Chicken Farm by Ross Rocklynne

Just in from a long haul searching for asteroid juncture points, Harvey entered the lobby of the Hotel de Mars and went straight to the registration desk. The woman at the desk, who was blond, and blue-eyed, and inclining to chubbiness, looked at him, smiled. The smile was of such quality that Harvey’s singed brown face set into a mold of utter attention.

Finally he let out his breath.

“I want a room,” said he, “on the Deimos side.”

He attentively studied the cheerful face while she made out slips, accepted his signature, accepted his money. After he had the key, after he had his change, after everything was taken care of, he still stood there. The woman smiled into his seamed eyes.

“Was there something else?”

Harvey said, noting the emptiness of her chubby ring-finger, “Ma’am, I’m an abrupt, outspoken man. I have no sense of humor. Some people like me; some people don’t. I make my living moving around the solar system. I’ve never been rich, but I never have any trouble making money, as much as I want. Now what was your question again?”

Her fingers slowly caressed a yellow pencil.

Her smile was a little strained. She said cautiously, “I thought you wanted something else. What you want to do is talk, isn’t it? You’re in from a long space-haul, it’s lonely out there, men get so they have to talk to a woman, don’t they? So you’d like to take me out to dinner? And take me to a show? And take me up to your room to watch Deimos, which happens to shine only into the windows of your room?” He looked at her.

“I have no sense of humor,” he repeated with great patience.