He found Breakdown Station 26, hitched his jacket over the bottle and swayed in, drunk enough to think he could pretend he was sober. "Hi," he said hoarsely to the shift foreman. "Got jammed up in the celebration." "We heard it clear over here," the foreman said, looking at him closely. "Are you all right, Max?" The question enraged him. "'Smatter?" he yelled. "Had a couple, sure. Think 'm drunk? Tha' wha' ya think?" "Gee," the foreman said wearily. "Look, Max, I can't send you out tonight. You might get killed. I'm trying to be reasonable and I wish you'd do as much for me. What's biting you, boy? Nobody has anything against a few drinks and a few laughs. I went on a bender last month myself. But you get so Goddammed _mean_ I can't stand you and neither can anybody else." Wyman spewed obscenity at him and tried to swing on him. He was surprised and filled with self-pity when somebody caught his arm and somebody else caught his other arm. It was Dooley and Weintraub, his shift-mates, looking unhappy and concerned. "Lousy rats!" Wyman choked out. "Leas' a man's buddies c'd do is back'm up...." He began to cry, hating them, and then fell asleep on his feet. Dooley and Weintraub eased him down onto the floor. The foreman mopped his head and appealed to Dooley: "He always like this?" He had been transferred to Station 26 only two weeks before. Dooley shrugged. "You might say so. He showed up about three months ago. Said he used to be a breakdown man in Buffalo, on the yards. He knew the work all right. But I never saw such a mean kid. Never a good word for anybody. Never any fun. Booze, booze, booze. This time he really let go." Weintraub said unexpectedly: "I think he's what they used to call an alcoholic." "What the hell's that?" the foreman demanded. "I read about it. It's something they used to have before the Syndic. I read about it. Things were a lot different then. People picking on you all the time, everybody mad all the time. The girls were scared to give it away and the boys were scared to take it--but they did anyway and it was kind of like fighting with yourself _inside_ yourself. The fighting wore some people out so much they just couldn't take it any more. Instead of going on benders for a change of pace like sensible people, they boozed _all_ the time--and they had a fight inside themselves about _that_ so they boozed harder." He looked defensive at their skeptical faces. "I _read_ it," he insisted. "Well," the foreman said inconclusively, "I heard things used to be pretty bad. Did these alcoholers get over it?" "I don't know," Weintraub admitted. "I didn't read that far."