"It's a hell of a note when one guy controls the
beer situation--let's do Dudley dirty!" rang the
war cry of Doc, Listless and Outhouse. And the
intrepid trio went blearily about the business of
dirtying Dudley--empty bottles marking their trail.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Fall 1945.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
We pulled into the spaceport with the asteroid in tow. Platinum--20%.
Very nice. We cleared our papers and sold the deposit for a tidy sum.
There was only one thing to do and we did it.
"Three beers," said Outhouse. Six feet four he was and built like one.
The bartender brought them over. None of those mechanical mixers for
us like they have in the high class joints. We like human company.
Maybe that's why I'm always fighting with Outhouse Murphy and Listless
Lomack.
"Nice spotting on that asteroid, Doc," said Listless, downing his beer
in a gulp and ordering three more, all for himself. "It's nice to have
an astrophysicist in the crew. Sometimes you actually have a purpose."
"More than a third class navigator," I yipped. But I was feeling pretty
good. We all were. Money in our pockets, a good ship to roam around in
and the best of company. We sat around over more beer, discussing plans
for a real bender of which this was only the beginning, as you might
say. When we finally picked out what we wanted to do, we called for the
bill.
Murphy picked it up and set it down.
"What's the matter?" I asked.
"Look," he commanded.
I added up the column and checked the total. Then I thought back over
the number of drinks we'd had. Listless pulled out a pocket slipstick
but I didn't need it.
"The price," I said in a hushed whisper, "has doubled."
Listless turned to the bartender.
"What's the idea?" he asked. The guy shrugged.
"That's the latest," he said. "I can't help it. I gotta pay more, I
gotta charge more."
"Who's your supplier?" asked Outhouse.
"Drake," said the bartender.
Murphy turned to us.
"I got suspicions," he informed us. "I got to go chase 'em up. I'll be
back in a little while."
Listless and I debated whether to order more. It was almost cheaper to
drink hard liquor but we decided that discretion was the better part of
hangover and stuck to beer.
We hung around for about an hour and finally the door was shadowed by
Murphy's tremendous form. If an elephant can slide, Murphy slid onto a
stool. He ordered a couple and turned to us.
"Well, boys, what do you think of the doings of Dirty Dudley?"
Listless and I looked at each other.
"Dudley D. Drake, young tycoon; embezzled from his father, sold short
on his brother and now controls the beer situation."
"Oh," we said among other unprintables, "that is a fine, tender, sore
spot with us, Outhouse. How come?"
"I'm not sure but from what I heard down at the alumni house it has
something to do with the malting process. I think he's got a law passed
or something like that. He had enough influence and he's nasty enough.
In college we used to call him the 'Doctor of the Doublecross.'"
"You mean you know the punk?" I asked.
"Yeah. He tried to get my place on the wrestling team once. He dropped
a table on me from the second floor." A dreamy smile played over the
lips of an amused Outhouse.
"What happened?" asked Lomack.
"Oh, I caught it and threw it back up at him. Very messy. But he stayed
away from me after that. I haven't seen him in six or seven years. And
now he starts treading on my toes again. To say nothing of you two
souses. I think it's time to renew an old acquaintance. Let's go."
* * * * *
We followed him out into the street and caught a 'copter to the Drake
building. A beautiful job in steelite and stone, like the Drake heart,
I gathered. The stone was only for effect, the steelite held it up. We
settled down on the roof, got out and paid the driver. We walked up to
the reception clerk. Murphy took it from there.
"Mr. Drake is too busy to receive visitors," said the clerk at the
desk. "I'm sorry."
He really was, too, when Murphy leaned over and put one big hand
completely around his neck.
"Look," said Murphy, "you just call him on the viewer and tell him that
Outhouse is here to finish a job on a table. He'll see us."
The clerk tried to gulp but Murphy's fingers were in the way of his
epiglottis. So he nodded his head. He was released with caution but
there wasn't any need for that now. The clerk picked up the dial and
called Drake. Dudley's face appeared on the screen. Dark and handsome
he was like a long snake, with a little trick mustache that looked like
an old time toothbrush.
"What is it?" he snapped. "You know I'm busy."
"There's something about a table, sir, and an outhouse"--the
receptionist started, but Drake caught sight of Murphy's features
shoved in front of the screen.
"Hello, Dudley," cooed Murphy. "Think you'll be able to see me? I
wouldn't refuse if I were you." Murphy picked up that poor operator and
gestured with him. "Remember the table, Dudley? You wouldn't want me to
do that to this poor fellow, would you? And besides, I've got a couple
of geniuses with me. We want to talk to you about beer."
