"Buy me a drink," Kendall told the Martian. "I need a little pick-me-up. Then you can take me to Das Shamra."
The blueskin and Kendall stopped off at a bar at the corner. The Martian ordered a mug of the insipid Mars beer; Kendall smirked at the brownish-green liquid and said to the barkeep, "Give me a double valdoz."
"Sure thing, friend."
"You're really going in for the strong stuff, aren't you?" the Martian asked, as the drink arrived.
"The way I feel, I need it. Besides, why settle for that sludge you call beer when the drinks are on the house?"
"A good point," the Martian admitted. "Das Shamra can afford it." He drained his beer, and, as Kendall poured the fiery valdoz down his throat, the blueskin said, "Have another. I'll pay."
"No thanks," Kendall said. "Valdoz isn't something you swill like beer. And I'd just as soon face Das Shamra sober, thank you. Let's go."
The Martian spun a coin and left it on the counter. They went out into the street again—but with the potent brew within him, Kendall felt much happier about having to face the Martian winds.
He was just a little unsteady. The beating had helped, of course, and so had the drink. Normally he wasn't a drinking man; alcohol played hell with the reflexes, and his reflexes were his most valued property. But not any more, he thought dully. Not now, when he'd been kicked out of the Service.