Beer-Trust Busters

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.

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...