The man nodded and grinned. “Yeah. Four hours before we take off again.” He poured down the whiskey. “Sure cold out.”
Clayton agreed. “It’s always cold.” He watched enviously as the spaceman ordered another whiskey.
Clayton couldn’t afford whiskey. He probably could have by this time, if the mines had made him a foreman, like they should have.
Maybe he could talk the spaceman out of a couple of drinks.
“My name’s Clayton. Ron Clayton.”
The spaceman took the offered hand. “Mine’s Parkinson, but everybody calls me Parks.”
“Sure, Parks. Uh—can I buy you a beer?”
Parks shook his head. “No, thanks. I started on whiskey. Here, let me buy you one.”
“Well—thanks. Don’t mind if I do.”
They drank them in silence, and Parks ordered two more.