id. "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