*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 63757 ***

                          Breath Of Beelzebub

                           By LARRY STERNIG

             All that had been distilled from the curious
              vegetation of the doomed planetoid was half
              an ounce, a mere timbleful of blue liquor.
              But it was enough to drive a universe mad.

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
                      Planet Stories Winter 1946.
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


The martian servant stopped at my desk, coughed faintly to attract
my attention. I looked up and he handed me a calling card on which
was printed "Slane O'Graeme." It was a limp, thumb-marked and
discouraged-looking emissary.

"'E wishes to see Mr. Ames," the wedge-faced servant told me. The high
disdain in his tone of voice revealed more clearly than words his
opinion of the visitor.

I shrugged and dropped the card on my desk. "Oh, well, send him in.
I'll give him the brush-off."

The Martian faded away and I turned back to the 1999 capitulation
figures Mr. Ames wanted. I forgot about Slane O'Graeme, whoever he was,
until a timid "hello" made me look up from the reports.

"You're Mr. Fleming Ames?" he asked diffidently.

He was an odd-looking little guy with a head like an oversize cue-ball
and a narrow fringe of fuzzy graying hair that looked like a misguided
halo. He wore green-tinted contact lenses that made his eyes seem
unusually large and bright.

"No, I'm not Fleming Ames," I told him. "I'm Bill Dineen, Mr. Ames'
confidential secretary. What can I do for you?"

"Uh--Mr. Ames is president of Universal Liquors, Incorporated, isn't
he?"

I nodded.

"I have something I'd like to show him, Mr. Dineen. It's something new.
I found it on Planetoid Y-145."

I stared at him almost incredulously. He didn't look like a spaceman.

"You mean a kind of drink? But I didn't think any of the planetoids
were inhabited. How did you--"

"It isn't a drink exactly, Mr. Dineen. And Planetoid Y-145 isn't
inhabited--in fact, there isn't any Planetoid Y-145 any more. A meteor
hit it last week, I read in the astrogation reports. Busted it to
smithereens."

He reached in his pocket and held up a little transpariplast vial,
which held about half an ounce of a murky blue fluid.

"So this is all there is anywhere, as far as I know," he revealed.
"It's the juice of a kind of lichen that grew on the planetoid. I
stopped there last month looking for minerals, and I took some of the
lichen along just to see what it was. I didn't know then. I distilled
this on the way back and threw out the lichen, so this is all--"

"--there is," I finished for him, a bit impatiently. "But what is it?
And if there isn't any more, what good can it do us?"

"Your laboratories can synthesize things, can't they? Yes, I know it's
an expensive process, but this stuff is very concentrated and a little
goes a long way. So, even if it did cost quite a bit to make, just
think of the--"

"But get to the point, Mr. O'Graeme. What _is_ it?"

"Uh--I've named it 'Breath of Beelzebub'. You put a drop of it in
water, and--oh, boy! You don't even drink the water. The gas works
through your skin. Osmosis, or something. I found it out accidentally."

       *       *       *       *       *

I frowned at him. "What do you mean 'Oh, boy!'? If you've read anything
about our policies, you know that we discourage the use of strong
intoxicants. Ever since the Martian uprising ten years ago, we've been
promoting beers, ales and Venusian klorah, and weaning drinks away from
anything stronger. What effect does this have?"

O'Graeme took the stopper out of the vial and set it carefully upright
on my desk.

"It works without water, too," he said. "But it's less efficient this
way. One drop in water is more potent than a whole vial plain. Feel it?"

I did, before he even finished speaking. My hands were resting on
the desk and it began there, and worked its way up my arms--a warm
throbbing glow of sensation that was unlike anything I'd ever felt
before. Must have gone right through clothing, for it reached my
shoulders and started up my neck and down my body from there.

It was a mildly pleasant tingling--until it reached my head. Then
suddenly I realized that it was more than pleasant. It was--well, it
just wasn't like anything I'd ever felt before. A feeling of utter
happiness is the nearest I can come to describing it, although it was
only partly that.

I knew that I hadn't a care in the system worth worrying about. I
knew that it didn't matter the least bit whether or not I got those
figures co-ordinated for Mr. Ames. If he fired me for not doing them,
so what? Wasn't I going to marry his daughter--Margie Amelita Ames? You
can bet your last rocket charge I was, and if he or that fat, snooty,
dictatorial wife of his objected, I'd just tell them to--

O'Graeme with the bulging green eyes, picked up the vial and carefully
replaced the stopper. He was smiling. He started to say, "Well, what do
you--"

I stood up, and leaned forward across the desk. "Slane, ol' bosom pal
of mine," I said, "You've _got_ something there. Listen, why let a
stuffed shirt like Fleming Ames in on it? I'll handle it for you. I'll
make us _millions_."

