His shoulders slumped despondently. A neon sign said, "BAR" and he decided to go in. For six years in the Space Service he had kept away from liquor. He had plenty of lost time to make up for now.
He took a seat at a table in the rear. When the bartender approached, he said "Double valdoz. Straight."
Kendall slouched and nursed the drink, then ordered another. And another. Drinks were cheap, on Mars.
After a while another Earthman came over and hovered by Kendall's ear. "Mind if I sit with you a while, friend?"
"Go right ahead. The seat's free."
The newcomer was a man in his late thirties, seedy and weary looking. A week's growth of beard sprouted on his face. He was, Kendall knew, an ex-spacer living from day to day on Mars, probably looking for a handout. Kendall shuddered. He saw his own future staring him in the face.
"I'm almost out of cash," he said. "I can't buy you a drink."
"Didn't ask for one. I'll pay for my own. Just want company. Someone to talk to."
It developed, after a while, that the newcomer was—as Kendall had guessed—a former spaceman. He, like Kendall, had flunked his six-month test between legs of an Earth-Mars run. That had been four years ago. He was still here, doing menial jobs to stay alive.
"That's okay," Kendall said, slurring his words. He had already had much too many valdoz doubles. "I won't live long. Some bigwig here is out for my neck."