Thinking frightened him to begin with. To forget his thoughts, he tried to plan a painting in his mind. Just then he fell down, twisted his leg, lost one ski, and realized that most of the feeling in both legs had vanished at about the same time. How far from home was he? His clothes were warm enough for working outside for an hour or so, but he’d been out for longer than that, he thought. Or had he? His time sense was all jumbled. How long ago was it that he’d been thrown out of his own house so unceremoniously?

Well, they’d be sorry. His emotions overspilled. He sat up, leaning against a tree, staring down the mountainside. The icy twilight was already descending. Bleak barren hills were snow-crusted, and the air was sharp. He knew that he had no time to waste; he had to get going, claim his other ski and start back, going faster than he’d come. He had to restore his circulation. Yet perversely he sat there, grumbling to himself.

Birth had no right to be so beastly, he thought. He couldn’t bear to think what Bianka must be going through. How could their jolly lovemaking lead to such … terror? Dear God! And what use was it to pray? What did God know about terror? He himself had no use for Christendom, nor did it have any use for him. Which was all right. But now he wanted some kind of comfort; some reassurance … that birth wouldn’t be as awful for Bianka as he (and everybody else) thought it would be.

If there was a God, if there were gods—but they were all children’s tales, he thought. A lot of good Bianka’s Christ was now. He imagined, just as he lost consciousness, that some ancient Nordic gods shared the hills with him: They would wake him up, welcome him with gigantic feasts and resplendent sword fights, boisterous male laughter, offering him slabs of charred sweet meat—pigs stolen from his neighbors; gods that were eternal and male and didn’t need fleshy soft women’s bodies; gods that had no need to give bloody birth; ancient Viking gods, banqueting through the long winter night.

“Don’t you ever think of anything besides food?” Oversoul Seven said rather peevishly: Josef had definitely broadened girth-wise since he’d last looked at him closely.

Josef opened his mental eyes. His physical ones were nearly frosted shut.

Seven took the shape of an old wise man. “You’ve very nearly done it this time,” he said.

“Oh, it’s you,” Josef moaned, then said pathetically, “You’ve got to get me out of this. I’m half frozen. I’ll never make it home.”

“I hope you thoroughly realize the serious predicament you’ve got yourself into,” Seven said sternly, looking ancient as the hills, wise and dependable—and somewhat angry.