Somebody was playing Green Hills again, damn them. Evidently all of his own selections had run out earlier than he’d thought they would.
Hell! There was nothing to do here. He might as well go home.
“Gimme another beer, Mac.”
He’d go home as soon as he finished this one.
He stood there with his eyes closed, listening to the music and hating Mars.
A voice next to him said: “I’ll have a whiskey.”
The voice sounded as if the man had a bad cold, and Clayton turned slowly to look at him. After all the sterilization they went through before they left Earth, nobody on Mars ever had a cold, so there was only one thing that would make a man’s voice sound like that.
Clayton was right. The fellow had an oxygen tube clamped firmly over his nose. He was wearing the uniform of the Space Transport Service.
“Just get in on the ship?” Clayton asked conversationally.