Drake sat back in his chair and grinned a nasty grin.
"It's all right, Harkness," he directed. "Send them down."
The clerk lay limply back in the chair and pointed voicelessly toward a
private elevator. Murphy pointed a finger at him.
"Remember, please, that I am a proper noun. When you say Outhouse,
don't put '_an_' in front of it." We bowed courteously and stalked off.
The elevator was waiting for us. We got in, and it slipped soundlessly
down to Drake's office. He was sitting waiting for us, his elbows on
the desk, hands clasped together. He didn't bother to get up when we
came in. Nor even offer chairs.
"Enter one Outhouse," he said, "and two crummy friends. I am delighted."
I excite easily. I started to hop up and down. But Murphy put a hand
on my shoulder and I staggered to a rest. So I decided to turn on the
brain, while Outhouse handled the other stuff.
"What's the dope on this beer business?" asked Murphy.
"Pretty simple," said Drake. "There has been a law passed just recently
and tucked away in the files where it will not be noticed, unless,
of course, there should be a need for it. The gist of it is that
all malting done on the planet must be carried on under government
supervision. That means strict control of course. The purest grains,
the most carefully controlled processes, all that sort of thing.
And if any detail is overlooked or found not satisfactory, a rather
large fine is incurred. I own the larger part of the malting plants as
you well know, although there are some others. They won't offer much
trouble however, for you see, I am the government supervisor."
I started to swear and again Murphy reached over, this time over my
mouth. Then he pointed to a recorder disc. Clever guy, Dudley. If I'd
said what I was going to say he could have put me up for the rest of my
life and probably would.
Drake smiled and clicked off the switch.
"Now you can say what you like," he told me. "Nice of me, isn't it?"
"We will keep the conversation on friendly terms," directed Murphy,
"just in case."
"Now to get down to business. It is our intention to bust your combine.
Perhaps you would like to buy us off?" We hadn't thought of it till
then but it sounded like a good idea. Listless and I nodded.
Drake sneered.
"How?" he asked. "I've got the Earth covered. And the other planets
haven't the necessary conditions. The cloud layers on Venus keep out
most of the sunlight and Mars and the rest of the outer planets are too
far away. You're welcome to try Mercury."
Sure, Mercury would be swell. It's either too hot or too cold. He had
us stopped all right. But--crumbs! I was sore.
"We're starting this cold," I yipped, "but we're gonna take you over
the oleos and blow you out our jets. You should have bowed low when we
came in. You didn't know you were talking to a group of experts." I
included Murphy and Listless grandly. I'm really the smart guy in the
bunch but I didn't have to tell that to Drake. I knew I was good, that
was sufficient.
Drake laughed.
"Go ahead and try," he said.
"Let's go, guys," I told them. We slammed out of the office, catching
a last glimpse of Drake's nasty look as the elevator door closed. We
traveled to the landing level, bade the clerk a pleasant goodbye after
we pulled him out from under the desk, and hailed a 'copter.
"Big talk, Doc," sighed Listless when we were seated at a quiet little
midtown bar. "But how are you going to do it?"
"I dunno," I said, "but give me time."
* * * * *
We were taking a jog around the track. It being a nice warm sunny
day, Listless had decided that what we needed was to work some of the
alcohol out of our systems. I objected, but was roped in anyway. Murphy
merely sniffed. With his build he was immune. However he said he needed
some fresh air so he would come along and hold a timer on us. Listless
protested but I said swell. That's Listless for you; "Come on, Doc.
Let's run off a couple of fast miles." Sure. Until somebody comes along
to check up on him. Then he starts making excuses. But the two of us
dragged him along.
So here we were on the city track, along with half a dozen other
undeveloped individuals, pounding around a cinder path in the park,
each of us trying to breathe so the other wouldn't hear and feel the
jar clear up to the occiput every time a foot came down. This must be
awful on Listless' toes, I thought. He likes to wiggle 'em every time
he gets in the pilot seat.
On the third lap, Murphy started yelling and swinging his arm.
"Come on, Lomack, oil your oleos. Chase him, Doc. You guys are doing
time."
Listless stuck out his chest and lengthened his stride but soon came
back to the old stumble. I'm built pretty light so it didn't bother me
much. I just stepped up the pace with him but I didn't slow down when
he did. So I was looking at the timer, my head stuck under Murphy's arm
when Listless broke an imaginary tape with his nose.
"How'd we do?" he panted when he got his breath.
