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

It wasn't a very long walk from the _Boat House_ to the Tower of Zeus,
but it was long enough. By the time Forrester got to the Tower, he was
feeling a lot worse than he'd felt when he left the bar. Being perfectly
frank with himself, he admitted that he felt terrible.

The blow from the brass ashtray wasn't a sharp pain any longer. It had
developed into a nice, dependable ache that had spread all over the side
of h