 How is Joe's asteroid fever cured?
When Harvey staggered pontifically into the battered metalloy saloon—the only one on Planetoid 42—his tall, gangling partner was already stumbling out, mouthing something incoherent. The interplanetary con-men drank noisily, asked for more, until they had drunk eight glasses. Medical science is unanimous in proclaiming this magic medicine the sole panacea in the entire history of therapeutics." Our condenser broke down, and we've gone without water for five ghastly days." It's bitter as some kinds of sin before it's purified. "About seventy-five liters, if we go on half rations," he answered. The planetoid man worked the pump while the mayor intently watched the crude level-gauge, crying "Stop!" when it registered the proper amount. "Just the same," Joe griped, "paying for water isn't something you can get used to in ten minutes." It was on the sixth trip that Joe caught a glimpse of Jupiter-shine on a bright surface off to the left. "You don't need any more," said Harvey, dismayed. Johnson's eight-foot son, topped by a massive roof of sun-bleached hair and held up by a foundation that seemed immovable, had obviously been born and raised in low gravity. Harvey studied it worriedly, put his own hand somewhere on it, swallowed as it closed, then breathed again when his fingers were released in five units instead of a single compressed one.
 Nothing does - his sickness was a ruse.
 The La-anago Yergis cures him.  Nothing does - his sickness was a ruse.  The bitter water that Harvey switched in cures him.  The fresh water from the planet cures him.