"Swell," Outhouse enthused. "Sixty seconds less and you'd have only
been a minute over the record."
"Oh," said Lomack.
"Yeah?" I said. "Oh. And what's more, Listless, you tentacle-toed ape,
I got an idea running around that track. I think, I think, I really
think, that we can do Dudley dirty."
"What is it?" queried Murphy.
"I'm not saying yet," I replied. "I've got to think it over for a while
and examine the holes."
"Moth holes?" said Listless.
"Nuts," said I.
"Marbles," said Outhouse. "Keep it to yourself, Doc, if you want to."
"Well," said Listless slowly, "I bet one thing. I bet whatever it is, I
gotta navigate."
"You not only gotta navigate," I replied, "you gotta navigate _well_."
"Now listen--"
"Now listen, nothing," I screeched. "Not only will this bust up Dear
Old Dudley's beer combine but it will also be a wonderful, beautiful,
perfect demonstration of--"
"Of what?" asked Outhouse enticingly.
"Never mind," I said cunningly, "we'll let that take care of itself
when the time comes."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," said Listless, who got his name because he's
lazy, though _he_ says it's because he can hold his liquor, "he's got
another half throttled idea which means I'll be back to work at the old
slipstick."
"That's the trouble with you, Listless," I said haughtily. "You're
limited to the depth of an astroplex navigator. Now take the thoughts
of a real scientist." Here I strutted a bit. "You never could
understand anything deeper than _Arctic Nights_. But a brain--like
me--" I added modestly. "People will stand and point in awe when--"
"The model scientist," sneered Lomack, "meaning of course, a small
imitation of the real thing."
I let out a howl and went for him. We were all set for a nice scrap
when Murphy broke it up.
"Now," he said, "if you two specimens of would-be manhood are going to
shower and dress, get to it. I gotta date."
"Glass, bottle or demijohn?" I asked from my tangled position. He
stalked off. Then I untangled Listless' fingers from my hair and
unwrapped his legs from around my middle, thus taking the pressure off
him and letting him up. He took his teeth from around my forefinger and
admitted that I had him licked. That's one thing I like about Lomack;
when he's beaten he admits it.
* * * * *
I made a nifty little jog to the locker room while Listless limped
along behind. We showered, got our loafer suits out of the lockers, and
feeling pretty swell, sauntered out into a soft evening.
"Boy," breathed Listless, taking a deep breath as though he hadn't had
enough on the track, "this is lovely. Let's go find Murphy."
Which meant a bender of course. For, as I have mentioned, Murphy is
a man with all the physical capabilities of a three-year-old gorilla
on a hashish jag. And if you wonder at the strange figures of speech
we sometimes use, it is because Murphy was once an archaeologist who
taught languages and made a side line specialty of ancient idioms.
Until he got tired of teaching college boys and associating with
professors. He was always hurting someone in wrestling, boxing or
social intercourse so he finally dropped the whole business and went on
a tear. Lomack and I picked him up in a low orbit space dive. He found
us not repugnant and we rather enjoyed his finesse in a fight so we
stuck together. When he wasn't off on a bat.
"Where to?" I asked.
"You know better than that," I was admonished. "You mean where first.
"Just plain _where_ is even better," I concluded.
He took from his pocket a bunch of those little plastic souvenirs they
put on bottles--he had plenty of opportunity to swipe them--and picked
out five with the names of bars on them.
"I'll toss 'em up," he explained, "and you grab one when they come
down. That'll be a starter."
So in the soft, yellowish red rays of a late and tired sun I watched
while he turned three times to the west, went through the motions of
blowing a beer head and tossed up his hand. The light tinkled quietly
on the crystal clear figures as they soared lazily upward against a
darkening blue. Spinning and tumbling they reached the zenith of flight
and slowly gained velocity as they returned to the mother of all--but
I wax poetic. I reached out my hand and snatched one. "_Benny's
Barometric Beer_," it read.
"I remember that joint," mused Listless. "They adjust the gas pressure
to equal outside pressure. Result--no burp."
"Even in thunderstorms?" I asked.
"Automatic pressure regulator."
So we went to Benny's. That's a nice quiet place downtown. As a rule,
we don't go for the rainbow palaces and throne rooms that cater to
the more exclusive and less interesting trade. All they ever have is
acrobatic dancing at quarter gravity and stuff that Murphy could do
at 3g's without straining anyone but me. And besides, with Dudley in
control, the beer in those places would probably cost us half a credit.
So we went to _Benny's_ and Murphy wasn't there. Then we went to the
_Sun Spot_ and the only thing we recognized was the rise in price.
