Jeb was shocked. "Oh?"
"I've been certified," said the man bluntly. "Not enough credits for support. I had to go to the Welfare Office and ask for assistance. Had my own gravity harness repair shop till a month ago. But the new ones are foolproof, business fell off. Now I'm in for it."
"Gosh," muttered Jeb, "that's really tough. But what do you mean, 'compared to where you're heading?' Sure, you'll be assigned a dirty underground job, on the cables maybe, and the pay will be ridiculous, but it'll be right here, won't it?"
"Haven't you heard?" The other smiled grimly. "So many of us small business guys are being certified, the Welfare people had no more jobs. And you know the law. Indigents must be assigned to some duty. And it just happens that they're opening new mines on Mars and they can't get help. I've no choice."
"Mines?" Jeb paled at the thought. "That Melbonite dust. One speck through the sealed-in suit and you've got a burn they still can't heal." He shuddered; then, seeing the face of the Unassigned Citizen, he said soothingly, "But those suits are foolproof, I understand."
"Not always," said the man in gray. "Anyway, they haven't licked the ventilation problem. The last suits they tried to air-condition, so much Melbonite dust filtered in...." He took a deep breath of horror. "So the ones in use become awfully sweaty. I'm going to a living hell...."
Bong!
Jeb's Monitex glowed red with a violation. "Living Hell" was an old-fashioned dramatic phrase somebody sharp had dug up after diligent study and copyrighted in the hope of picking up a few credits.
As Jeb numbly listened to the droning voice detail the facts and four credits charge, the man in the gray suit said mirthlessly, "Well, well, that's just fine. Thanks a lot, my friend, for a nice sendoff."