to go away immediately. It was like the mine.Little old Mars was cold clear down to her core--or at least down as faras they'd drilled. The walls were frozen and seemed to radiate a chillthat pulled the heat right out of your blood.
Somebody was playing _Green Hills_ again, damn them. Evidently all ofhis own selections had run out earlier than he'd thought they would.
Hell! There was nothing to do here. He might as well go home.
"Gimme another beer, Mac."
He'd go home as soon as he finished this one.
He stood there with his eyes closed, listening to the music and hatingMars.
A voice next to him said: "I'll have a whiskey."
* * * * *
The voice sounded as if the man had a bad cold, and Clayton turnedslowly to look at him. After all the sterilization they went throughbefore they left Earth, nobody on Mars ever had a cold, so there wasonly one thing that would make a man's voice sound like that.
Clayton was right. The fellow had an oxygen tube clamped firmly over hisnose. 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 thespaceman ordered another whiskey.
Clayton couldn't afford whiskey. He probably could have by this time, ifthe 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 everybodycalls me Parks."
"Sure, Parks. Uh--can I buy you a beer?"
Parks shook his head. "No, thanks. I started on whiskey. Here, let mebuy 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 Iwanted to. But--" He lowered his voice. "--we don't talk about it aroundhere. You know." He gestured with one hand--a gesture that took ineveryone else in the room.
Parks glanced around quickly, moving only his eyes. "Yeah. I see," hesaid 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 andhalf oxygen. Only thing that bothers me is the oxy here. Or rather, theoxy that _isn't_ here." He took a deep breath through his nose tube toemphasize his point.
Clayton clamped his teeth together, making the muscles at the side ofhis 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 brokedown eighty some miles from Aristarchus Base and I had to walkback--with my oxy low. Well, I figured--"
* * * * *
Clayton listened to Parks' story with a great show of attention, but hehad heard it before. This "lost on the moon" stuff and its variationshad been going the rounds for forty years. Every once in a while, itactually did happen to someone; just often enough to keep the storygoing.
This guy did have a couple of new twists, but not enough to make thestory worthwhile.
"Boy," Clayton said when Parks had finished, "you were lucky to come outof that alive!"
Parks nodded, well pleased with himself, and bought another round ofdrinks.
"Something like that happened to me a couple of years ago," Claytonbegan. "I'm supervisor on the third shift in the mines at Xanthe, but atthe time, I was only a foreman. One day, a couple of guys went to abranch tunnel to--"
It was a very good story. Clayton had made it up himself, so he knewthat Parks had never heard it before. It was gory in just the rightplaces, with a nice effect at the end.
"--so I had to hold up the rocks with my back while the rescue crewpulled the others out of the tunnel by crawling between my legs.Finally, they got some steel beams down there to take the load off, andI could let go. I was in the hospital for a week," he finished.
Parks was nodding vaguely. Clayton looked up at the clock above the barand realized that they had been talking for better than an hour. Parkswas buying another round.
Parks was a hell of a nice fellow.
There was, Clayton found, only one trouble with Parks. He got to talkingso loud that the bartender refused to serve either one of them any more.
* * * * *
The bartender said Clayton was getting loud, too, but it was justbecause he had to talk loud to make Parks hear him.
Clayton helped Parks put his mask and parka on and they walked out intothe cold night.
Parks began to sing _Green Hills_. About halfway through, he stopped andturned to Clayton.
"I'm from Indiana."
Clayton had already spotted him as an American by his accent.
"Indiana? That's nice. Real nice."
"Yeah. You talk about green hills, we got green hills in Indiana. Whattime is it?"
Clayton told him.
"Jeez-krise! Ol' spaship takes off in an hour. Ought to have one moredrink first."
Clayton realized he didn't like Parks. But maybe he'd buy a bottle.
Sharkie Johnson worked in Fuels Section, and he made a nice littlesideline of stealing alcohol, cutting it, and selling it. He thought itwas real funny to call it Martian Gin.
Clayton said: "Let's go over to Sharkie's. Sharkie will sell us abottle."
"Okay," said Parks. "We'll get a bottle. That's what we need: a bottle."
It was quite a walk to the Shark's place. It was so cold that even Parkswas beginning to sober up a little. He was laughing like hell whenClayton started to sing.
"We're going over to the Shark's To buy a jug of gin for Parks! Hi ho, hi ho, hi ho!"
One thing about a few drinks; you didn't get so cold. You didn't feel ittoo much, anyway.
* * * * *
The Shark still had his light on when they arrived. Clayton whispered toParks: "I'll go in. He knows me. He wouldn't sell it if you were around.You got eight credits?"
"Sure I got eight credits. Just a minute, and I'll give you eightcredits." He fished around for a minute inside his parka, and pulledout his notecase. His gloved fingers were a little clumsy, but hemanaged to get out a five and three ones and hand them to Clayton.
"You wait out here," Clayton said.
He went in through the outer door and knocked on the inner one. Heshould have asked for ten credits. Sharkie only charged five, and thatwould leave him three for himself. But he could have got ten--maybemore.
When he came out with the bottle, Parks was sitting on a rock,shivering.
"Jeez-krise!" he said. "It's cold out here. Let's get to someplace whereit's warm."
"Sure. I got the bottle. Want a drink?"
Parks took the bottle, opened it, and took a good belt out of it.
"Hooh!" he breathed. "Pretty smooth."
As Clayton drank, Parks said: "Hey! I better get back to the field! Iknow! We can go to the men's room and finish the bottle before the shiptakes off! Isn't that a good idea? It's warm there."
They started back down the street toward the spacefield.
"Yep, I'm from Indiana. Southern part, down around Bloomington," Parkssaid. "Gimme the jug. Not Bloomington, Illinois--Bloomington, Indiana.We really got green hills down there." He drank, and handed the bottleback to Clayton. "Pers-nally, I don't see why anybody'd stay on Mars.
Here y'are, practic'ly on the equator in the middle of the summer, andit's colder than hell. Brrr!
"Now if you was smart, you'd go home, where it's warm. Mars wasn't builtfor people to live on, anyhow. I don't see how you stand it."
That was when Clayton decided he really hated Parks.
And when Parks said: "Why be dumb, friend? Whyn't you go home?" Claytonkicked him in the stomach, hard.
"And that, that--" Clayton said as Parks doubled over.
He said it again as he kicked him in the head. And in the ribs. Parkswas gasping as he writhed on the ground, but he soon lay still.
Then Clayton
The Man Who Hated Mars Page 2