We hit three or four more places but they were all modernized--no
Outhouse. I was beginning to get sore about the rise in the cost of
living. And Listless didn't seem to know what it was all about. After
the fourth joint he started to argue with the bartenders. Which didn't
do a bit of good because in those particular places, the bartenders
were automatics. Finally we sallied into the _Solar Spin Club_ and
walked, stalked or clambered up to the bar. The regular customers
walked, Listless stalked and I clambered.
* * * * *
The _club_ was a pretty good bet because it has an old-fashioned bar in
the rear for those who like to tell their trouble to a bartender who is
deaf. Nobody knew that except a couple of us. Next to the bar were some
tables. At one of these sat Brother Dudley and a couple of friends.
Looking very disconsolate. Standing at the less brightly lit end of
the bar were three lovely ladies laughing hysterically at one, broad
Outhouse.
"He's telling dirty jokes again," I sniffed.
"Sometimes," sighed Listless, "I wish I had studied the more cultural
subjects. It helps."
"Helps what?" I demanded. "Anybody can do Drake. And anyway, you never
met anyone who could appreciate them."
He started to grin in a nasty way.
"Present company excepted," I yiped. "You know what I mean. Don't try
to get high-handed with me, you swizzle. I'm over your head like a
Heaviside Layer." Then I calmed down.
"This isn't going to make Dudley feel any too friendly toward us,"
mused Listless, giving the three solos at the table the once-over.
"Look at him," I said. "He doesn't feel good to anybody, ever. We
should worry."
"Two beers," I ordered, ruefully counting out the exorbitant amount I
had learned was necessary. Drake seemed to brighten a little at that.
Going right out of our pockets into his, the bum.
We stoked our holds in a hurry, ordered a couple more and gave Outhouse
the high sign.
He started toward us and the bevy of beauties followed along
automatically. Reminded me of a barnyard.
"Hi, folks," he greeted us. "Look what I got it." The three girls
giggled. Drake and his buddies sat and brooded. I kept an eye on them
just to see when things got started. Listless was aware of them too,
'cause I saw him tenderly feel his hip pocket for his applicator.
That's what he called it. But Murphy had told him about that gadget. He
said it was called a brass knuckle in the old days. Listless of course,
had to be high-toned and make it out of plastic on his little press.
The more we talked and laughed and the noisier we got, the glummer the
other three became. I guess they wanted silence. Finally they looked at
each other. I gave Murphy the nudge.
"Routine Three," I whispered. I loved that one. And we weren't feeling
too frisky yet. Not that we wanted to avoid a fight, you understand,
but we had two more days of healthy drinking to do if we wanted to
preserve our record. Murphy nodded his agreement to my suggestion and
I strolled over to the slot machine control and put a coin in the
smoothest, dreamiest, slowest dance number I could pick out. The music
controlled the gravity strength of the floor, and with that piece I
knew there wouldn't be enough field to flatten a quart of quicksilver.
Outhouse carefully detached his arm from where it was, made sure there
was plenty of room then turned and thumbed his nose at the boys. They
snarled and jumped for him.
Tsk, tsk, I thought, is that what Dudley learned in college? For
Murphy bent his knees, stretched out his arms and gathered them in. In
two steps he made the dance floor and tossed them gently up over it.
While they scrambled and twisted, weightlessly, trying to get down, we
grabbed the three girls. All of us charged through the door and into a
'copter.
"Now where?" asked Lomack after we had lost ourselves in a traffic
level.
"Any place where we can test Drake's products," I told him. "Then the
next time we meet him we'll really have something to yell about."
* * * * *
"C'mon on, Doc. Wake up! Something's happened."
"Hrrmph, brrrp, splat, phtooey," I replied as intelligibly as was
possible under the circumstances. I opened my eyes and couldn't see a
thing.
"Snap out of it. Hurry up." It was Listless' voice whispering through
the darkness.
I groped around and found a light switch. I pushed it. There was a
tremendous flash as the world disintegrated. I jumped up, banged my
head against something and flopped back half dead. I heard Lomack
laughing fit to kill. The ape. The lights went on. He was doubled over
alongside my berth back in the ship. I looked at the light fixture.
He'd taken out the regular element and substituted a flash lamp.
"Very funny," I moaned, rubbing my head where I had hit it against
the upper bunk. "Lucky you didn't blind me for life." I slipped back
under the covers, turned over and was all set for another snooze when I
remembered. I sat up in a hurry.
"What time is it?" I asked.
