All that had been distilled from the curious
vegetation of the doomed planetoid was half
an ounce, a mere timbleful of blue liquor.
But it was enough to drive a universe mad.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Winter 1946.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The martian servant stopped at my desk, coughed faintly to attract
my attention. I looked up and he handed me a calling card on which
was printed "Slane O'Graeme." It was a limp, thumb-marked and
discouraged-looking emissary.
"'E wishes to see Mr. Ames," the wedge-faced servant told me. The high
disdain in his tone of voice revealed more clearly than words his
opinion of the visitor.
I shrugged and dropped the card on my desk. "Oh, well, send him in.
I'll give him the brush-off."
The Martian faded away and I turned back to the 1999 capitulation
figures Mr. Ames wanted. I forgot about Slane O'Graeme, whoever he was,
until a timid "hello" made me look up from the reports.
"You're Mr. Fleming Ames?" he asked diffidently.
He was an odd-looking little guy with a head like an oversize cue-ball
and a narrow fringe of fuzzy graying hair that looked like a misguided
halo. He wore green-tinted contact lenses that made his eyes seem
unusually large and bright.
"No, I'm not Fleming Ames," I told him. "I'm Bill Dineen, Mr. Ames'
confidential secretary. What can I do for you?"
"Uh--Mr. Ames is president of Universal Liquors, Incorporated, isn't
he?"