"But you mustn't be scared. That reporter was just stupid. We'll help you with your theory."
His body trembled. "No, it isn't that. It isn't the reporter."
"Then what is it, John?"
"It's my body. It's—"
"Yes, what about your body? Are you sick?"
His face was white with terror. "No, my—my body's full of holes. Suppose it's one of those holes! How will I get back if it is?"
He rose and staggered to his Zloomph, clutching it as though it were somehow a source of strength and consolation.
I patted him gingerly on the arm. "Now John. You've just had too much beer, that's all. Let's go out and get some air and some strong black coffee. C'mon now."
We staggered out into the morning darkness, the three of us. John, the Zloomph, and I.
I was hanging on to him trying to see around and over and even under the Zloomph—steering by a sort of radar-like sixth sense. The street lights on Marsport are pretty dim compared to Earthside. I didn't see the open manhole that the workmen had figured would be all right at that time of night. It gets pretty damned cold around 4: A.M. of a Martian morning, and I guess the men were warming up with a little nip at the bar across the street.