But no one can ignore that classic last one—it's written right into the annals of astronomy, and it's there to stay.
Allenby, in command of the expedition, was first to set foot outside the ship. As he stepped down from the airlock of the Mars I, he placed that foot on a convenient rock, caught the toe of his weighted boot in a hole in the rock, wrenched his ankle and smote the ground with his pants.
Sitting there, eyes pained behind the transparent shield of his oxygen-mask, he stared at the rock.
It was about five feet high. Ordinary granite—no special shape—and several inches below its summit, running straight through it in a northeasterly direction, was a neat round four-inch hole.
"I'm upset by the hole thing," he grunted.
The rest of us scrambled out of the ship and gathered around his plump form. Only one or two of us winced at his miserable double pun.
"Break anything, Hugh?" asked Burton, our pilot, kneeling beside him.
"Get out of my way, Burton," said Allenby. "You're obstructing my view."
Burton blinked. A man constructed of long bones and caution, he angled out of the way, looking around to see what he was obstructing view of.