Seven said, “Before you say anything, I’m terribly disappointed. I thought that the gods would have more sense.” Cyprus didn’t answer at once. The background sounds grew louder. In the distance Oversoul Seven heard the clash of Mohammed’s sword as he fought with the infidels, yelling “Allah” and leaping back and forth. “That’s what I mean,” Seven cried disconsolately.

“They mean well,” Cyprus answered. “Don’t be so critical. They’re giant psychological projections, man’s ‘divine children’ exaggerating their parents’ best and worst qualities.”

“You mean they aren’t real at all?” Seven cried, astounded. “First I didn’t believe they existed, and I guess I was better off. Then I thought that if they’d influenced human thought all that much, the gods must exist. Then I decided that they were real and I expected them to be—well, at least adult, in human terms. Now you’re telling me that they weren’t real to begin with.”

Oversoul Seven felt tired and confused. He glanced around the garden. Birds of all colors flew through the air. The sky was an extraordinary blue-gray. Flowers grew everywhere in tints beyond description. But none of it contented him.

Cyprus kept changing position, appearing first on a leaf, then on a grass blade, and then on the top of Mohammed’s sword, so that Seven cried out, “Cyprus, don’t do that!”

Cyprus said, “Oh, Seven, you know better than that,” and Seven answered, “I know it. Of course you wouldn’t get hurt. But I’m too worried to think straight.”

“Do stop brooding,” Cyprus responded. “The gods are real enough. They’re just different than your personalities expected them to be. In a manner of speaking, the gods are born from man’s yearning, from man’s loves and hates and fears and hopes. Each person contributes to the creation until you have—well, a conglomerate god, made up of part of each individual.”

“Then they aren’t real,” Seven shouted.

“Oh, Seven, you haven’t met the real gods yet, if that’s what you mean. I thought you understood that!” Cyprus stared at Seven with amazed dismay, and to cover his confusion Seven took the fourteen-year-old-boy image. Cyprus automatically compensated, adopting her complementary teacher form. She said, “It never occurred to me that you supposed—”

“Supposed what?” Seven asked dismally. “What did you think I supposed?”

Cyprus said gently, “I took it for granted that you realized that you were perceiving Lydia and Will’s versions of the gods; mostly Lydia’s, as they were reflected through her mind and took on those psychological connotations. The gods as understood by mortals are always conventional personifications. They’re like religious psychological statues, only possessing more abilities and characteristics. But all in all, highly limited by any standards of excellence or morality. Animated superstars; perhaps that term expresses it best of all.”