“I can see that for the salesmen like you,” Hoppy said, “but I’m not a salesman; I’m a repairman, and I’d have a beer if I wanted it.”

The frycook looked uneasy. “Now look, Hoppy—” he began.

“You’re too young to have a beer,” Stuart said. Now everyone in the place was listening and watching.

The phoce had flushed a deep red. “I’m of age,” he said in a quiet, taut voice.

“Don’t serve him any beer,” Connie, the waitress, said to the frycook. “He’s just a kid.”

Reaching into his pocket with his extensor, Hoppy brought Out his wallet; he laid it open on the counter. “I’m twentyone,” he said.

Stuart laughed. “Bull.” He must have some phony identification in there, he realized. The nut printed it himself or forged it or something. He has to be exactly like everyone; he’s got an obsession about it.

Examining the identification in the wallet, the frycook said, “Yeah, it says he’s of age. But Hoppy, remember that other time you were in here and I served you a beer; remember—”

“You have to serve me,” the phoce said.

Grunting, the frycook went and got a bottle of Hamm’s beer, which he placed, unopened, before Hoppy.

“An opener,” the phoce said.

The frycook went and got an opener; he tossed it on the counter, and Hoppy pried open the bottle.

Taking a deep breath, the phoce drank the beer.

What’s going on? Stuart wondered, noticing the way that the frycook and Connie—and even a couple of the patrons—were watching Hoppy. Does he pass out or something? Goes berserk, maybe? He felt repelled and at the same time deeply uneasy. I wish I was through with my food, he thought; I wish I was out of here. Whatever it is, I don’t want to be a witness to it. I’m going back to the shop and watch the rocket again, he decided. I’m going to watch Dangerfield’s flight, something vital to America, not this freak; I don’t have time to waste on this.

But he stayed where he was, because something was happening some peculiar thing involving Hoppy Harrington; he could not draw his attention away from it, try as he might.