watch the ship land, squinting his eyes to see
the number on the hull.

Fifty-two. Space Transport Ship Fifty-two.

Probably bringing another load of poor suckers to freeze to death on
Mars.

That was the thing he hated about Mars--the cold. The everlasting damned
cold! And the oxidation pills; take one every three hours or smother in
the poor, thin air.

The government could have put up domes; it could have put in
building-to-building tunnels, at least. It could have done a hell of a
lot of things to make Mars a decent place for human beings.

But no--the government had other ideas. A bunch of bigshot scientific
characters had come up with the idea nearly twenty-three years before.
Clayton could remember the words on the sheet he had been given when he
was sentenced.

"Mankind is inherently an adaptable animal. If we are to colonize the
planets of the Solar System, we must meet the conditions on those
planets as best we can.

"Financially, it is impracticable to change an entire planet from its
original condition to one which will support human life as it exists on
Terra.

"But man, since he is adaptable, can change himself--modify his
structure slightly--so that he can live on these planets with only a
minimum of change in the environment."

* * * * *

So they made you live outside and like it. So you froze and you choked
and you suffered.

Clayton hated Mars. He hated the thin air and the cold. More than
anything, he hated the cold.

Ron Clayton wanted to go home.

The Recreation Building was just ahead; at least it would be warm
inside. He pushed in through the outer and inner doors, and he heard the
burst of music from the jukebox. His stomach tightened up into a hard
cramp.

They were playing Heinlein's _Green Hills of Earth_.

There was almost no other sound in the room, although it was full of
people. There were plenty of colonists who claimed to like Mars, but
even they were silent when that song was played.

Clayton wanted to go over and smash the machine--make it stop reminding
him. He clenched his teeth and his fists and his eyes and cursed
mentally. _God, how I hate Mars!_

* * * * *

When the hauntingly nostalgic last chorus faded away, he walked over to
the machine and fed it full of enough coins to keep it going on
something else until he left.

At the bar, he ordered a beer and used it to wash down another oxidation