Breath of Beelzebub

All that had been distilled from the curious vegetation of the doomed planetoid was half an ounce, a mere timbleful of blue liquor. But it was enough to drive a universe mad.
The martian servant stopped at my desk, coughed faintly to attract my attention. I looked up and he handed me a calling card on which was printed Slane O'Graeme. It was a limp, thumb-marked and discouraged-looking emissary.
'E wishes to see Mr. Ames, the wedge-faced servant told me. The high disdain in his tone of voice revealed more clearly than words his opinion of the visitor.
I shrugged and dropped the card on my desk. Oh, well, send him in. I'll give him the brush-off.
The Martian faded away and I turned back to the 1999 capitulation figures Mr. Ames wanted. I forgot about Slane O'Graeme, whoever he was, until a timid hello made me look up from the reports.
You're Mr. Fleming Ames? he asked diffidently.
He was an odd-looking little guy with a head like an oversize cue-ball and a narrow fringe of fuzzy graying hair that looked like a misguided halo. He wore green-tinted contact lenses that made his eyes seem unusually large and bright.
No, I'm not Fleming Ames, I told him. I'm Bill Dineen, Mr. Ames' confidential secretary. What can I do for you?
Uh—Mr. Ames is president of Universal Liquors, Incorporated, isn't he?
I nodded.
I have something I'd like to show him, Mr. Dineen. It's something new. I found it on Planetoid Y-145.
I stared at him almost incredulously. He didn't look like a spaceman.