Slane O'Graeme looked at me and frowned a little. "Ummm," he said
skeptically. "I'm sure you mean well, Mr. Dineen, but hadn't you better
wait until you get over feeling--"

"Feeling what?" I demanded. "I assure you, palsy, that I'm not in the
slightest upset--"

"Have you a laboratory, like Mr. Ames'? Can you synthesize--"

I waved a hand airily. "Laboratory? Don't need one for something simple
as that. I studied chemistry in high school, and I assure you, pal,
that I can quite easily--"

O'Graeme shook his head slowly. "I've tried this stuff often, Mr.
Dineen, and I'm used to it, but I see that you--Perhaps I'd better come
back tomorrow evening instead of--"

"And lose a whole day?" I scoffed. "Why, we'll be rich by then. Come
on, palsy. Let's go back and join Fleming Ames' dinner party. I want
you to meet Margie Ames. The old folks don't know it yet, but Margie
and I are engaged. Besides," I added with a sly grin, winking at him,
"there is a tank full of mermaids back there that'll knock your eyes
out. It cost a fortune to have them brought in from Mercury."

I took O'Graeme by the arm and propelled him out into the long
corridor. The Polaroid glass walls of the huge building looked down
upon the great City of Mars with its network of shuttle-car tubes, the
'copter landings and--We passed a section of wall that opened onto the
sky parkway and a draft of cold fresh air hit me. I stopped suddenly.

"Whew!" I said, closing my eyes and then opening them again slowly.
"Say, I've been talking like a--Will you please forget everything I've
said?"

The little guy grinned. "I discounted it. I've been there myself. The
first time I tried it--on my way back to Mars--I put three drops in
_water_, and I radioed on ahead to tell them that I was buying the
whole fleet of Interplanetary, and to get me an option on--"

"Listen," I cut in soberly. "I _will_ take you back to Mr. Ames,
though, dinner party or not. Unless he objects because it's too
potent, I'm sure he'll be interested if we demonstrate. What's a safe
dose--nothing like the one I just had?"

"One drop, if it's a large room. Mild exhilaration and release from
care. You had about the equivalent of two drops in water; delusions of
grandeur, if you'll pardon my--"

"Sure," I grinned. We'd been walking and were almost back to the big
drawing-room where Fleming Ames would be entertaining his dinner
guests. "What happens if you use--not that I'm suggesting it--four or
five drops?"

"Partial dissociation of personality, and with six or seven drops,
you might find yourself in the body of whoever happens to be in the
room with--" His voice trailed off absently and his green-tinted eyes
actually popped as we stepped through the doorway.

He gulped. "You--you really _meant_ that about--"

"The mermaids?" I laughed as he fumbled in his pocket and brought out
the vial to make sure the stopper was on tight. "Sure. You needn't have
discounted _that_, my friend!"

       *       *       *       *       *

I led him to the glowing, plexiglass tank in the center of the room. It
was a drum-like affair, about five feet high and eight in diameter;
complete with bright green sea weed and a glittering red cave-like
shelter of Mercurian coral.

But that wasn't what we were looking at, nor the dozens of goldfish
that swam merrily about the coral and bumped their snouts against
the plexiglass sides of the tank. It was the ten tiny mermaids that
crowded around the coral base, wiggling gracefully toward us one by one
to stare at us staring at them.

They were much like the fabled marine creatures I'd read about on
Earth, only smaller--like little dolls--and far more beautiful than
those imaginative ancients ever dreamed of.

From the waist up they were pocket-editions of perfectly-formed girls.
Their eyes were amber, with the sparkle of a coquette, their hair
luxuriantly long and golden. Silver nails tipped each tiny finger
and the silver was repeated in the gleaming scales which covered the
tapering lower half of the graceful bodies.

O'Graeme peered in delighted fascination at the strange sight.
"Fantastic!" he breathed.

"Stupendous!" I corrected. "Aren't they honeys?"

Just then the dinner party filed in from the adjoining room. I caught
Mr. Ames' eye, and he gave me the nod. So I introduced Slane O'Graeme.
Besides Mr. Ames and his wife and Margie, there were three guests,
Roger Wescott, Interplanetary Transport magnate, and his wife, and
Senator B. Peerpont Weems.

Fleming Ames turned the little vial over in his hands and examined it
frowningly. "You say, Bill, that the effect is a mild and pleasant
exhilaration?"

