tablet. It wasn't good beer; it didn't even deserve the name. The
atmospheric pressure was so low as to boil all the carbon dioxide out
of it, so the brewers never put it back in after fermentation.

He was sorry for what he had done--really and truly sorry. If they'd
only give him one more chance, he'd make good. Just one more chance.
He'd work things out.

He'd promised himself that both times they'd put him up before, but
things had been different then. He hadn't really been given another
chance, what with parole boards and all.

Clayton closed his eyes and finished the beer. He ordered another.

He'd worked in the mines for fifteen years. It wasn't that he minded
work really, but the foreman had it in for him. Always giving him a bad
time; always picking out the lousy jobs for him.

Like the time he'd crawled into a side-boring in Tunnel 12 for a nap
during lunch and the foreman had caught him. When he promised never to
do it again if the foreman wouldn't put it on report, the guy said,
"Yeah. Sure. Hate to hurt a guy's record."

Then he'd put Clayton on report anyway. Strictly a rat.

Not that Clayton ran any chance of being fired; they never fired
anybody. But they'd fined him a day's pay. A whole day's pay.

He tapped his glass on the bar, and the barman came over with another
beer. Clayton looked at it, then up at the barman. "Put a head on it."

The bartender looked at him sourly. "I've got some soapsuds here,
Clayton, and one of these days I'm gonna put some in your beer if you
keep pulling that gag."

That was the trouble with some guys. No sense of humor.

Somebody came in the door and then somebody else came in behind him, so
that both inner and outer doors were open for an instant. A blast of icy
breeze struck Clayton's back, and he shivered. He started to say
something, then changed his mind; the doors were already closed again,
and besides, one of the guys was bigger than he was.

The iciness didn't seem to go away immediately. It was like the mine.
Little old Mars was cold clear down to her core--or at least down as far
as they'd drilled. The walls were frozen and seemed to radiate a chill
that pulled the heat right out of your blood.

Somebody was playing _Green Hills_ again, damn them. Evidently all of
his 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