Takeoff! by Randall Garrett

clear, even to Gauntluth, that whatever it was Twodyce had, it was certainly worth investigating.
    Thus it came about that one evening, when the impeccably dressed Mr. Twodyce was seated at a table in the grand dining room of the hotel with two of his hard-faced gunmen, he was approached by two equally well-dressed men who bowed politely and smiled pleasantly.
    One of them said: “Good evening, Mr. Twodyce. I trust we do not interrupt your repast?”
    Twodyce looked up. “Not at all,” he said. “Will you be seated?”
    Then, almost as an afterthought: “May I order you drinks? Such distinguished men as yourselves deserve only the best, of course.”
    “You know, then, who we are?” asked the spokesman.
    “Certainly, Mr. Thord,” replied the Lensman suavely, “you and Mr. Thield are hardly anonymous.” Drinks were brought.
    “These—” he gestured toward the men on either side of him. “—are my associates, Mr. Kokomo and Mr. De Katur.”
    After several minutes of preliminary conversation, the apefaced Thord finally broached the subject which they had all been anticipating.
    “I hear, Mr. Twodyce,” he said, “you are here to do business.”
    “Not primarily,” said the Lensman nonchalantly. “I am here to enjoy myself. Business is not a primary concern of mine.”
    “I understand,” said Thord, “for such a man as yourself...”
    “Nevertheless,” continued Ginnison, “I do have a small trifle which I am willing to dispose of for a proper price.”
    The lizard-like Mr. Thield spoke. “And that is?”
    Twodyce said off-handedly, “Fifty grams of clear-quill thionite.”
    There was a stunned silence from Thord and Thield.
    Thionite! Thionite, that dreadful and dreadfully expensive drug which, in microgram doses, induces in the user clear, three-dimensional, stereosonic visions in which he indulges in his every desire to the point of ecstasy. Every desire, base or noble, mental or physical, conscious or subconscious. Whatever pleasurable experience he wishes for himself, he experiences. It is addictive to the nth degree. It is the ultimate high, but the slightest overdose is deadly.
    It is also purple.
    One milligram of that dire drug was enough for a thousand doses, and the insouciant Mr. Twodyce was offering fifty thousand times that amount!
    “Gad!” murmured Mr. Thield.
    “Indeed?” said Thord. “If that is true, we are prepared to offer…”
    “You will offer nothing,” Ginnison said calmly. “I do not deal with underlings.”
    Thord’s face darkened. “Underlings? Underlings? To whom do you think you are speaking, Mister Twodyce?”
    “To underlings,” said the unruffled Twodyce. “And you may tell Gauntluth I said so.”
    There was a momentary silence from Thord and Thield as their eyes darted from Ginnison’s face to those of the bodyguards. Each bodyguard was fingering his necktie, his right hand only inches away from the DeLameter that was undoubtedly in a shoulder holster concealed by the loose-fitting dress jacket that each man wore.
    Thord and Thield rose, superficially regaining their composure. “We will speak to you later, Mr. Twodyce,” said Thord.
    “You will not,” said Ginnison in a low, deadly voice. “I have no desire to see either of you again. Gauntluth may contact me if he so wishes. Tell Gauntluth that I caution him to think of a hamburger.”
    “A...a hamburger?” gasped Thord.
    “Precisely. A hamburger.”
    “—But—”
    “You may not be able to figure it out,” Ginnison said coldly, “but your boss will. Now go.”
    Without another word, the two underlings turned and went.

    That night, in his own suite, Lester Q. Twodyce was Lensing a thought to Lieutenant-Admiral Partisipple, the Lensman in charge of the Patrol base on Cadilax.
    “Partisipple?”
    “Yes, Ginnison, what is it?” came the Lensman-Admiral’s thought,
    “This thing’s about to bust wide open,” Ginnison declared, “and I’ll need some help.”
    “Anything you want,