“Sure,” came the reply.
George scowled at them. They were so new to Ceres they didn’t realize that an imported cola cost half the earth. He turned back toward Ripley. “Helluva show you put on tonight.”
“They seemed to like it.”
“Ever think of playin’ professionally? You’re too good to be sittin’ out on this rock.”
Ripley shook his head. “Naw. I play the trumpet for fun. If I got serious about it, it’d become work.”
“You hurt my ears with that damned noise,” said another of the yobbos.
“Yeah,” said one of his mates. “Why the hell d’you hafta play so damned loud?”
Before George could say anything, Ripley replied, “Gee, I’m sorry about that. Maybe next time I’ll use a mute.”
The complainer walked down the bar toward Ripley. “Next time my ass. What’re you going to do about the frickin’ headache you’ve given me?”
He was a tall, rangy sort, athletically built; short blond hair, with a funny little tail in the back, like an old-time matador. He was young, George saw, but old enough to have better manners.
The Ripper’s smile started to look a little forced. Very gently, he replied, “I guess I could treat you to a couple of aspirins.”
“Fuck you and your aspirins.” The guy threw his drink into the Ripper’s face.
Ripley looked shocked, totally at a loss. He blinked in confusion as beer dripped from his nose, his ears.
George stepped between them. “That wasn’t very smart,” he said.
“I’m not talking to you, Red. It’s this wiseass noisemaker I’m talking to.”
“He’s my friend,” said George. “I think you owe him an apology.”
“And I think you ought to pull your shaggy ass out of this before you get hurt,” said the yobbo, as his three companions came up to stand with him.
George smiled pleasantly. This was getting interesting, he thought. To the beer-thrower, he said, “Mr. Ripley, here, isn’t the sort to get involved in a barroom brawl. He might hurt his lip, y’see, and then everyone here would be upset with the people who made that happen.”
The guy looked around. The Pub was almost empty now. The few remaining regulars had backed away from the bar, drinks in their hands. A handful of others who had been leaving now stood at the doorway, watching. The barkeep had faded back to the other end of the bar, the expression on his face somewhere between nervous and curious.
“I don’t give a fuck who gets upset with who. And that includes you, big ass.”
George grabbed the guy by the front of his shirt and lifted him, one hand, off the floor to deposit him with a thump on the bar. He looked very surprised. His three friends stood stock-still.
Ripley touched George’s other arm. “Come on, pal. Let’s not have a fight.”
George looked from the yobbo sitting on the bar to his three standing partners, then broke into a shaggy grin.
“Yeah,” he said to the Ripper. “No sense breakin’ the furniture. Or any heads.”
He turned and started for the door. As he knew they would, all four of them leaped at him. And none of them knew beans about fighting in low gravity.
George swung around and caught the first one with a backhand swat that sent him sprawling. The next two tried to pin his arms but George threw them off. The original troublemaker came at him with a high-pitched yowl and a karate kick aimed at his face. George caught his foot in mid-kick and swung him around like a kid’s toy, lifted him totally off his feet, and then tossed him flying in a howling slow-motion spin over the bar. He crashed into the decorative glassware on the shelves along the back wall.
“Goddammit, George, that costs money!” the barkeep yelled.
But George was busy with the three recovered yobbos. They rushed him all at once, but it was like trying to bring down a statue. George staggered back a step, grunting, then smashed one to the floor with a single sledgehammer blow between his shoulder-blades. He peeled the other two off and held them up off the floor by the scruffs of their necks, shook them the way a terrier shakes a rat, then banged their heads together with a sound like a melon hitting the pavement after a long drop.