's hardly her type of worship."
"Isn't it?" Symes said.
"It doesn't fit her. That kind of—"
"I know. Gerda's like you. A little stuffy."
"It's not being stuffy," Forrester started to explain. "It's—"
"Sure," Symes said. "Only she's not as much of a prude as you are. I couldn't stand her if she were."