"Your laboratories can synthesize things, can't they? Yes, I know it's an expensive process, but this stuff is very concentrated and a little goes a long way. So, even if it did cost quite a bit to make, just think of the--" "But get to the point, Mr. O'Graeme. What _is_ it?" "Uh--I've named it 'Breath of Beelzebub'. You put a drop of it in water, and--oh, boy! You don't even drink the water. The gas works through your skin. Osmosis, or something. I found it out accidentally." * * * * * I frowned at him. "What do you mean 'Oh, boy!'? If you've read anything about our policies, you know that we discourage the use of strong intoxicants. Ever since the Martian uprising ten years ago, we've been promoting beers, ales and Venusian klorah, and weaning drinks away from anything stronger. What effect does this have?" O'Graeme took the stopper out of the vial and set it carefully upright on my desk. "It works without water, too," he said. "But it's less efficient this way. One drop in water is more potent than a whole vial plain. Feel it?" I did, before he even finished speaking. My hands were resting on the desk and it began there, and worked its way up my arms--a warm throbbing glow of sensation that was unlike anything I'd ever felt before. Must have gone right through clothing, for it reached my shoulders and started up my neck and down my body from there. It was a mildly pleasant tingling--until it reached my head. Then suddenly I realized that it was more than pleasant. It was--well, it just wasn't like anything I'd ever felt before. A feeling of utter happiness is the nearest I can come to describing it, although it was only partly that. I knew that I hadn't a care in the system worth worrying about. I knew that it didn't matter the least bit whether or not I got those figures co-ordinated for Mr. Ames. If he fired me for not doing them, so what? Wasn't I going to marry his daughter--Margie Amelita Ames? You can bet your last rocket charge I was, and if he or that fat, snooty, dictatorial wife of his objected, I'd just tell them to-- O'Graeme with the bulging green eyes, picked up the vial and carefully replaced the stopper. He was smiling. He started to say, "Well, what do you--" I stood up, and leaned forward across the desk. "Slane, ol' bosom pal of mine," I said, "You've _got_ something there. Listen, why let a stuffed shirt like Fleming Ames in on it? I'll handle it for you. I'll make us _millions_." Slane O'Graeme looked at me and frowned a little. "Ummm," he said skeptically. "I'm sure you mean well, Mr. Dineen, but hadn't you better wait until you get over feeling--" "Feeling what?" I demanded. "I assure you, palsy, that I'm not in the slightest upset--" "Have you a laboratory, like Mr. Ames'? Can you synthesize--" I waved a hand airily. "Laboratory? Don't need one for something simple as that. I studied chemistry in high school, and I assure you, pal, that I can quite easily--"