"Oh," we said among other unprintables, "that is a fine, tender, sore spot with us, Outhouse. How come?" "I'm not sure but from what I heard down at the alumni house it has something to do with the malting process. I think he's got a law passed or something like that. He had enough influence and he's nasty enough. In college we used to call him the 'Doctor of the Doublecross.'" "You mean you know the punk?" I asked. "Yeah. He tried to get my place on the wrestling team once. He dropped a table on me from the second floor." A dreamy smile played over the lips of an amused Outhouse. "What happened?" asked Lomack. "Oh, I caught it and threw it back up at him. Very messy. But he stayed away from me after that. I haven't seen him in six or seven years. And now he starts treading on my toes again. To say nothing of you two souses. I think it's time to renew an old acquaintance. Let's go." * * * * * We followed him out into the street and caught a 'copter to the Drake building. A beautiful job in steelite and stone, like the Drake heart, I gathered. The stone was only for effect, the steelite held it up. We settled down on the roof, got out and paid the driver. We walked up to the reception clerk. Murphy took it from there. "Mr. Drake is too busy to receive visitors," said the clerk at the desk. "I'm sorry." He really was, too, when Murphy leaned over and put one big hand completely around his neck. "Look," said Murphy, "you just call him on the viewer and tell him that Outhouse is here to finish a job on a table. He'll see us." The clerk tried to gulp but Murphy's fingers were in the way of his epiglottis. So he nodded his head. He was released with caution but there wasn't any need for that now. The clerk picked up the dial and called Drake. Dudley's face appeared on the screen. Dark and handsome he was like a long snake, with a little trick mustache that looked like an old time toothbrush. "What is it?" he snapped. "You know I'm busy." "There's something about a table, sir, and an outhouse"--the receptionist started, but Drake caught sight of Murphy's features shoved in front of the screen. "Hello, Dudley," cooed Murphy. "Think you'll be able to see me? I wouldn't refuse if I were you." Murphy picked up that poor operator and gestured with him. "Remember the table, Dudley? You wouldn't want me to do that to this poor fellow, would you? And besides, I've got a couple of geniuses with me. We want to talk to you about beer." Drake sat back in his chair and grinned a nasty grin. "It's all right, Harkness," he directed. "Send them down." The clerk lay limply back in the chair and pointed voicelessly toward a private elevator. Murphy pointed a finger at him. "Remember, please, that I am a proper noun. When you say Outhouse, don't put '_an_' in front of it." We bowed courteously and stalked off.