himself. "See here, young man, I realize thisisn't an ordinary assignment, however, as I said, I am willing to risk aconsiderable portion of my fortune--"
"Sorry," Simon said. "Can't be done."
"A hundred dollars a day plus expenses," Mr. Oyster said quietly. "Ilike the fact that you already seem to have some interest and knowledgeof the matter. I liked the way you knew my name when I walked in thedoor; my picture doesn't appear often in the papers."
"No go," Simon said, a sad quality in his voice.
"A fifty thousand dollar bonus if you bring me a time traveler."
"Out of the question," Simon said.
"But _why_?" Betty wailed.
"Just for laughs," Simon told the two of them sourly, "suppose I tellyou a funny story. It goes like this:"
* * * * * * * * *
I got a thousand dollars from Mr. Oyster (Simon began) in the way of anadvance, and leaving him with Betty who was making out a receipt, Ihustled back to the apartment and packed a bag. Hell, I'd wanted avacation anyway, this was a natural. On the way to Idlewild I stoppedoff at the Germany Information Offices for some tourist literature.
It takes roughly three and a half hours to get to Gander from Idlewild.I spent the time planning the fun I was going to have.
It takes roughly seven and a half hours from Gander to Shannon and Ispent that time dreaming up material I could put into my reports to Mr.Oyster. I was going to have to give him some kind of report for hismoney. Time travel yet! What a laugh!
Between Shannon and Munich a faint suspicion began to simmer in my mind.These statistics I read on the _Oktoberfest_ in the Munich touristpamphlets. Five million people attended annually.
Where did five million people come from to attend an overgrown festivalin comparatively remote Southern Germany? The tourist season is overbefore September 21st, first day of the gigantic beer bust. Nor couldthe Germans account for any such number. Munich itself has a populationof less than a million, counting children.
And those millions of gallons of beer, the hundreds of thousands ofchickens, the herds of oxen. Who ponied up all the money for suchexpenditures? How could the average German, with his twenty-five dollarsa week salary?
In Munich there was no hotel space available. I went to the Bahnhofwhere they have a hotel service and applied. They put my name down,pocketed the husky bribe, showed me where I could check my bag, told methey'd do what they could, and to report back in a few hours.
I had another suspicious twinge. If five million people attended thisbeer bout, how were they accommodated?
The _Theresienwiese_, the fair ground, was only a few blocks away. I wasstiff from the plane ride so I walked.
* * * * *
There are seven major brewers in the Munich area, each of themrepresented by one of the circuslike tents that Mr. Oyster mentioned.Each tent contained benches and tables for about five thousand personsand from six to ten thousands pack themselves in, competing for room. Inthe center is a tremendous bandstand, the musicians all _lederhosen_clad, the music as Bavarian as any to be found in a Bavarian beer hall.Hundreds of peasant garbed _fraeuleins_ darted about the tables withquart sized earthenware mugs, platters of chicken, sausage, kraut andpretzels.
I found a place finally at a table which had space for twenty-odd beerbibbers. Odd is right. As weird an assortment of Germans and foreigntourists as could have been dreamed up, ranging from a seventy- oreighty-year-old couple in Bavarian costume, to the bald-headed drunkacross the table from me.
A desperate waitress bearing six mugs of beer in each hand scurriedpast. They call them _masses_, by the way, not mugs. The bald-headedcharacter and I both held up a finger and she slid two of the _masses_over to us and then hustled on.
"Down the hatch," the other said, holding up his _mass_ in toast.
"To the ladies," I told him. Before sipping, I said, "You know, thetourist pamphlets say this stuff is eighteen per cent. That's nonsense.No beer is that strong." I took a long pull.
He looked at me, waiting.
I came up. "Mistaken," I admitted.
A _mass_ or two apiece later he looked carefully at the name engraved onhis earthenware mug. "Loewenbraeu," he said. He took a small notebook fromhis pocket and a pencil, noted down the word and returned the things.
