"What happened?" Joe pleaded. Mike, who apparently had no saturation point, gulped some more whiskey. "First thing," he said, "the guy sticks his thumb up in the air, like he's gonna give me the bum's rush. So I point mine down--if he tries to kick me outa there before we even get a chance to talk business, I'll floor 'im." "Yeah, you would." Mike ignored this comment, took yet another drink and wiped his lips on the back of his hand. Joe watched this display of alcoholic immunity with admiration, and Mike continued. "Then he takes a bottle of this awful-looking wine and pours it out on the floor. "No wonder they been raising such a rumpus, Joe. With nothing but that stuff to drink, I would too! So I pulled out my flask and took a swig, to show what we've got, and I offer him some. You know something, Joe," and Mike leaned forward earnestly, "when that guy saw the kind of stuff we drink he got a new respect, 'cause he takes a handful of jewels and rolls 'em at me. Now, I don't look no gift horse in the teeth--I pocket 'em as fast as I get my hands on 'em. I got the rocks with me--here." He pulled out the "pebbles" Slan had referred to--and jewels they were. Fire shot from diamonds, rubies, emeralds, amethysts. Joe whistled. "We can use the money that stuff will bring." "Buy a liquor store?" Mike asked eagerly. "Finance the development and launching of an interplanetary expedition." "Ah, what the hell you want to do that for?" "They've got eleven moons," Joe said grimly, "and all we want is one."