"Next what?" Baldy's conversation didn't seem to hang together very well.
"My pilgrimage," he told me. "All my life I've been wanting to go back to an Oktoberfest and sample every one of the seven brands of the best beer the world has ever known. I'm only as far as Löwenbräu. I'm afraid I'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 are seven 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 got a nice edge on."
Outside, as we made our way to the next tent, the fair looked like every big State-Fair ever seen, except it was bigger. Games, souvenir stands, sausage stands, rides, side shows, and people, people, people.
The Hofbräu tent was as overflowing as the last but we managed to find two seats.
The band was blaring, and five thousand half-swacked voices were roaring accompaniment.