"Two days later," said Listless. I relaxed. We were O.K. then. I was
afraid for a moment that we had gone soft. But two days isn't so bad.
That's a lot of beer and, I shivered, a hell of a lot of credits.
I staggered out of the berth, put on some clothes and went to the
galley. Murphy was still eating. I reached for the bacon. No pills for
us, not while they still grow pigs. There was silence while we shoveled
it in. After the second cup of coffee, I sat back and gave forth with a
big sigh.
"Now," I said, "it is time to consider more serious things."
"Like Dirty Dudley," put in Listless.
"My old college chum," remarked Outhouse.
"And the idea you had in the park the other day," added Lomack.
"What is it?" asked Listless. "A new theory that will set the
astrologers back on their ears?"
"No," I replied. "It's not a new theory. It's an old and accepted one.
But nobody ever thought of testing it out. That's what I want to do.
And in testing it we will beat the beer combine at their own game. This
will get us much praise from the thinking population as well as all
good beer drinkers."
"He means the Society of Astrophysicists," said Murphy. He turned to
me. "You and that bunch. You're dead and don't know it."
"Yeah," said Listless, "moping around a bunch of archives in dusty old
halls. You oughta go there and bury yourself, Doc."
"Shut up, shut up, shut up," I yelled. To think of a grown man like me
acting that way. Sometimes I get disgusted with myself. But not in this
bunch. They always beat me to it.
"Lemme talk." I outlined the details of the plan without giving away
the fundamental idea. When I had finished, Listless leaned back and
groaned.
"I knew it," he said. "I gotta make five hauling trips before I even
get started figuring orbits. Whenever you have an idea, Doc, it's just
one load after another. And what are you going to do with them after
you get them set up out there?"
"I'll tell you when we're ready," I said. "And don't worry about the
orbits. I'll figure those. I couldn't trust you with such a delicate
task."
"I always knew you went around in circles, Doc," complained Murphy,
"but this is the first time I ever saw it come out literally."
"Not circles, you culture hound, ellipses as any student would know."
"And what, may I ask again, is the purpose of this little venture?"
Lomack was trying to be funny.
"In addition to dishing Dudley," I replied calmly, "I'm going to
demonstrate that Einstein was right."
As we walked past the striped side of the ship to set out for supplies
I glanced at the bow. We were in! Childishly printed, showing that one
of us had been blotto, I read: "_Beerbuster_," sprawled on the bow
plate. The previous name, "_Zebra_," the remnant of a five-day drunk,
had been obliterated by the simple process of smearing catsup on it.
The ship was all ready to go.
So were we.
* * * * *
We were out in free space beyond Pluto's orbit towing a third load of
asteroids; four big, juicy ones, taking them to the empty region we'd
picked for the job. I was doing the piloting, pretty routine once the
course was picked. Listless was back in the store room checking over
the equipment we had picked up on this trip and, incidentally, giving
his toes a rest. He twiddles his lowest extremities so much when he
pilots that after a while he gets cramps and has to quit. Wears hell
out of his socks that way. I heard him yell as he stubbed one of his
darlings against a plate. We had half a dozen plates back there with
specially designed foundations. They were to go on the asteroids and
Listless had figured out an embedding foundation to fasten the plates
to the rocky surfaces we had to deal with. We'd left Murphy out with
the fifteen we'd already carted. Which might sound dangerous to Murphy,
but in spite of what I say, Listless is a mighty good navigator and can
find a comet in a dark nebula if he wants to.
We came up to the cluster and spotted Murphy soaring about with a plate
in one hand. He saw us and tried to wave the plate but only succeeded
in wiggling himself. Those big plates, with disintegration chambers
attached have plenty of inertia.
Two of the rocks on which he had completed the job were separated. I
surrendered the controls to Lomack who swung the ship around and sent
the four we were towing swinging toward the rest of the pile. Then he
jumped the ship at the right moment and they came to a stop not twenty
feet from the others. Nice shooting, I thought, although I wouldn't
admit it. Murphy came across to the ship and we started unloading the
plates.
The machinists had done a beautiful job. To standard plates they had
added the fuel chamber and encased the whole in a shell of steelite.
From this shell projected the adjustable pincer clamps which would
dig into the solid rock and set immovably, making a rigid base for
operations. They were full-sized, liner plates and we estimated three
to an asteroid in a tripod formation which would give any orbit I was
likely to want.
We tied them in a convenient hollow and went on an inspection trip to
see how Murphy had made out with his installations. Listless checked
angles and tested foundations.
"Looks O.K., Doc," he commented. "Think you have enough mass?"