"What better place for a brawl, you mean!" Bran replied sourly. Jirik grinned broadly and pulled Bran to an empty table in the corner, where the noise was less deafening. The opposite corner was filled with a huge stereovid, on whose screen colorful ornithoid Reethians gyrated madly to the accompanying music. The high, fluting sounds of the nonhuman band, much of which was just within normal human hearing range, made the spacers' hair rise.
"Are you sure you want to stay here, Jirik?," Bran complained, "I'm not sure how much of this Reethian 'music' I can stand!"
"Relax, Bran," Jirik replied loudly. "Tell you what, though, Stick it out through this song, and if the next one is Reethian, too, we'll leave. All.right?"
Bran nodded unhappily. This sort of night life was not Bran's style. He was aware of Jirik's taste for it, however, and was uncomfortably aware of how often Jirik's evenings ended in brawls.
Mercifully, the Reethian song came to its squeaky conclusion, and was replaced with an instrumental human number better suited to human hearing.
Jirik flagged down a waiter in a stained apron, and ordered a Swalian Malt whiskey, telling the waiter to leave the bottle. Bran ordered Soldian brandy, which made Jirik snort in disgust. To Jirik, one drank to get drunk; he couldn't understand someone like Bran, who rarely drank at all, and preferred low-alcoholic drinks when he did. Jirik threw back his first drink, grimacing as the fiery stuff went down, then scowling as he watched Bran sip at his brandy.
"I don't know how you can drink that crap," Jirik grumped. "Why in hell don't you have a man's drink?" He proffered the whiskey bottle, which Bran waved off.
"No, thank you," Bran responded, "I prefer my brandy. You know that I hate getting drunk." Bran had made it quite clear years ago that drunkenness held no attraction for him. "I hope," he continued, "that we'll be able to get through the night without one of your famous brawls. After all, if we both get arrested, I won't be able to bail you out!"
Jirik sputtered as he tried to drink and chuckle at the same time, and then grinned broadly. "Well, Hell! Then I guess we'll just have to fight our way out before the Blues come, Huh?"
Chapter 3
Bran threw up his hands in despair. It was obvious that Jirik was building up to a major booze-and-brawl liberty. Unless Bran could find an excuse to separate, he was afraid that he would become involved; and Bran hated fighting, which made him a vicious and dangerous fighter. Brawlers like Jirik fought with fists, feet and the occasional bottle, prolonging the "fun".
Bran, on the other hand, felt that the purpose of a fight was to disable his opponent before he, himself could be disabled, and to do so with as little damage to himself as possible. This meant that Bran would use any weapon that came to hand, in any way necessary, to end a fight as quickly as possible. He didn't fight as a berserker, but with machine-like efficiency. Bran had come dangerously close to killing opponents in the past. He was fearfully aware that someday he could end up on the wrong end of a manslaughter charge if he didn't restrain himself; but restraint could mean serious injury to himself. He had no desire to tempt fate again, simply because of Jirik's love of brawling.
"Jirik, I knew it was a mistake to come with you. If you don't slow down on the booze, and stay sober, I'm leaving. Have you forgotten that we're here on business?"
Jirik's grin faded. "No, Bran, I hadn't forgotten. Damned spook. Look, Bran. The fastest way I know to make friends and get people talking is a good, old fashioned bar brawl."
Bran snorted. "Dreck! Damn it Jirik, if that's what you intended, you should have warned me! You know me better than that." He stood up. "I'm leaving. You pursue your theory. Maybe it works for you. I have other ideas, though, and I'm going to try them."
"Sit Down, Bran!" The unmistakable note of command in Jirik's voice made the surprised Bran slide back down into his chair with a thump reinforced by 1.4G.
"Look, Bran," Jirik continued in a more reasonable tune, "I don't want you involved in another brawl; you take them too seriously, and somebody could get hurt. All I want you to do is help me get into an argument with one of these bozos, then do a quick fade while we're still making faces at one another. Got it?"
Bran shook his head wonderingly. "I don't believe it. Jirik, you're incredible." He sighed deeply. "All right, I guess we might as well get on with it."
Jirik's sloppy grin was back. As the stereovid fell silent, he said in a voice loud in the ensuing silence, "Okay, so tell me about this crackpot Atmos, or whatever his name is." He was slouching in his chair, his manner, and the slurring of his words giving every evidence that he was completely flashed.
A chair at a neighboring table went over with a crash as its occupant lurched to his feet. Obviously flashed, the man weaved across to their table. He was a typical Boondocker, squat and powerfully built. The bulging muscles straining his tunic's sleeves betrayed his heavy-world origins, and his rough hands indicated that he was a miner. The man leaned over the table, both hands resting on it to maintain his balance. He stared at Jirik with bleary eyes. "I'll tell you about DoctorAtmos," he yelled, making one word of the title and name, "He was a goddamned saint. He c'd see the future, he c'd!"
Jirik raised apparently bleary eyes to his visitor. "Izzat Right? I heard that he was crazier'n an Albionian Flit, and got run clear out of the Empire!"
"The Empire!" The Boondocker said with exaggerated distaste. "The guv'mint was scared of 'im. Sent spies to make him look crazy, so they c'd run 'im off. We know, here. He lived here. He was the smartest man ever lived. He c'd see the future, he c'd!" the man repeated.
Bran, his job as sounding board completed, stood and made his way toward the men's 'fresher, veering at the last moment out the door. Once outside, he permitted himself an admiring grin for Jirik's acting ability before setting off in the direction of nearest bookchip store.
Meanwhile, Jirik continued to bait the Boondocker, whose temper continued to rise. Finally, responding to another of Jirik's jeering comments, he swung a clumsy haymaker. Jirik did not avoid the blow. Instead, he reinforced its momentum with a push of his feet to send his chair crashing over backwards.
Meanwhile the Boondocker continued to shout Dr. Atmos' sterling qualities at the top of his lungs. Jirik continued to play his drunken role while he carefully sized up his opponent and checked for other nearby threats. After a moment, he rolled over and clambered clumsily to his feet. He staggered toward the burly Boondocker, swinging a haymaker of his own, which intentionally missed. The bar's other patrons began to gather. As the two staggered about, ineptly swinging at each other, more customers were drawn into the fracas. Jirik threw a bottle, which smashed on the bar and splashed liquor all over one fairly well dressed patron's clothing. The patron started toward Jirik, but was intercepted by another patron acting as peacemaker. The man swung at the peacemaker, who swung back.
Within minutes, the bar was a swirling mass of brawling humanity. Jirik's drunken opponent stopped and stared at the commotion, dimly wondering what had happened. A bottle thrown from the back of the bar, relieved him of both wonder and consciousness.
Jirik whooped and waded joyfully into the fray. He traded blows with a rather soft-looking Boondocker for a few moments, before they were forced apart by other brawlers. He ducked as a pitcher flew past his head, spewing beer and foam. An unshaven Boondocker in a dirty tunic staggered into him, knocking him against a table which went over with a crash. Jirik snatched a falling bottle from mid air, and smashed it over the man's head.
A fist slammed into the side of his head, and his eyes unfocussed for a moment. He shook his head, clearing it in time to dodge a brawler charging, head down, across the bar. He smashed a chair over the man's back, and landed a jab to another's solar plexus before a fist came out of nowhere, smashing into his cheek.