He would have to learn more. He sat back, easing his body, his mind, trying not to expect anything whatsoever. Then nothing could catch him off balance. But the third party jarred him nonetheless. A man came over toward the booth. He had evidently just made an inquiry of the waitress. He wore a good suit, painstakingly fashionable, and very tight black shoes. His face looked young. Guido saw him coming and tightened fingers around his glass. A pulse in the singer's throat began to flutter. "Get out," he said. "What's wrong now?" Kintyre didn't move. "Get out!" The eyes that turned to him were dark circles rimmed all around with white. The tones cracked across. "I'll see you later. There could be trouble if you stay. Blow!" Kintyre made no doubt of it. Ordinarily he would have left, he was not one to search for a conflict. But he did not think any man could be worse to meet than the horror, and he could feel the horror still waiting to take him, as soon as he stopped having other matters to focus on. He poured out the rest of his beer. Then the man was standing at the booth. He was young indeed, Kintyre saw, perhaps so young he needed false identification to drink. His face was almost girlish, in a broad-nosed sleepy-eyed way, and very white. The rest of him was middling tall and well muscled; he moved with a sureness which told Kintyre he was quick on his feet. "Uh," said Guido. The young man jerked his head backward. "He was just--just going," chattered Guido. "Right away." "When I finish my beer, of course," said Kintyre mildly. "Drink up," said the young man. He had no color in his voice. Its accent wasn't local, but Kintyre couldn't place the exact region. More or less Midwestern. Chicago? It was a good excuse to get his back up. "I don't see where you have any authority in the matter," said Kintyre. "Mother of God," whispered Guido frantically across the table. "Scram!" The young man stood droop-lidded for a moment, considering. Then he said to Guido: "Okay. Another booth." "Won't you join us here?" asked Kintyre. "You can say your say when I've gone." The young man thought it over for a second or two. He shrugged faintly and sat down beside Kintyre, a couple of feet away. Shakily, Guido poured a drink into the unused glass of ice. "Th-th-this is--Larkin," he said. "Terry Larkin. This is Professor Kintyre. He was a friend of my brother, is all." "Are you from out of town, Mr. Larkin?" said Kintyre. The young man took out a pack of cigarettes. It was the container for a standard brand, but the homemade cylinders inside were another matter. He lit one and sat back, unheeding of the whisky.