There are seven major brewers in the Munich area, each of them represented by one of the circuslike tents that Mr. Oyster mentioned. Each tent contained benches and tables for about five thousand persons and from six to ten thousands pack themselves in, competing for room. In the center is a tremendous bandstand, the musicians all _lederhosen_ clad, the music as Bavarian as any to be found in a Bavarian beer hall. Hundreds of peasant garbed _fraeuleins_ darted about the tables with quart sized earthenware mugs, platters of chicken, sausage, kraut and pretzels. I found a place finally at a table which had space for twenty-odd beer bibbers. Odd is right. As weird an assortment of Germans and foreign tourists as could have been dreamed up, ranging from a seventy- or eighty-year-old couple in Bavarian costume, to the bald-headed drunk across the table from me. A desperate waitress bearing six mugs of beer in each hand scurried past. They call them _masses_, by the way, not mugs. The bald-headed character and I both held up a finger and she slid two of the _masses_ over to us and then hustled on. "Down the hatch," the other said, holding up his _mass_ in toast. "To the ladies," I told him. Before sipping, I said, "You know, the tourist pamphlets say this stuff is eighteen per cent. That's nonsense. No beer is that strong." I took a long pull. He looked at me, waiting. I came up. "Mistaken," I admitted. A _mass_ or two apiece later he looked carefully at the name engraved on his earthenware mug. "Loewenbraeu," he said. He took a small notebook from his pocket and a pencil, noted down the word and returned the things. "That's a queer looking pencil you have there," I told him. "German?" "Venusian," he said. "Oops, sorry. Shouldn't have said that." I had never heard of the brand so I skipped it. "Next is the Hofbraeu," he said. "Next what?" Baldy's conversation didn't seem to hang together very well. "My pilgrimage," he told me. "All my life I've been wanting to go back to an _Oktoberfest_ and sample every one of the seven brands of the best beer the world has ever known. I'm only as far as Loewenbraeu. I'm afraid I'll never make it." I finished my _mass_. "I'll help you," I told him. "Very noble endeavor. Name is Simon." "Arth," he said. "How could you help?" "I'm still fresh--comparatively. I'll navigate you around. There are seven beer tents. How many have you got through, so far?" "Two, counting this one," Arth said. I looked at him. "It's going to be a chore," I said. "You've already got a nice edge on." Outside, as we made our way to the next tent, the fair looked like every big State-Fair ever seen, except it was bigger. Games, souvenir stands, sausage stands, rides, side shows, and people, people, people. The Hofbraeu tent was as overflowing as the last but we managed to find two seats. The band was blaring, and five thousand half-swacked voices were roaring accompaniment.