Stiffy shook his head, waggling his beard.
"How should I know," he defended himself. "Maybe some early space traveler set down here, dug a mine, never got back to Earth to tell about it."
"But Juno is only one hundred and eighteen miles in diameter," Meek argued. "If there had been a mine someone would have found it."
Stiffy snorted. "That's all you know about it, stranger. Only one hundred and eighteen miles, sure ... but one hundred and eighteen miles of the worst danged country man ever set a boot on. Mostly up and down."
The drinks came, the bartender slapping them down on the table before them. Meek gasped first at their price, then choked on the drink itself. But he smothered the choke manfully and asked:
"What kind of stuff is this?"
"Bocca," replied Stiffy. "Good old Martian bocca. Puts hair on your chest."
He gulped his drink with gusto, blew noisily through his whiskers, eyed Meek disapprovingly.
"Don't you like it?" he demanded.
"Sure," lied Meek. "Sure I like it."