"Not an Owl-boy of Owl-boys like you."
"Not a drunken blockhead," Forrester finished triumphantly. "At least she's got a decent respect for wisdom and learning."
Symes stepped back, a movement for which Forrester felt grateful. No matter how far away Ed Symes was, he was still too close.
"Who you calling a blockhead, buster?" Symes said. His eyes narrowed to piggish little slits.
Forrester took a deep breath and reminded himself not to hit the other man. "You," he said, almost mildly. "If brains were radium, you couldn't make a flicker on a scintillation counter."
It was just a little doubtful that Symes understood the insult. But he obviously knew it had been one. His face changed color to a kind of grayish purple, and his hands clenched slowly at his sides. Forrester stood watching him quietly.
Symes made a sound like Rrr and took a breath. "If you weren't an acolyte, I'd take a poke at you just to see you bounce."
"Sure you would," Forrester agreed politely.
Symes went Rrr again and there was a longer silence. Then he said: "Not that I'd hit you anyhow, buster. It'd go against my grain. Not the acolyte business—if you didn't look so much like Bacchus, I'd take the chance."
Forrester's jaw ached. In a second he realized why; he was clenching his teeth tightly. Perhaps it was true that he did look a little like Bacchus, but not enough for Ed Symes to kid about it.