I smiled. "Well, Mr. Ames, it was more than mild, but then I got an
overdose, I suppose. There was no physical incoordination, though.
Just mental stimulus. I had a momentary inclination to--" I paused--it
didn't seem wise to tell my employer just what that momentary
inclination had been.

Mr. Ames carefully uncorked the vial. "Well," he said, "I guess, if
you've tried it and found it safe we'll give it a group test. Try it as
an after-dinner cordial. Anyone mind?"

He glanced about the huge air-cushioned divans and lounging chairs
where the guests were comfortably settled. Both Mr. Wescott and Senator
Weems nodded approvingly.

Mrs. Ames stiffened in her overstuffed chair and said a bit tensely,
"Fleming, I simply will not tolerate--" But Margie put a hand on her
mother's arm and said, "Now, Mother, don't be a spoilsport. I'm sure
Bill wouldn't let Dad try it if it wasn't all right."

I smiled at Margie gratefully.

Then Mr. Ames turned toward the mermaid tank behind him, and Slane
O'Graeme said quickly, "Be careful, Mr. Ames. Don't drop--"

And then it happened.

       *       *       *       *       *

The opened vial slipped from the liquor magnate's hand as he lifted it
over the rim on the tank. It hit the top of the water with a soft plop,
sank and struck the coral with a faint clink. Diffusion in the water
must have been almost instantaneous; it was light blue throughout even
before the vial hit bottom.

I heard a low exclamation from O'Graeme, and then he yelped excitedly,
"Quick, everyone, get out of--" His voice trailed off there and a
beatific expression came over his face. I was only a bit farther from
the tank than he, and it hit me almost at the same time.

It was the same sensation I had experienced in my office. Not much
stronger, but far more sudden and complete.

My eyes were still on the mermaid tank, and I thought for an instant
that it was empty, that the mermaids and goldfish had mysteriously
vanished into nothingness. Then a pair of golden streaks, faintly
visible, followed by the flash of a mermaid's body, showed me my error.

Suddenly it came to me: This was the time to tell Mrs. Ames about
wanting to marry Margie. Now! Tell her, and tell her to go to Jupiter
if she didn't like it.

I whirled around, and paused aghast. Mrs. Ames was slumped down in
her chair, and her eyes were vacuous. Her mouth was wide open and
her fat arms were making wriggling motions as though her hands were
flippers and she was trying to swim. She looked like a fish out of
water--certainly _not_ like a mermaid.

Slowly, I turned back to O'Graeme. I grabbed his arm and he looked up,
obviously startled. "Listen," I said. "What did you say an overdose of
this Breath of Beelzebub would do?"

His popping green eyes opened wide. "Why, darling," he said, "how
should _I_ know? And how did I get over here?"

I sort of swayed on my feet and closed my eyes. I was looking down at a
bald-headed little man, and hearing Slane O'Graeme's voice, but--but--

It couldn't be! I opened my eyes and looked across the tank at Margie
Ames. My Margie. Her beautiful blue eyes were wide with astonishment
and she was staring down at her own arms and hands in the blankest
sort of bewilderment. Then she looked up and caught my eye and said,
"Mr. Dineen, what the devil--Didn't I tell you that six or seven drops
would--"

I shook my head and closed my eyes again. And something seemed to
slip. I didn't open them, but they were open just the same, and all I
was seeing was a blur of motion and I seemed to be going in circles
through something wet and blue. I got dizzy and tried to close my eyes
again, but they wouldn't close. But I did manage to stop moving--and
I shuddered, and the shudder wasn't because the water in the tank was
cold.

A beautiful young woman, with long flowing hair of gold, swam by. But
she didn't have any clothes on and where her legs should have been
there was the tail of a fish. I thought suddenly here was my chance to
kiss a mermaid, but she flung some sea weed in my face and ducked into
what looked like a cave.

I tried to look out of the tank, but everything was distorted and I
couldn't make out much. I could hear sounds as though several people
were talking at once, but the sounds, too, were distorted and I
couldn't make out what was being said.

I tried to groan and found I couldn't do that, either. And that made
me, strangely, want to giggle. And, oddly enough, I _was_ giggling.

Then someone was saying, "_Stop_ that!" and shaking my shoulder and it
didn't seem to be wet and cold any more. My shoulder was bare, and the
hand hurt and I looked up, and suddenly a nursery song of long ago that
I'd heard in my childhood came back to me and I started to sing, "I
fwam and I fwam right over the--" until the shock of hearing my voice
come out a rich throaty contralto made me stop and bring my eyes into
focus.

