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Hank's deep-space receiver rang loudly.
    "What's up?" he asked the library, keying it in.
    "The alien ship has evidently concluded that it can speak to you over normal communication equipment. It is calling the Andnowyoudont. "
    "Fine," said Hank. "I wonder what the name of Breadon's opposite number is among the aliens."
    "I am sorry. I do not have that information."
    "Yeah. Well, stand by to translate." Hank keyed in the communicator board. A screen before him lit up with the image of a hairless individual, lacking even eyebrows; with pronounced bony brow ridges, a wide mouth, no chin to speak of, and what appeared to be a turtleneck sweater drawn high on a thick neck.
    This individual stared for a long second; and then began to gobble at him. Eventually he ran down and went back to staring again. Hank, his finger still off the send button, turned to the library.
    "What'd he say?"
    "I will need more referents. Possibly if you speak now, he will perhaps speak again."
    "Not on your life." Hank looked at the alien. The alien looked back. The staring match went on for some time. Abruptly the alien started gobbling again. He gobbled for some time, this time. He also waved a fist in the air. It was a rather slim fist considering the thickness of his neck.
    "Well?" demanded Hank of the library, after the figure in the screen had fallen silent a second time.
    "First message: 'You are under arrest.'"
    "That's all he said?"
    "Agglutination appears to be a prime characteristic of his language."
    "All right—" growled Hank. "Go on."
    "Second message: 'You have offended the responsible authorities and their immediate representative, in the person of I who address you. You are arrested and helpless. Submit therefore immediately or you will be utterly destroyed.'"
    Hank thought for a minute.
    "Translate," he said to the library. He pressed the send button. "Tut-tut!" he said to the alien.
    "I am unable to translate 'tut-tut,'" said the library.
    "Oh?" Hank grinned. His grin widened. He began to laugh. He laughed louder.
    "I am unable to translate laughter," said the library.
    Hank was rolling around in his seat and hiccuping with helpless merriment. He reached out with one hand and slapped the send button to off. The screen went dark before him as the still-blankly staring alien faded from view. Whooping, Hank pulled himself to an upright position. Abruptly he stopped.
    "What am I doing?" he muttered. "The set's off now." He wiped a damp forehead with the hairy back of one large hand and got up to totter over to one of the food compartments. He opened it and hauled out a large brown bottle.
    Liquor was not a normal part of the supply list on scout ships—for reasons of space, rather than those of sobriety, a drinking world scout being a sort of self-canceling problem. On the other hand, a closed cycle that reprocessed waste matter of an organic nature and started it around again to become food required efficient little manufactories that were quite as capable of turning out ersatz beer as ersatz steak. The result was that world scouts were beer drinkers if they were any sort of drinkers at all.
    They were also the despair of waiters, waitresses, and bartenders. A group of world scouts spending a social moment together would order a bottle apiece of cold beer; drain their bottles, when they came, in a couple of seconds; and then sit with the empty bottles before them, refusing to reorder until about forty-five minutes had passed. Then the whole process would be repeated.
    A world scout determined to get drunk merely shortened the interval between bottles. One determined to stay cold sober, while appearing to drink, lengthened it. A member of the laity, sitting in with them on these sessions, was normally destroyed—either by drink or frustration.
    In this particular case Hank flipped the seal off the top of the bottle in his hand, poured half a liter of beer down his throat, carefully resealed the bottle and put it back in its