So in the soft, yellowish red rays of a late and tired sun I watched while he turned three times to the west, went through the motions of blowing a beer head and tossed up his hand. The light tinkled quietly on the crystal clear figures as they soared lazily upward against a darkening blue. Spinning and tumbling they reached the zenith of flight and slowly gained velocity as they returned to the mother of all--but I wax poetic. I reached out my hand and snatched one. "_Benny's Barometric Beer_," it read. "I remember that joint," mused Listless. "They adjust the gas pressure to equal outside pressure. Result--no burp." "Even in thunderstorms?" I asked. "Automatic pressure regulator." So we went to Benny's. That's a nice quiet place downtown. As a rule, we don't go for the rainbow palaces and throne rooms that cater to the more exclusive and less interesting trade. All they ever have is acrobatic dancing at quarter gravity and stuff that Murphy could do at 3g's without straining anyone but me. And besides, with Dudley in control, the beer in those places would probably cost us half a credit. So we went to _Benny's_ and Murphy wasn't there. Then we went to the _Sun Spot_ and the only thing we recognized was the rise in price. We hit three or four more places but they were all modernized--no Outhouse. I was beginning to get sore about the rise in the cost of living. And Listless didn't seem to know what it was all about. After the fourth joint he started to argue with the bartenders. Which didn't do a bit of good because in those particular places, the bartenders were automatics. Finally we sallied into the _Solar Spin Club_ and walked, stalked or clambered up to the bar. The regular customers walked, Listless stalked and I clambered. * * * * * The _club_ was a pretty good bet because it has an old-fashioned bar in the rear for those who like to tell their trouble to a bartender who is deaf. Nobody knew that except a couple of us. Next to the bar were some tables. At one of these sat Brother Dudley and a couple of friends. Looking very disconsolate. Standing at the less brightly lit end of the bar were three lovely ladies laughing hysterically at one, broad Outhouse. "He's telling dirty jokes again," I sniffed. "Sometimes," sighed Listless, "I wish I had studied the more cultural subjects. It helps." "Helps what?" I demanded. "Anybody can do Drake. And anyway, you never met anyone who could appreciate them." He started to grin in a nasty way. "Present company excepted," I yiped. "You know what I mean. Don't try to get high-handed with me, you swizzle. I'm over your head like a Heaviside Layer." Then I calmed down. "This isn't going to make Dudley feel any too friendly toward us," mused Listless, giving the three solos at the table the once-over. "Look at him," I said. "He doesn't feel good to anybody, ever. We should worry."