The President swung back and forth beneath the night sky, closing his first around the rim of his eighth beer. In a desperate attempt at drunkenly kicking a nearby rock, he stumbles and falls flat on the dirt with no visible interest in getting back up. “Jolly night,” he tips his beer to the other man. “Of course, Mr. President,” he replies. The man tips his beer in return. Both of them look up, dazzled by the great Martian sun against the bleak, black galactic background. “All things considered,” the President begins, “things could be worse. We could be on Earth.” They both throw back their heads in a fit of laughter. As they go to toast to their new home planet, the glass bottle breaks the mirror and the President is back by himself again, alone in his own galaxy.