The Second Randall Garrett Megapack. Randall Garrett

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      Twenty to six. Forrester decided he could use a drink to brace himself and steady his nerves.

      Just one.

      On Sixth Avenue, near 34th Street, there was a bar called, for some obscure reason, the Boat House. Forrester headed for it, went inside and leaned against the bar. The bartender, a tall man with crew-cut reddish hair, raised his eyebrows in a questioning fashion.

      “What’ll it be, friend?”

      “Vodka and ginger ale,” Forrester said. “A double.”

      It was still, he told himself uneasily, just one drink. And that was all he was going to have.

      The bartender brought it and Forrester sipped at it, watching his reflection in the mirror and wishing he felt easier in his mind about the whole Tower of Zeus affair. Then, very suddenly, he noticed that the man next to him was looking at him oddly. Forrester didn’t like the look or, for that matter, the man himself, a raw-boned giant with deep-set eyes and a shock of dead-black hair, but so long as nobody bothered him, Forrester wasn’t going to start anything.

      Unfortunately, somebody bothered him. The tall man leaned over and said loudly: “What’s the matter with you, bud? An infidel or something?”

      Forrester hesitated. The accusation that he didn’t believe in the practices ordained by the Gods themselves was an irritating one. But he could see the other side of the question, too. The tall man was undoubtedly a Dionysian; and, more than that, a mem­ber of a small sect inside the general corpus of Bacchus/Dionysus worshippers. He held that it was wrong to distill grape or grain products “too far,” until there was nothing left but the alcohol.

      That meant disapproval of gin and vodka on the grounds that, unlike whiskey or brandy, they’d had the “life” distilled out of them.

      Forrester, however, was not really fond of brandy and whis­key. He decided to explain this to the tall man, but at the same time he began to develop the sinking feeling that it wasn’t going to do any good.

      Oh, well, there was still room for patience. “Don’t fire,” as Mars had said somewhere, “until you see the whites of their eyes.”

      “No, I’m no infidel,” Forrester said politely. “You see, I’m—”

      “No infidel?” the tall man roared. “Then I tell you what you do. You pour that slop out and drink a proper drink.” He made a grab for Forrester’s glass.

      Forrester jerked it back, sloshing it a little in the process—and a few drops splattered on the other’s hand.

      “Now look here,” Forrester said in a reasonable tone of voice. “I—”

      “You spilling that stuff on me? What the blazes are you doing that for? I got a good mind to—”

      Another man stepped into the altercation. This was a square-built, bullet-headed man with an air that was both truculent and eager. “What’s the matter, Herb?” he asked the tall man. “This guy giving you trouble or something?” He favored Forrester with a fierce scowl. Forrester smiled pleasantly back, a little unsure as to how to proceed.

      “This guy?” Herb said. “Trouble? Sam, he’s an infidel!”

      Forrester said: “I—”

      “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.

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