"You can't? We'll see about that."

The Mordargan equivalent of a bar was a long, low-ceilinged place dimly lighted. Curious fumes of alcohol and other things drifted in the atmosphere. Mason could see Mordargans lying prostrate here and there, some of them totally unconscious, others contentedly sucking on feeding-tubes.

There was no way to escape the obstinate conviviality of the alien who had encountered him. Mason's only hope was to make a quick exit once the Mordargan had decided he was through drinking.

"What'll you have, Terran?"

"You name it," Mason said. "I'll match you drink for drink if you'll pay."

"Fair enough. We'll start with gruuna. Straight?"

"Why not?"

"Two bowls of gruuna," the alien bellowed.

The drinks arrived. They were a murky, slimy-looking stuff that fizzed faintly and gave off a sour odor. Mason stared at his bowl unhappily.

"Drink up, Earthman!" The Mordargan lifted his bowl in massive fingers and held it to his tooth-ringed mouth. He drained it in one long slupping gulp. Mason shivered a little and picked up his own bowl.

He sipped. The stuff was as mild as molten uranium and twice as potent. It seared its way down into his stomach and landed with a thunk. Mason wondered if the drink gave off alpha particles; it was that hot.

The things a man has to do in the name of Solar System intelligence, he thought.

He wondered what was happening to the Venusian. Impatience coursed through him. He had to get away, had to reach the dungeon before the Mordargans could interrogate Klon Darra with the telepath.

Rick! Where are you? came the sudden anxious mental plea. The telepath's here. They'll be questioning me soon, and....

I'm trying to get to you, Mason telepathed. But I'm having trouble. Stall if you can.

"Ready for your second bowl, Earthman?" the Mordargan asked jovially.

Mason shuddered. "I'm not through with this one," he said.

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