Harvey and Joe were the slickest con-men ever
to gyp a space-lane sucker. Or so they thought!
Angus Johnson knew differently. He charged them
five buckos for a glass of water--and got it!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories May 1943.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Characteristically, Harvey Ellsworth tried to maintain his dignity,
though his parched tongue was almost hanging out. But Joe Mallon, with
no dignity to maintain, lurched across the rubbish-strewn patch of land
that had been termed a spaceport. When Harvey staggered pontifically
into the battered metalloy saloon--the only one on Planetoid 42--his
tall, gangling partner was already stumbling out, mouthing something
incoherent. They met in the doorway, violently.
"We're delirious!" Joe cried. "It's a mirage!"
"What is?" asked Harvey through a mouthful of cotton.
Joe reeled aside, and Harvey saw what had upset his partner. He stared,
speechless for once.
In their hectic voyages from planet to planet, the pair of panacea
purveyors had encountered the usual strange life-forms. But never had
they seen anything like the amazing creature in that colonial saloon.
Paying no attention to them, it was carrying a case of liquor in two
hands, six siphons in two others, and a broom and dustpan in the
remaining pair. The bartender, a big man resembling the plumpish
Harvey in build, was leaning negligently on the counter, ordering this
impossible being to fill the partly-emptied bottles, squeeze fruit
juice and sweep the floor, all of which the native did simultaneously.
"Nonsense," Harvey croaked uncertainly. "We have seen enough queer
things to know there are always more."
He led the way inside. Through thirst-cracked lips he rasped:
"Water--quick!"
Without a word, the bartender reached under the counter, brought out
two glasses of water. The interplanetary con-men drank noisily, asked
for more, until they had drunk eight glasses. Meanwhile, the bartender
had taken out eight jiggers and filled them with whiskey.
Harvey and Joe were breathing hard from having gulped the water so
fast, but they were beginning to revive. They noticed the bartender's
impersonal eyes studying them shrewdly.
"Strangers, eh?" he asked at last.
"Solar salesmen, my colonial friend," Harvey answered in his usual
lush manner. "We purvey that renowned Martian remedy, _La-anago
Yergis_, the formula for which was recently discovered by ourselves in
the ancient ruined city of La-anago. Medical science is unanimous in
proclaiming this magic medicine the sole panacea in the entire history
of therapeutics."
"Yeah?" said the bartender disinterestedly, polishing the chaser
glasses without washing them. "Where you heading?"
"Out of Mars for Ganymede. Our condenser broke down, and we've gone
without water for five ghastly days."
"Got a mechanic around this dumping ground you call a port?" Joe asked.
"We did. He came near starving and moved on to Titan. Ships don't land
here unless they're in trouble."
"Then where's the water lead-in? We'll fill up and push off."
"Mayor takes care of that," replied the saloon owner. "If you gents're
finished at the bar, your drinks'll be forty buckos."