Say, this animal fermentation would kick up a rumpus if it got out, wouldn't it? He'd been reading in the paper about the troubles in the beer industry, the racketeering, and the explosive proposal to make beer a public utility and have the government take it over. The toughest outfit seemed to be the Achilles Brewing Corp. of Chicago. Say, wasn't that the company his nephew was working for? Sure—he was a salesman for it! By gum, that letter had been a mistake. Those fellows would stop at nothing. And if anything happened to this herd of goats, it would take years to develop another pure line like them. He'd never live that long. Oh well, why worry? Another mug of goat-beer would banish any apprehension of the future.
Johnny waited until Sarratt was snoring and tried to sneak out. Unfortunately the door was still locked, and he couldn't quite see himself stealing Sarratt's keys and trying with paws and teeth to insert each in turn in the padlock and turn it. It was simpler to hook some claws into the neck of the lock and pull it off. The fact that it took a good part of the door with it was simply unfortunate.
He found Methuen looking gloomily at the ocean. Johnny was sorry; this was the only man for whom he had a real affection. He reared up and squawked his general interrogatory "Wok?" Methuen explained his troubles.
Johnny fetched his pad and began writing. He hadn't intended to tell what he had just seen and heard; his curiosity had been satisfied, and he didn't like interfering in the mysterious relationships of human beings. But maybe his boss could make some pecuniary use of Sarratt's discovery.
Methuen read, whistled, and got up to do some investigating of his own.
Later he hunted up the politician."Mr. Flynn," he said, "last night you were telling me of the trouble the beer issue was causing you, between the gangsterism in the in industry on one hand and the political capital that the Democrats and the few remaining Republicans would make of any public-ownership proposal. I believe your words were that it was worth your political life to take a stand on the question. Now, how would you like to have the whole thing settled without your having to pass any laws at all?" And he explained Sarratt's discovery.
Flynn looked incredulous."But how can they do that?"
"Science. That old mascot of ours, Gordon Sarratt, was once the world's greatest geneticist. He discovered the principle of orthogonal mutation back in 1949, and was the first to develop industrial uses for the products of controlled mutation. Now he's gone a step further. I've tried the stuff, and it's good. A little unusual—but definitely good. Also potent."
"Flynn roared with laughter."A beer-goat in every backyard! I get you. But say, don't the gov'ment have exclusive rights to these goats anyway, under the terms of your contract under the McQuade Bill?"
"You forget that the government broke that contract when it cut off our appropriation last summer, so the clause about practical applications of our discovery is invalid."
"I see. But isn't there some way we could get a monopoly? This thing looks too good to let go broadcast."
"I'm afraid not. Remember the patent stature of 1897, as revised 1930? 'Any person who has invented or discovered any new and useful art, machine, manufacture, or composition of matter, or any new and useful improvements thereof, or who has invented or discovered and asexually reproduced any distinct and new variety of plant, other than a tuber-propagated plant, not known or used by others in this country, before his invention or discover thereof" and so on. Even if we could get the supreme court to hold that a goat was a plant—which I greatly doubt—there's no argument about the reproducing sexually. And the genetical principles that Sarratt used in developing the beer-goat are either old or laws of nature—which are unpatentable."
"Too bad, Doc. As soon as somebody gets his hands on a pair of these goats, the thing's out from under our control. It's good, but not good enough, I'm afraid."
"Well, it would settle your political question. And maybe I could throw in an honorary degree. I know the president of Columbia pretty well."
I would like one of those things. Tell you what... Do you play poker? Fine. We'll start a little game at eight tonight, and if you're ahead at midnight I'll undertake to swing the Party in favor of more subsidies to research, provided I get the degree, and provided this hyeah beer's really good stuff. If I'm ahead, I don't do anything—but I get the degree just the same."
"Hey, that's no fair. I'm pretty rusty, and you were probably born with a deck of cards in your hand."
"All right, damn it, we'll let one or two of the other boys in on your side. If any one of them stands ahead, I support research. Do they play?"
"Ryerson does; Banta doesn't. What is it, Johnny?" Methuen looked at the scrawl on the pad."He wants to play too."
"What, you mean this hyeah bear plays poker?"
"Sure. Only it's better to have somebody else do his shuffling and dealing; he takes all night with those paws."
The game started at eight—all the nannies of Sarratt's herd having been milked, despite the little man's protests, to provide refreshments. By eight-thirty a stiff wind drove gusts of rain against the windows. Flynn said, "Boy, I'm glad I'm indoors tonight. Who wants kyahds?"
"Five" said Ryerson.
Methuen swore under his breath. He was a cautiously mathematical player, and had been winning slowly. It hurt him to see the big ornithologist plunge that way.
"How about you, Johnny?" The bear tapped the table three times and Flynn shoved the cards across. Johnny held his hand between two toes of his left forefoot. One at a time he pinched three of these cards between the toes of his other front paw and lifted them out. He reversed the process with the cards he had drawn.
"Dealer's keeping what he has," said Flynn. Methuen called for one. On the first round of betting the two scientists dropped. Johnny and Flynn pushed the pot up a way before the former called. Flynn had queens over tens to Johnny's aces over threes.
Ryerson bellowed."Ho, ho! We thought you had a real pat hand! We'll know better next time. Another round?"
Flynn grinned and pushed the pot toward Johnny. All four (including Johnny, who held his glass in both paws) downed another pint of goat-beer. Flynn looked suspiciously at the others to make sure they drank as much as he did; they returned his scrutiny for the same reason.
At nine, rain descended in sheets. Methuen was ahead with Flynn close behind. Methuen realized that he'd been making mistakes in his calculations, probably as result of the enormous amount of goat-beer they'd drunk. It was powerful stuff. He'd have to concentrate more closely. He thought sadly that he'd been mistaken in undertaking to out-drink a Southern politician. And that smooth devil probably knew it too.
At ten, Methuen was losing heavily; his mathematics stood up less well than Flynn's all-around gambling experience. Ryerson had acquired a thick Norwegian accent.
At eleven Ryerson had dropped out, and was crooning a Norwegian drinking song to himself. Methuen, not much better off, tried to continue his play. Flynn was more Southern and jovial than ever. Johnny continued imperturbably to down his beer and signal for cards.
At one minute to twelve Methuen roused himself to look at his watch."Last hand," he said, after what seemed to be difficulty in untangling his tongue from his teeth.
Flynn showed on a small bet. Johnny raised a little; Flynn made a bigger raise. Johnny dropped.