"Sorry, Halloway. I meant, bury that 'dog,' you men. Give him full honors. You were lucky, son, another second and those knife-teeth'd bored through your ankle-cuff metal."
I don't know what he means. I'm wearing sneakers, sir.
"Oh, yeah, so you are. Yeah. Well, I'm sorry, Halloway. I know how you must feel about—Shep. He was a fine dog."
I think about it a moment and my eyes fill up, wet.
There'll be a picnic and a hike; the captain says. Three hours now the boys have carried luggage from the metal house. The way they talk, this'll be some picnic. Some seem afraid, but who worries about copperheads and water-moccasins and crawfish? Not me. No, sir. Not me.
Gus Bartz, sweating beside me on some apparatus, squints at me.
"What's eatin' you, Halloway?"
I smile. Me? Nothing. Why?
"You and that act with that Martian worm."