Part 1

Beer-Trust Busters

By A. R. STUART

"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.

* * * * *