A Story of Newfoundland Screech Rum
The corporal standing next to the jeep saluted. “An early night, Colonel?”
I wave my hand. “Damn proprietor was watering down the whiskey and now he has the audacity to close.”
“Tis Sunday morning,” replied Pierre Benoit, a Newfoundlander who Uncle Sam had contracted to build the airfield at Stephenville. “He can’t serve drinks on a Sunday.”
“Is that true, corporal?”
Conrad opened his eyes to a view of a massive blue globe. He jerked back and twisted around in the microgravity. He touched something solid in front of him. A window.
He pushed against the window and turned around. Conrad scanned the small room, no larger than a public bathroom stall, and empty except for an EV spacesuit and door. He studied the view through the window. Neptune, he thought. How did I get here?