Roger D. Aycock

“ Willard stalled for time by ordering another stinger—a double, this time—and Abe Marker took over.
"How about those pictures of Martian dust storms the boys at Palomar make?" Abe asked. "You can't have dust storms on a marshy planet, can you?"
"Those aren't dust storms," the little man said. "They're clouds of gnats."
"Gnats?" we all said at once, and somebody down the bar, quicker-witted than the rest of us, added: "Gnats to you too, Charlie!"
"A fact," the little man said, but not as if he cared. "They travel in swarms thousands of miles wide, and they bite like hell." ”

“ He winked at us and looked at the little man on my right. "How about it, friend? Is the air good on Mars?"
"Breathable, but not good," the little guy said. "It smells like dead fish."
Silence fell along the bar while we waited for a straight man to raise his head.
Willard Saxton took the bait. "And why should it smell so, may I ask?"
"Because Mars is lousy with fish," the little man said. "And because when fish die, they stink."
Larry did a brisk business for a few minutes while we sized the little guy up again. ”

“ Everybody is anxious to know what Colonel Sanderson and his crew found up there, so—"
"They're going to be disappointed," the little man said. He sounded sour but positive. "Mars ain't what people think it is, not by a hell of a sight. It stinks." ”