He said, "Sure. Any more of that stuff left in the bottle, Old Virgie?"
I poured for him. It was my impression, later borne out by evidence, that he was not accustomed to drinking.
I said, "It's sure great to see all the fellows again, isn't it? Say, look at Pudge Detweiler there! Ever see anything so comical as the lampshade he's wearing for a hat?"
"Just pass me the bottle, will you?" Greco requested. "Old Virgie, I mean."
"Still in research and that sort of thing?" I asked. "You always were a brain, Greek. I can't tell you how much I've envied you creative fellows. I'm in sales myself. Got a little territory right here that's a mint, Greek. A mint. If I only knew where I could lay my hands on a little capital to expand it the way—But I won't bore you with shop talk. What's your line these days?"
"I'm in transmutation," he said clearly, and passed out face down on the table.
Now nobody ever called me a dope—other things, yes, but not a dope.
I knew what transmutation meant. Lead into gold, tin into platinum, all that line of goodies. And accordingly the next morning, after a certain amount of Bromo and black coffee, I asked around the campus and found out that Greco had a place of his own not far from the campus. That explained why he'd turned up for the reunion. I'd been wondering.
I borrowed cab fare from Old Pudge Detweiler and headed for the address I'd been given.
It wasn't a home. It was a beat-up factory and it had a sign over the door: