Paul snatched out a handkerchief and wiped his lips as he glanced guiltily up and down the bar. Had anyone been watching? Apparently not. Then Paul saw a small man with an ingrown chin get shakily off his stool.
The little man gulped as he eyed Paul in terror. Then he looked back at his own beer glass as though it had turned into a cobra. Now he threw down a quarter and headed for the door.
Paul grinned. Not interested in questioning or analyzing his new power, he was satisfied in being happy with it, in examining its possibilities.
He ordered another drink. The barkeep set it before him, turned away, and another miracle was performed, as slowly, steadily, the martini glass moved across the polished bar.
At the edge, it rose evenly in the air. The martini glided smoothly down Paul's throat. Empty, the glass returned to the table.
Paul tingled all over, thoroughly enjoying the new thrill, the new sense of power. It was far more intoxicating than the martinis themselves.
With a marked sense of superiority he again looked up and down the bar. The first flash of fear gone, he now regarded the other drinkers with patronizing contempt.
That fat fellow there at the end for instance. Drinking a manhattan. Trying to look like a banker. Trying to impress the people. Pompous ass! Maybe I can fix his wagon, Paul thought.
The man raised his glass with an exaggerating sweep of his hand. Paul concentrated and the poor unfortunate poured its entire contents over