The Head laughed. "Your only hope is that a return to a concentrated diet will poison him. You've no chance of winning over Sanford Grew alive."
We went from there to the Sunspot. "It's funny," Quinby used to say. "I don't much like to drink, but a bar's always good for heavy thinking." And who was I to argue?
Guzub, that greatest of bartenders, spotted us as we came in and had one milk and one straight whiskey poured by the time we reached our usual back table. He served them to us himself, with a happy flourish of his tentacles.
"What are you so beamish about?" I asked gruffly.
Guzub shut his middle eye in the Martian expression of happiness. "Begauze you boys are going to 'ave a gread zugzezz with your uxuvorm robods and you invended them righd 'ere in the Zunzbod." He produced another tentacle holding a slug of straight vuzd and downed it. "Good lugg!"
I glowered after him. "We need luck. With Grew as our sworn enemy, we're on the—"
Quinby had paper spread out before him. He looked up now, took a sip of milk, and said, "Do you cook?"
"Not much. Concentrates do me most of the time."
"I can sympathize with Grew. I like old-fashioned food myself and I'm fairly good at cooking it. I just thought you might have some ideas."