Walt thought seriously for a moment. "The drinks are on me," he said. "And I'll explain when we get there. Game? This is good." Insistent, Walt led them from Wes Farrell's laboratory near the South End skin of Venus Equilateral to Joe's, which was up nine levels and in the central portion of the station. "Y'know," he said, "women aren't so bad after all. But I've got this feminine intuition business all figured out. Since women are illogical in the first place, they are inclined to think illogical things and to say what they think. Then if it should happen to make sense, they apply it. I used to know an experimenter that tried everything he could think of on the theory that some day he'd hit upon something valuable. Well--this is it, good people." Walt shoved the door open and Wes Farrell grinned as he always did at the sign that read: JOE'S The Best Bar in Twenty-seven Million Miles (minimum) Arden entered and found a place at the long bar. The three men lined up on either side of her and Joe automatically reached for the Scotch and glasses. "Now," said Channing, "what is it?" Walt lifted his glass. "I drink to the Gods of Coincidence," he chanted, "and the Laws of Improbability. 'Twas here that I learned that which makes me master of the situation now." Arden clinked her glass against his. "Walt, I'll drink to the Gods of Propinquity. Just how many problems have you solved in your life by looking through the bottom of a glass--darkly?" "Ah--many," he said, taking a sip of the drink. He swallowed. A strange look came over his face. He spluttered. He grew a bit ruddy of face, made a strangling noise, and then choked. "Migawd, Joe--what have you mixed this with, shoe polish?" "Just made it this afternoon," replied Joe. "Then throw it back in the matter bank and do it again," said Walt. Don took a very cautious sip and made a painfully wry face. "The SPCS--Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Scotch--should dip their tongue in this," he said. Joe shrugged. "It's from your own pet brand," he told Channing. Arden smelled gingerly. "Don," she asked him seriously, "have you been petting dragons?" Wes, chemist like, dipped his forefinger in the drink, diluted it in a glass of water, and touched it to his tongue. "It'll never be popular," he said. Joe turned back to his duplicator and shoved a recording into the slot. The machine whirred for a few seconds, and Joe opened the door and took out the new bottle, which he handed to Walt. Walt cut the seal and pulled the cork, and poured. He tasted gingerly and made the same wry face. "What in the name of could have happened?" he asked. "It's the same recording," asserted Joe. "But what happened to it?" "Well," admitted Joe, "it was dropped this morning." "In what?" demanded Walt. "Just on the floor."