In the dimmed-light atmosphere, the black uniforms made the place seem filled with vagrant and ominous shadows with white faces. The noise was almost unbearable and Aron had a mind to leave.
He was confronted by a group of these shadows. They were all the same, indistinguishable in their identical uniforms, crew-cuts and young, arrogant faces.
"Hello Mr. Myers," one of them said. "Won't you join us in a drink?"
When he started to demur, they interrupted, "But we insist, Mr. Myers." One took him by an arm and led him to a table.
"After all," they said as the drinks came up, "We owe you at least a drink for giving us such a nice new base and everything, now don't we." It was sarcasm, and hammy sarcasm at that, Aron thought.
He recognized the situation as another case of hazing, but this time by a group of soldiers made even more obnoxious and bellicose by the liquor in their guts.
"You don't owe me anything," Aron said, "I gave it to you for my own reasons and not for money." Sure enough, they even came out with the corny laughter.
He let them play out their little satire without protest. Their grandiose courtesy towards him, the toasts drunk in his honor. That is, until one of them, more drunk than the others, said, "Mr. Myers, I hope you don't mind my telling you, but you are a—." The epithet was a new slang word but its vileness stemmed from prehistoric days.
Aron replied with blazing eyes. "I can't insult you back and you know it. I don't want to be killed that badly. All I can say is:
"Who are you to judge me? You are blind little men in a cage trying to judge someone on the outside.