byWe’re supposed to be an Earth-Mars lugger, but when we got to Mars Central spaceport, the bug-pounder there gave me this solar gram from Terra. It said:
So I shoved a frantic for the Old Man over the ship audio, and pretty soon he came lumbering up to my radio room, picking his teeth and scowling like a man with only a half a tummy-full of victuals.
“It’s a fine state of affairs,” he snarled, “when a skipper can’t even finish his dinner in peace! Well, what’s the matter now, Sparks? You seeing pink rhinoceroses again? ’Cause if you are—”
“I’m not,” I told him with quiet dignity,” and they aren’t pink rhinos, they’re lavender lobsters, and anyway, I haven’t had a drink for months. Or maybe it’s since yesterday? Anyhow, here’s the grief.” And I gave him the wire.
He read it. Read it, y