And I was looking up at myself leaning over me, and the other I was
saying in my voice, "Listen, I'm Margie Ames, and I'm curious to know
who is in my body."

"I'm Bill," I said. "What in the--"

"Bill!" she cut in. "Where _were_ you? This Mr. O'Graeme (he's over in
Senator Weems right now) was explaining what happened and we took a
roll-call and you weren't around."

I closed my eyes (or Margie's eyes) again. I should have had it by
then, but I was still confused. Coming down the hallway, O'Graeme had
told me that four or five drops of the fluid, in water, would cause
"partial dissociation of personality." More than that would make it
complete. And Mr. Ames had dropped the whole vial into the mermaid tank!

"It's temporary," Margie said. "We change around every few minutes or
so and it'll all come out right when the stuff wears off, but--"

I was looking down at my--temporary--shapely arms and bare shoulders,
and I started to chuckle. Suddenly--possibly it was the realization
that whatever was happening was temporary--I began to see the humor
of the situation. It isn't funny unexpectedly to find oneself in the
body of a goldfish. But it _had_ been a rare experience--and I'd almost
kissed a mermaid!

I said, "This is a beautiful dress we have on, Margie."

       *       *       *       *       *

She blushed and stamped her big foot on my dainty little open-toed
slipper. "Bill!" she wailed. "How could you? _You_ of all people! It
isn't decent! It--it's--"

And then the funny side of it struck her too, and we were both laughing
like a couple of lunatics. I saw she was waving my arms around in glee.
I sobered up a moment, and warned, "Be careful of that watch-candid on
your--my--wrist. It set me back a hundred credits."

I stood up and looked around. And my scope of interest widened as I
found myself in the center of a lot of confusion.

Roger Wescott, the Interplanetary Transport magnate, was chasing
his mouse-like wife around the mermaid tank. She ran past me with a
frightened look on her face and I grabbed Wescott's arm.

"Look, Wescott," I said. "Isn't that a bit--"

He grinned at me. "That's Mrs. Ames, and she's down to the size now
where I can give her the spanking I've always wanted--" He jerked and I
let go his arm. If anyone wanted to spank Mrs. Ames while the spanking
was good, he had my blessing.

When they came around again, I yelled, "But who are you?"

He winked and didn't answer and that was enough of a tip-off. There are
times when a confidential secretary shouldn't even pretend to recognize
his boss.

I turned back to see if I was still standing beside myself, and I was,
so I said, "Listen, Margie--"

My voice interrupted, "Margie? I thought _you_ were Miss Ames. I'm
O'Graeme. I was going to say--"

I grabbed myself by the lapels. "See here, O'Graeme," I said. "Are you
_sure_ this is all right? I mean, everybody seems to be having lots of
fun, but what if we get stuck this way? And, listen, can't everyone
just walk out of range of that stuff? It must affect only a given area."

He grinned my best grin. "I suggested it. But nobody _wants_ to. Do
you?"

I hadn't thought about it before, but I didn't. I looked across to
where Mr. Ames was lying on the floor trying to make like a mermaid,
and then I glanced at the tank and wondered who was in there, for nine
little mermaids were trying to get away from the tenth one!

And I began to howl with laughter. No, not for a million credits would
I want to walk out on a party like this. Even if it cost me my job, and
I was beginning to have a hunch it would.

[Illustration: _Not for a million credits would I walk out on a party
like this!_]

Then I had an idea that it might be fun to stir the water in the
mermaid tank and see what--I started toward it and nearly fell over a
chair. The chair hadn't been there before and I saw I was facing in the
opposite direction than the one I'd started out, so I muttered, "What
the--" and looked down and recognized my own suit, my own hands, and
my own watch-candid on my wrist.

I was back home!

Just me, or everyone? No, Mr. Ames was still trying to wiggle his way
across the floor, and at one end of the divan Mrs. Ames was smoking a
big black Venusian cigar.

Senator B. Peerpont Weems--or was it?--banged me on the shoulder and
said, "Some fun, huh? Nobody knows who's who, so nobody can--" He
glanced across my shoulder and grinned and started to move past me. I
looked back and saw Margie's cute little French maid coming in from the
dining room. Her eyes were wide with amazement--and then I saw her face
go blank for a moment. So she'd gone under, too!

I grabbed the senator's arm--or was it the senator?--as he tried to
pass me, and warned, "Hey, none of that. What if it's Mrs. Ames?" and
he shuddered, and started the other way.

