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Clayton clamped his teeth together, making the muscles at the side of his jaw stand out.

Parks didn’t notice. “You guys have to take those pills, don’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“I had to take them once. Got stranded on Luna. The cat I was in broke down eighty some miles from Aristarchus Base and I had to walk back–with my oxy low. Well, I figured–”

* * * * *

Clayton listened to Parks’ story with a great show of attention, but he had heard it before. This “lost on the moon” stuff and its variations had been going the rounds for forty years. Every once in a while, it actually did happen to someone; just often enough to keep the story going.

This guy did have a couple of new twists, but not enough to make the story worthwhile.

“Boy,” Clayton said when Parks had finished, “you were lucky to come out of that alive!”

Parks nodded, well pleased with himself, and bought another round of drinks.

“Something like that happened to me a couple of years ago,” Clayton began. “I’m supervisor on the third shift in the mines at Xanthe, but at the time, I was only a foreman. One day, a couple of guys went to a branch tunnel to–”

It was a very good story. Clayton had made it up himself, so he knew that Parks had never heard it before. It was gory in just the right places, with a nice effect at the end.

“–so I had to hold up the rocks with my back while the rescue crew pulled the others out of the tunnel by crawling between my legs. Finally, they got some steel beams down there to take the load off, and I could let go. I was in the hospital for a week,” he finished.

Parks was nodding vaguely. Clayton looked up at the clock above the bar and realized that they had been talking for better than an hour. Parks was buying another round.

Parks was a hell of a nice fellow.

There was, Clayton found, only one trouble with Parks. He got to talking so loud that the bartender refused to serve either one of them any more.

* * * * *

The bartender said Clayton was getting loud, too, but it was just because he had to talk loud to make Parks hear him.

Clayton helped Parks put his mask and parka on and they walked out into the cold night.

Parks began to sing Green Hills. About halfway through, he stopped and turned to Clayton.

“I’m from Indiana.”

Clayton had already spotted him as an American by his accent.

“Indiana? That’s nice. Real nice.”

“Yeah. You talk about green hills, we got green hills in Indiana. What time is it?”

Clayton told him.

“Jeez-krise! Ol’ spaship takes off in an hour. Ought to have one more drink first.”

Clayton realized he didn’t like Parks. But maybe he’d buy a bottle.

Sharkie Johnson worked in Fuels Section, and he made a nice little sideline of stealing alcohol, cutting it, and selling it. He thought it was real funny to call it Martian Gin.

Clayton said: “Let’s go over to Sharkie’s. Sharkie will sell us a bottle.”

“Okay,” said Parks. “We’ll get a bottle. That’s what we need: a bottle.”

It was quite a walk to the Shark’s place. It was so cold that even Parks was beginning to sober up a little. He was laughing like hell when Clayton started to sing.

“We’re going over to the Shark’s
To buy a jug of gin for Parks!
Hi ho, hi ho, hi ho!”

One thing about a few drinks; you didn’t get so cold. You didn’t feel it too much, anyway.

* * * * *