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. CHAPTER FOUR