Joe said carefully. "To the contrary, we find it most enjoyable, sir."

But Max had had two full glasses of the potent Feteasca and besides
was feeling pleased and effervescent over his success in getting Joe
Mauser, his idol, to spend a night on the town with him. He'd wanted
to impress his superior with the extent to which he had get to know
Budapest. Max said now, "We got places just as good as this in the
West, and bigger too. Lots bigger. This joint wouldn't hold more then
fifty people."

The one who had spoken, one of the majors who wore the boots of the
cavalryman, said, nastily, "Indeed? I recognize now that when I
addressed you both as gentlemen, I failed to realize that in the West
gentlemen are not selective of their company and allow themselves to
wallow in the gutter with the dregs of their society."

The Hungarian captain said lazily, "Are you sure, Frol, that _either_
of them are gentlemen? There seems to be a distinctive _odor_ about
the lower classes whether in the West-world or our own."

Joe came to his feet quietly.

Max said, suddenly sobered, "Hey, major, sir ... easy. It ain't
important."

Joe had picked up his glass of wine. With a gesture so easy as almost
to be slow motion, he tossed it into the face of the foppish officer.

The Hungarian, aghast, took up his napkin and began to brush the drink
from his uniform, meanwhile sputtering to an extent verging on
hysteria. The major who had been seated immediately to his right,
fumbled in assistance, meanwhile staring at Joe as though he were a
madman.

The cavalryman, though, was of sterner stuff. In the back of his mind,
Joe was thinking, even as the other seized a bottle by its long neck
and broke off the base on the edge of the table, _Now this one's from
the Pink Army, an old pro, and a Russkie, sure as Zen made green
apples_.

The major came up, kicking a chair to one side. Joe hunched his
shoulders forward, took up his napkin and with a quick double gesture,
wrapped it twice around his left hand, which he extended slightly.

The major came in, the jagged edges of the bottle advanced much as a
sword. His face was working in rage, and Joe, outwardly cool, decided
in the back of his mind that he was glad he'd never have to serve
under this one. This one gave way to rage and temper when things were
pickling and there was no room for such luxuries in a fracas.

Max was yelling something from behind, something that didn't come
through