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. 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. “Been here long?” Parks asked. “Fifteen years. Fifteen long, long years.” “Did you—uh—I mean—” Parks looked suddenly confused. Clayton glanced quickly to make sure the bartender was out of earshot. Then he grinned. “You mean am I a convict? Nah. I came here because I wanted to. But—” He lowered his voice. “—we don’t talk about it around here. You know.” He gestured with one hand—a gesture that took in everyone else in the room. Parks glanced around quickly, moving only his eyes. “Yeah. I see,” he said softly. “This your first trip?” asked Clayton. “First one to Mars. Been on the Luna run a long time.” “Low pressure bother you much?” “Not much. We only keep it at six pounds in the ships. Half helium and half oxygen. Only thing that bothers me is the oxy here. Or rather, the oxy that _isn’t_ here.” He took a deep breath through his nose tube to emphasize his point. Clayton clamped his teeth together, making the muscles at the side of his jaw stand out. Parks didn’t notice. “You guys have to take those pills, don’t you?” “Yeah.” “I had to take them once. Got stranded on Luna. The cat I was in broke down eighty some miles from Aristarchus Base and I had to walk back—with my oxy low. Well, I figured—” Clayton listened to Parks’ story with a great show of attention, but he had heard it before. This “lost on the moon” stuff and its variations had been going the rounds for forty years. Every once in a while, it actually did happen to someone; just often enough to keep the story going. This guy did have a couple of new twists, but not enough to make the story worthwhile. “Boy,” Clayton said when Parks had finished, “you were lucky to come out of that alive!”