Beer-Trust Busters

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.