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across the room. I followed her gaze, realized she was staring at Finn-and realized that Finn was in some kind of trouble.
    He was sitting bolt upright in his chair, which he hardly ever does, being so tall, and he was paying no attention to the proceedings around him, and tears were running down his face. The last time I’d seen tears on Finn’s face, years before, the planet Earth had been in serious jeopardy…
     
    He got up and walked stiffly to the bar, and Mary and I moved wordlessly to where we could see what Finn was doing.
    He was offering Mike Callahan ten singles. He wanted ten of something. Callahan was looking him over. “How much effect will that have on him?” Mary asked in a whisper.
    “About like you or I gulping a double.”
    “Oh.” She relaxed slightly.
    “But it is extremely out of character for Finn. The last time I saw him order ten drinks was the first night he came here, years ago.”
     
    Many others at or near the bar knew the story; an audience was developing as Callahan reached his decision - “What’ll it be, Mickey?”
    “Rye, Michael.” Just like that night.
    “You want to talk about it?” Callahan asked. -“First the toast.”
    Callahan nodded at that, and set to work. He builds drinks the way Baryshnikov dances. Ten shots of rye soon sat before Finn. One after another the tall alien downed them. That first night he had thrown each individual empty into the fireplace and made the same toast ten times; this time he didn’t bother. When he was done, some of the empties weren’t even touching-but he picked the last one up and the rest came with it. He walked to the chalk line, faced the hearth. By now he had our attention.
    “To my people,” he said clearly and tonelessly, and flung the cluster of glasses. I hadn’t known even Finn could throw that hard: there was a violent explosion in the fireplace. It is designed like a parabolic reflector, so that it is nearly impossible to make glass spray out of it; nonetheless, that bursting should have littered the room with shards. It did not for the same reason that my clothes were dry.
     
    “Jesus, big fella,” Long-Drink said. “What can we do?” There was a vigorous rumble of agreement on all sides.
    Mickey Finn came back to Earth-an expression perhaps uniquely appropriate here-and looked around at us gravely. His composed features were at odds with the droplets running down them; I had the crazy thought that these were the raindrops that had failed to fall on him, time-shifted somehow to now. But of course it was just that Finn’s still not used to hanging human expressions on his pan, and tends to forget in times of crisis: he truly was hurting.
    “My Friends,” he told us, “if I could think of anything you could do, I would surely tell you. Would surely have to1d you before now.”
    “Then tell us the problem,” Tommy Janssen said. “Maybe we’ll come up with something.”
    Finn tried a smile, a poor job. “I doubt it, Tommy. I have been thinking about this particular problem since I first came here, years ago, and I do not think there is a solution.”
    Callahan cleared his throat, a sound like a speeding truck being thrown suddenly into reverse. “Mickey, as you know, I don’t hold with pryin’ in my joint. If you don’t feel like telling us your troubles, I’ll coldcock the first guy that asks a leading question. But I strongly recommend that you unload. Little thing you might not know, having spent so many centuries alone-out in deep space: sometimes, just naming your burden helps. But it’s up to you, pal.”
    Finn thought it over. “You may be right, Michael. You always have been so far. In fact, you have stated my problem. I am alone. I have been alone for centuries. I shall always be alone, until my death comes.”
    “The hell you say,” Long-Drink burst out. “Why, counting the regulars that ain’t in tonight, I make it about a hundred and fifty close friends you’ve got. You can stay at my