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human-sized draft of the liquid. "Like a bird. Like a little bird."
    "Built man-shape, though," commented the one with the broken nose. "I wonder if he . . ." The question was of purely physiological significance.
    "Not likely, at that size," said the drunken one. "Here he's chasing this here Shorty female the Terror's got, though. You reckon . . . ?"
    One of the others—it was Halitosis again—hoarsely regretted the fact that they did not have the Shorty female there as well. It would, in his opinion, provide an opportunity for interesting and educative experimentation.
    "Go to hell!" said John, instinctively in Basic Human.
    "What?" asked the one with the pouch, drunkenly, behind him.
    John made the most forceful translation into Dilbian that he could manage. The three Dilbians exploded into laughter.
    "Have another drink," said Broken Nose; and a further pint or so of the beer was forced down John's throat. Broken Nose turned to his friends. "He better not get too tough with me, though!" He made a few humorous swipes with one huge hand in the air over John's head. John felt his hair fanned by the blows, which would have had little trouble splitting his skull wide open if they had connected.
    Everybody laughed.
    "I wonder, can he do tricks?" asked Halitosis.
    "How about it, Shorty?" demanded the drunken Dilbian with the pouch, who seemed to have adopted an air of ownership toward John.
    "Sure," said John.
    "Show `em one!"
    "Give me a full mug of beer, then," said John. The three contributed from other mugs until one was brimming full—amongst guesses, polite and impolite—as to what the trick might require the beer for. When the mug was full, John reached down and hefted the gallon and a half container in his arms, taking a good grip on it.
    "Now, watch closely," he said. "I take a firm hold here, rock back on my heels like this, and—"
    He spun suddenly on one heel, swinging the mug around and sloshing a wave of beer into all three faces. As they ducked and pawed at their eyes, he leaped off the table, dodged under the nearest bench, and continued in a sort of broken-field run for the door. At any minute, he expected a large hand to reach down and capture him; but although he found himself forced to give opportunities for this, no one else seemed inclined to halt him. The rest of the common room of the inn was roaring with laughter at the three belonging to the table he had just left. And these were cursing, rooting around and overturning nearby benches under the evident impression that John was still in their immediate area. The door to the outside loomed before John. He ducked gratefully under its hide curtain and into the safety of the outer darkness.
    He did not immediately halt on gaining the security of the night, but continued around the side of the inn toward the bare patch of trashyard behind it that stood between the inn and the dropoff into the gorge, down in which he could hear the unseen mountain river even now, brawling on its nighttime way.
    He wanted room. Once behind the inn, he dropped into a sitting position in the shelter of some empty kegs that, with other junk, filled the area. Off to his right, a rectangle of light framed the hide curtain covering a door to the inn. From that door came the odors of cooking and the sound of quarreling voices. A back kitchen entrance, apparently.
    John sat, breathing heavily and trying to pull himself together. To his annoyance, he was more than a little drunk. The quart or so that the three at the table had forced him to drink on top of what he had already had, was now piling up inside him to give him a noticeable fuzziness. It would not last too long since it was the result of fast, rather than heavy, drinking. But for the moment it put him at a definite disadvantage in any contest where his only defense against overwhelming size and strength would be his natural speed and alertness. He decided to sit still where he was until his head was clear again, even if