Breath Of Beelzebub
By LARRY STERNIG
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.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Winter 1946.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
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.