"He drinks vodka," Herb said. "And I guess he drinks gin too."
"Great Bacchus," Sam said in a tone of wonder. "You run into them
everywhere these days. Can't get away from the sons of--"
"Now--" Forrester started.
"And not only that," Herb said, "but he spills the stuff on me. Just
because I ask him to have a regular drink like a man."
"_Spills_ it on you?" Sam said.
Herb said: "Look," and extended his arm. On the sleeve of his jacket a
few spots were slowly drying.
"Well, that's too much," Sam said heavily. "Just too damn much." He
scowled at Forrester again. "You know, buddy, somebody ought to teach
guys like you a lesson."
Forrester took a swallow of his drink and set the glass down
unhurriedly. If either Herb or Sam attacked him, he knew his oath would
permit his fighting back. And after the day he'd had, he rather looked
forward to the chance. But he had to do his part to hold off an actual
fight. "Now look here, friend--"
"Friend?" Sam said. "Don't call me your friend, buddy. I make no friends
with infidels."
And, at that point, Forrester realized that he wasn't going to have a
fight with Herb or Sam. He was going to have a fight with Herb _and_
Sam--and with the third gentleman, a shaggy, beefy man who needed a
shave, who stepped up behind them and asked: "Trouble?" in a voice that
indicated that trouble was exactly what he was looking for.
"Maybe it is trouble, at that," Herb said tightly, without turning
around. "This infidel here's been committing blasphemy."
Three against one wasn't as happy a thought as an even fight had been,
but it was too late to back out now. "That's a lie!" Forrester snapped.
"Call me a liar?" Sam roared. He stepped forward and swung a hamlike
fist at Forrester's head.
Forrester ducked. The heavy fist swished by his ear harmlessly, and he
felt a strange new mixture of elation and fright. He grabbed his
vodka-and-ginger from the bar and swung it in a single sweeping arc
before him. Liquid rained on the faces of the three men.
Sam was still a little off balance. Forrester slammed the edge of his
right hand into his side, and Sam stumbled to the floor. In the same
motion, Forrester let fly with the now-empty glass. The shaggy man stood
directly in his path. The glass conked him on the forehead and bounced
to the floor, where it shattered unnoticed. The shaggy man blinked and
Forrester, moving forward, discovered that he had no time to follow
matters up in that direction.
Herb was snarling inarticulately, wiping vodka-and-ginger from his eyes.
He blocked Forrester's advance toward the shaggy man. Forrester smiled
gently and put a hard fist into Herb's solar plexus. The tall man
doubled up in completely silent agony.
Forrester took a breath and started forward again. The shaggy man was
shaking his head, trying to clear it.
Then Forrester's head became unclear. Something had banged against his
right temple and the room was suddenly filled with pain and small, hard
stars. Sam, Forrester discovered, had managed to get to his feet. The
something had been a small brass ashtray that Sam had thrown at him.
Somehow, he stayed on his feet. The stars were still swirling around
him, but he began to be able to see through them, and peered at the
figure of the shaggy man, coming at him again. He let his knees bend a
little, as if he were going to pass out. The shaggy man seemed to gain
confidence from this, and stepped in carefully to kick Forrester in the
stomach.
Forrester stepped back, grabbed the upcoming foot, and stood straight,
lifting the foot and levering it into the air.
The shaggy man, surprise written all over his shaveless face, went over
backward with great abruptness. His head hit the floor with an audible
and satisfying _whack_, and then his limbs settled and he remained
there, sprawled out and very quiet.
Forrester, meanwhile, was whirling to meet Sam, who was coming in like a
bear, his arms outspread and a glaze of hatred in his eyes. Forrester,
expressionless, ducked under the man's flailing arms and slammed a fist
into his midsection. It was a harder midsection than he'd expected;
unlike Herb, Sam had good muscles, and hitting them was like hitting
thick rubber. The blow didn't put Sam down. It only made him gasp once.
That was enough. Forrester doubled his right fist and let Sam have one
more blow, this one into the face. Sam's mouth opened as his eyes
closed. His left arm pawed the air aimlessly for a tenth of a second.
Then he dropped like an empty overcoat.
There was a second of absolute silence. Then Forrester heard a noise
behind him and whirled.
But it was only Herb, doubled up on the floor and very quietly retching.
Catching his breath, Forrester looked around him. The fight had
attracted a lot of attention from the other customers in the bar, but
none of them seemed to want to prolong it by joining in.
They were all trying to look as if they were minding their own business,
while the bartender ...
Forrester stared. The bartender was at the other end of the bar, far
away from the scene of action.
He was, as Forrester saw him, just hanging up the telephone.
Forrester put a bill on the bar, turned and walked out into the street.
He had absolutely no desire to get mixed up with the secular police.
After all, he had an appointment to keep. And now--after a quiet drink
that had turned into a three-against-one battle royal--he had to go and
keep it.