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.
I shuddered. "Beat it," I grated, hating myself and him.
The fear of space cafard must be somewhat similar to that of seasickness every new sailor had back in ancient days when man sailed the oceans of Terra. He never knew until he made his first voyage if he was going to be susceptible; and, if he turned out to be, it meant the sea wasn't for him.