Mr. Ames was starting to get up from the floor. I saw him gazing down
at himself with blank bewilderment, and then he looked across at me.
"What ees thees?" he asked.

I grinned and turned to O'Graeme--I think it was O'Graeme. "A newcomer
in our midst," I said, jerking a thumb toward Mr. Ames. "Better explain
things to her before she takes her turn in the tank, or she's in for a
worse shock."

I didn't want to bother with explanations myself, because I'd just
remembered my watch-candid. It could take fifty pictures without
reloading, and I had a reload in my pocket, if I stayed inside my own
coat long enough to use it. It was a Undex B-29, the kind that can
photograph the inside of your hat by starlight.

Margie came up and touched my arm and said, "Bill?" I nodded, and she
said, "This is me. Kiss me quick while we have a chance."

It was a proposition I'd never turn down, but I'll admit I looked a bit
scared when I put my arms around her and complied.

She grinned impishly. "Sure, darling, Mother and Dad are probably
looking, but so what? For all they know it's Mr. Wescott kissing the
maid or your Slane O'Graeme making love to a mermaid, or the Senator--"

When her lips were free again, she said, "Bill, I took some shots on
your candid before, when I--when I had the chance. Some of them are
wows, too! Look, quick! Don't miss that!"

I laughed, and swung the candid around to get the shot.

       *       *       *       *       *

When I awoke it was ten o'clock, but I felt as though I'd had one
hour's sleep instead of six. At four o'clock in the morning, I'd left
Mr. Ames talking to Slane O'Graeme. And when Mr. Ames had said he'd
want to talk to me in the morning, I'd already kissed my job goodbye.

The first thing I wanted to do was destroy those all-too-candid shots.
But I wanted to develop them and have a look-see first. Maybe there'd
be one or two mild ones it would be safe to take along as souvenirs.

I was taking the last of the positives out of the acid when there was a
knock on my door, and I said, "Come in."

Mr. Ames, wearing a lounging robe, pushed through the door. I made a
mental note to look in the mirror later to see if my face looked as bad
as his. But, surprisingly, he grinned at me and sat down on the edge of
the bed.

"What a night!" he sighed. "But--"

"But never again," I finished for him. "Yeah, I feel the same way. That
stuff would have been dynamite to turn loose on the natives."

He nodded gloomily. "I suppose so, but--Well, it was my fault it's all
gone. There isn't a trace left for analysis, and because it was my
fault, I gave O'Graeme his price for it. Somehow I liked the little
cuss. What're you doing?"

"Look," I said, and passed him the quick-drying rack.

He stared from one to another of the shots, and gulped. Then he stared
some more and his face turned red, then pale.

"Bill," he said, "do you know these photographs would be worth a
million credits to my enemies, and those of Wescott and the Senator? I
hope you're not thinking of--"

I shook my head firmly. "Just developed them out of curiosity. I'm
destroying them right now, and the films, too. Then if you say so, I'll
leave."

I took the pictures back and started to tear them up.

"Leave? Oh, you think I--" He laughed at the gloomy expression on my
face. "Now that you mention it, Bill, you _are_ leaving. I've had you
in mind for the Venusian Branch. We need a good man there to get things
organized. You're taking over on the first."

I had another picture in my hand to tear up, but my heart was making
flip-flops. Manager of the Venusian Branch! Why, that meant I'd be able
to offer Margie a real home!

"Uh--Mr. Ames," I said, "Margie and I are in love. We want to get
married."

He shrugged, his face suddenly gloomy. "Margie's told me that, Bill.
But her mother--Well, you're not blind. You know how much say so
I--Hey, don't tear _those_ up!"

       *       *       *       *       *

The yell was so sudden and unexpected that I jumped and dropped the
rack from which I'd been peeling the pictures while we talked. I'd torn
up only a few.

Fleming Ames picked up the rack, his eyes gleaming. He looked it over
eagerly and picked off four pictures. I walked around to see which they
were, and grinned as I suddenly understood.

One was Mrs. Ames seated with her feet on the coffee table smoking
a big black cigar. Another was Mrs. Ames, her hair in wild disarray
and her mouth open, trying to swim across the room. A third was Mrs.
Ames--but why go into details?

"Bill," said Mr. Ames, his face happier than I'd ever seen it before,
"your wedding day is next Saturday. And that's from a man who
knows--from the present and future boss of the Ames household. And you
can take my new space-cruiser for your honeymoon."

He stood up and stuck out his hand and I shook it.

"And Bill," he added wistfully. "If you should stop on any planetoids,
and see any peculiar-looking species of lichen--"

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 63757 ***