The lock opened. The figure went inside.
It was early evening. After the dinner hour and before the time of sleep according to the camp routine Grantline was maintaining. Nine p.m. of Earth Eastern American time, recorded now upon his Earth chronometer. In the living room of the main building Johnny Grantline sat with a dozen of his men dispersed about the room, whiling away as best they could the lonesome hours.
"All as usual. This cursed Moon! When I get home—if I ever do—"
"Say your say, Wilks. But you'll spend your share of the gold leaf and thank your constellations that you had your chance to make it."
"Let him alone! Come on, Wilks, take a hand here. This game is not any good with three."
The man who had been outside flung his hissing helmet recklessly to the floor and unsealed his suit. "Here, get me out of this. No, I won't play. I can't play your cursed game with nothing at stake!"
A laugh went up at the sharp look Johnny Grantline flung from where he sat reading in a corner of the room.
"Commander's orders. No gambling gold leafers tolerated here."
"Play the game, Wilks," Grantline said quietly. "We all know it's infernal—this doing nothing."
"He's been struck by Earthlight," another man laughed. "Commander, I told you not to let that guy Wilks out at night."