Halftripper

Mars was strewn with the human wrecks of halftrippers—terrorized cowards of space travel. But perhaps the saddest, and the most fearful of all was the immortal spacebum called Micheal.
This section of New Sante Fe was off my beaten track. I've been on Mars a long time and am more than usually familiar with the various centers where we Terrans do our congregating. However, it'd been years since I'd come through here.
I was sitting in an obscure tavern, called, with commendable restraint, simply Sam's Bar, lapping up Martian brandy and facing the prospect of returning to the spaceport in a few hours with no particular enthusiasm.
I only half-noticed the old man who got up on the stool next to me. Sam came over and asked him what he'd have.
The oldster carefully counted out some coins on the bar and said, Wine, Sam; a glass of Martian wine.
You know I don't want your money, Joseph, Sam told him.
The old man answered reproachfully, The wine would taste that much the less, my friend, if I had not earned it by the sweat of my....
Okay, Sam sighed. He poured the wine and rang up the money and went off to wait on someone else.
A halftripper sidled up to me. How about a drink, spaceman? he whined. I'm a graduate of the academy myself, class of '72. He must have noted my United Space Lines uniform.
Sorry, I said gruffly, keeping my back to him. Any spaceman can tell you that if you talk to a halftripper for long you'll soon be showing symptoms of space cafard yourself. The underlying terror in him; the mind shattering fear of space; the way he stares at you, thinking that you can go home, while he is afraid to risk the trip. There are few of them that can hide their disease.
I need a shot bad, he whispered urgently. He probably did, too. Few halftrippers are able to secure jobs on the planets of their exile. Most of them become beachcombers of space. Of course, there are some exceptions, especially if they have money and connections.