Beyond This Horizon Read Free Page B

attempted to comply, somewhat clumsily, but the greasy, hard surface skidded between his fingers. He attempted to recover and knocked it over the edge of the balcony rail at his elbow.
    He started to rise; Hamilton put a hand on his forearm. “My fault,” he said. “I will repair it.” He stood up and looked down at the table directly beneath their booth.
    He did not see the stray bit of seafood at once, but he had no difficulty in telling approximately where it had landed. Seated at the table was a party of eight. Two of them were elderly men who wore the brassards-of-peace. Four women alternated with the males around the table. One of them, quite young and pretty, was dabbing at something which seemed to have stained her gown. The wayward crab leg was floating in a crystal bell of purple liquid directly in front of her; cause and effect were easy to infer.
    The two remaining men were both armed, both standing, and staring up at the balcony. The younger, a slender youth in bright scarlet promenade dress, was resting his right hand on the grip of his sidearm, and seemed about to speak. The older man turned coldly dangerous eyes from Hamilton to his youthful companion. “My privilege, Cyril,” he said quietly, “if you please.”
    The young brave was clearly annoyed and reluctant to comply; nevertheless he bowed stiffly and sat down. His elder returned the bow punctiliously and turned back to Hamilton. The lace of his cuff brushed his holster, but he had not touched his weapon—as yet.
    Hamilton leaned over the balcony, both his hands spread and plainly visible on the rail. “Sir, my clumsiness has disturbed the pleasure of your meal and invaded your privacy. I am deeply sorry.”
    “I have your assurance that it was accidental, sir?” The man’s eyes were still frosty, but he made no move to draw. But he did not sit down.
    “You have indeed, sir, and with it my humble apology. Will you graciously permit me to make reparation?”
    The other glanced down, not at the youth, but at the girl whose gown had been splashed. She shrugged. He answered Hamilton, “The thought is taken for the deed, sir.”
    “Sir, you leave me indebted.”
    “Not at all, sir.”
    They were exchanging bows and were about to resume their seats, when a shouted remark from the balcony booth directly opposite interrupted them. “Where’s your brassard?”
    They both looked toward the source of the disturbance; one of a party of men—armed citizens all apparently, for no brassards were to be seen—was leaning out of the booth and staring with deliberate rudeness. Hamilton spoke to the man at the table below. “My privilege, is it not, sir?”
    “Your privilege. I wish you well.” He sat down and turned his attention back to his guests.
    “You spoke to me?” asked Hamilton of the man across the ring.
    “I did. You were let off lightly. You should eat at home—if you have a home. Not in the presence of gentlefolk.”
    Monroe-Alpha touched Hamilton’s arm. “He’s drunk,” he whispered. “Take it easy.”
    “I know,” his friend answered in a barely audible aside, “but he gives me no choice.”
    “Perhaps his friends will take care of him.”
    “We’ll see.”
    Indeed his friends were attempting to. One of them placed a restraining hand on his weapon arm, but he shook him off. He was playing to a gallery—the entire restaurant was quiet now, the diners ostentatiously paying no attention, a pose contrary to fact. “Answer me!” he demanded.
    “I will,” Hamilton stated quietly. “You have been drinking and are not responsible. Your friends should disarm you and place a brassard on you . Else some short-tempered gentleman may fail to note that your manners were poured from a bottle.”
    There was a stir and a whispered consultation in the party behind the other man, as if some agreed with Hamilton’s estimate of the situation. One of them spoke urgently to the belligerent one, but he ignored it.
    “What’s that about