"Oh, a wise guy, eh?"
Customers began to draw around the bickering duo. Elliot sized up his
antagonist--a burly, nondescript man with a seam running down from one
ear to his chin.
"I'm not looking for trouble," Elliot said. "But if--"
A fist erupted from nowhere and sent him spinning back against the bar.
He elbowed up and drove a punch into the burly man's stomach, followed
with a ringing blow to the jaw. The other staggered--
And a third entered the brawl. Elliot felt a punch rake across his
face, blocked a kick aimed for his groin, and barrelled across the
room, striking out angrily at his assailants. By now the room was
filled with moving, cursing, gesticulating men, while the bartender
ducked to safety.
Elliot plunged through the mob and found the man who had struck him the
first time. He seized him by the collar and drove him to the floor,
just as someone yelled, "Watch that table!"
He turned--not nearly in time. The flying table caught the back of his
head with a sickening _thunk_, and he dropped unconscious to the floor.
A cold rag splashed wetly on his face, and a heavy voice said: "Bring
him out of it. He's not badly hurt."
* * * * *
Elliot opened his eyes slowly. He was no longer in the Vestend, but in
a large, well-decorated office. Behind a gleaming-surfaced desk sat a
short, fat man with jowls that jiggled as he spoke, and standing to
his left was a brawny, not-too-intelligent-looking man with a heavy
spacetan.
"How do you feel, Mr. Elliot?" the fat man asked.
"All right, I guess." He rubbed the back of his head. "What happened?"
"You got in a fight. Fortunately Sam, here, got you out."