"Make what?"
"All seven tents."
"Oh."
A waitress was on her way by, mugs foaming over their rims. I gestured
to her for refills.
"Where are you from, Arth?" I asked him, in the way of making
conversation.
"2183."
"2183 where?"
He looked at me, closing one eye to focus better. "Oh," he said. "Well,
2183 South Street, ah, New Albuquerque."
"New Albuquerque? Where's that?"
Arth thought about it. Took another long pull at the beer. "Right across
the way from old Albuquerque," he said finally. "Maybe we ought to be
getting on to the Pschorrbräu tent."
"Maybe we ought to eat something first," I said. "I'm beginning to feel
this. We could get some of that barbecued ox."
Arth closed his eyes in pain. "Vegetarian," he said. "Couldn't possibly
eat meat. Barbarous. Ugh."
"Well, we need some nourishment," I said.
"There's supposed to be considerable nourishment in beer."