The man named Sam gritted his teeth; his biceps tensed, knuckles grew white. The glass trembled. Then it moved—toward Retief. Sam hunched his shoulders, straining.
"That's the stuff, Mister!"
"What's the matter, Sam? You tired?"
The glass moved steadily closer to Retief's face.
"A hundred the new man makes it!"
"Watch Sam! Any minute now...."
The glass slowed, paused. Retief's wrist twitched and the glass crashed to the table top. A shout went up. Sam leaned back with a sigh, massaging his hand.
"That's some arm you got, Mister," he said. "If you hadn't jumped just then...."
"I guess the drinks are on me," Retief said.