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.