"That's a queer looking pencil you have there," I told him. "German?"
"Venusian," he said. "Oops, sorry. Shouldn't have said that."
I had never heard of the brand so I skipped it.
"Next is the Hofbraeu," he said.
"Next what?" Baldy's conversation didn't seem to hang together verywell.
"My pilgrimage," he told me. "All my life I've been wanting to go backto an _Oktoberfest_ and sample every one of the seven brands of the bestbeer the world has ever known. I'm only as far as Loewenbraeu. I'm afraidI'll never make it."
I finished my _mass_. "I'll help you," I told him. "Very noble endeavor.Name is Simon."
"Arth," he said. "How could you help?"
"I'm still fresh--comparatively. I'll navigate you around. There areseven beer tents. How many have you got through, so far?"
"Two, counting this one," Arth said.
I looked at him. "It's going to be a chore," I said. "You've already gota nice edge on."
Outside, as we made our way to the next tent, the fair looked like everybig State-Fair ever seen, except it was bigger. Games, souvenir stands,sausage stands, rides, side shows, and people, people, people.
The Hofbraeu tent was as overflowing as the last but we managed to findtwo seats.
The band was blaring, and five thousand half-swacked voices were roaringaccompaniment.
_In Muenchen steht ein Hofbraeuhaus! Eins, Zwei, G'sufa!_
At the _G'sufa_ everybody upped with the mugs and drank each other'shealth.
"This is what I call a real beer bust," I said approvingly.
Arth was waving to a waitress. As in the Loewenbraeu tent, a full quartwas the smallest amount obtainable.
A beer later I said, "I don't know if you'll make it or not, Arth."
"Make what?"
"All seven tents."
"Oh."
A waitress was on her way by, mugs foaming over their rims. I gesturedto her for refills.
"Where are you from, Arth?" I asked him, in the way of makingconversation.
"2183."
"2183 where?"
He looked at me, closing one eye to focus better. "Oh," he said. "Well,2183 South Street, ah, New Albuquerque."
"New Albuquerque? Where's that?"
Arth thought about it. Took another long pull at the beer. "Right acrossthe way from old Albuquerque," he said finally. "Maybe we ought to begetting on to the Pschorrbraeu tent."
"Maybe we ought to eat something first," I said. "I'm beginning to feelthis. We could get some of that barbecued ox."
Arth closed his eyes in pain. "Vegetarian," he said. "Couldn't possiblyeat meat. Barbarous. Ugh."
"Well, we need some nourishment," I said.
"There's supposed to be considerable nourishment in beer."
That made sense. I yelled, "_Fraeulein! Zwei neu bier!_"
* * * * *
Somewhere along in here the fog rolled in. When it rolled out again, Ifound myself closing one eye the better to read the lettering on myearthenware mug. It read Augustinerbraeu. Somehow we'd evidentlynavigated from one tent to another.
Arth was saying, "Where's your hotel?"
That seemed like a good question. I thought about it for a while.Finally I said, "Haven't got one. Town's jam packed. Left my bag at theBahnhof. I don't think we'll ever make it, Arth. How many we got to go?"
"Lost track," Arth said. "You can come home with me."
We drank to that and the fog rolled in again.
When the fog rolled out, it was daylight. Bright, glaring, awfuldaylight. I was sprawled, complete with clothes, on one of twin beds. Onthe other bed, also comp
letely clothed, was Arth.
That sun was too much. I stumbled up from the bed, staggered to thewindow and fumbled around for a blind or curtain. There was none.
Behind me a voice said in horror, "Who ... how ... oh, _Wodo_, where'dyou come from?"
I got a quick impression, looking out the window, that the Germans werecertainly the most modern, futuristic people in the world. But Icouldn't stand the light. "Where's the shade," I moaned.
Arth did something and the window went opaque.
"That's quite a gadget," I groaned. "If I didn't feel so lousy,