Рэй Брэдбери. Марсианские хроники (ENGL)









For my wife MARGUERITE with all my love

"It is good to renew one's wonder," said the philosopher.
"Space travel has again made children of us all."

January 1999: ROCKET SUMMER

One minute it was Ohio winter, with doors closed, windows
locked, the panes blind with frost, icicles fringing every
roof, children skiing on slopes, housewives lumbering like
great black bears in their furs along the icy streets.
And then a long wave of warmth crossed the small town.
A flooding sea of hot air; it seemed as if someone had left
a bakery door open. The heat pulsed among the cottages and
bushes and children. The icicles dropped, shattering, to melt.
The doors flew open. The windows flew up. The children worked
off their wool clothes. The housewives shed their bear
disguises. The snow dissolved and showed last summer's ancient
green lawns.
_Rocket summer_. The words passed among the people in the
open, airing houses. _Rocket summer_. The warm desert air
changing the frost patterns on the windows, erasing the art
work. The skis and sleds suddenly useless. The snow, falling
from the cold sky upon the town, turned to a hot rain before
it touched the ground.
_Rocket summer_. People leaned from their dripping porches
and watched the reddening sky.
The rocket lay on the launching field, blowing out pink
clouds of fire and oven heat. The rocket stood in the cold
wintar morning, making summer with every breath of its mighty
exhausts. The rocket made climates, and summer lay for a brief
moment upon the land. . . .

February 1999: YLLA

They had a house of crystal pillars on the planet Mars by
the edge of an empty sea, and every morning you could see Mrs.
K eating the golden fruits that grew from the crystal walls,
or cleaning the house with handfuls of magnetic dust which,
taking all dirt with it, blew away on the hot wind. Afternoons,
when the fossil sea was warm and motionless, and the wine trees
stood stiff in the yard, and the little distant Martian bone
town was all enclosed, and no one drifted out their doors, you
could see Mr. K himself in his room, reading from a metal book
with raised hieroglyphs over which he brushed his hand, as one
might play a harp. And from the book, as his fingers stroked,
a voice sang, a soft ancient voice, which told tales of when
the sea was red steam on the shore and ancient men had carried
clouds of metal insects and electric spiders into battle.
Mr. and Mrs. K had lived by the dead sea for twenty years,
and their ancestors had lived in the same house, which turned
and followed the sun, flower-like, for ten centuries.
Mr. and Mrs. K were not old. They had the fair, brownish
skin of the true Martian, the yellow coin eyes, the soft
musical voices. Once they had liked painting pictures with
chemical fire, swimming in the canals in the seasons when the
wine trees filled them with green liquors, and talking into the
dawn together by the blue phosphorous portraits in the speaking
room.
They were not happy now.
This morning Mrs. K stood between the pillars, listening
to the desert sands heat, melt into yellow wax, and seemingly
run on the horizon.
Something was going to happen.
She waited.
She watched the blue sky of Mars as if it might at any
moment grip in on itself, contract, and expel a shining miracle
down upon the sand.
Nothing happened.
Tired of waiting, she walked through the misting pillars.
A gentle rain sprang from the fluted pillar tops, cooling
the scorched air, falling gently on her. On hot days it was
like walking in a creek. The floors of the house glittered with
cool streams. In the distance she heard her husband playing his
book steadily, his fingers never tired of the old songs.
Quietly she wished he might one day again spend as much time
holding and touching her like a little harp as he did his
incredible books.
But no. She shook her head, an imperceptible, forgiving
shrug. Her eyelids closed softly down upon her golden eyes.
Marriage made people old and familiar, while still young.
She lay back in a chair that moved to take her shape even
as she moved. She closed her eyes tightly and nervously.
The dream occurred.
Her brown fingers trembled, came up, grasped at the air.
A moment later she sat up, startled, gasping.
She glanced about swiftly, as if expecting someone there
before her. She seemed disappointed; the space between the
pillars was empty.
Her husband appeared in a triangular door. "Did you call?"
he asked irritably.
"No!" she cried.
"I thought I heard you cry out."
"Did I? I was almost asleep and had a dream!"
"In the daytime? You don't often do that."
She sat as if struck in the face by the dream. "How
strange, how very strange," she murmured. "The dream."
"Oh?" He evidently wished to return to his book.
"I dreamed about a man."
"A man?"
"A tall man, six feet one inch tall."
"How absurd; a giant, a misshapen giant."
"Somehow"--she tried the words- "he looked all right.
In spite of being tall. And he had--oh, I know you'll think
it silly--he had _blue_ eyes!"
"Blue eyes! Gods!" cried Mr. K. "What'll you dream next?
I suppose he had _black_ hair?"
"How did you _guess?_" She was excited.
"I picked the most unlikely color," he replied coldly.
"Well, black it was!" she cried. "And he had a very white
skin; oh, he was _most_ unusual! He was dressed in a strange
uniform and he came down out of the sky and spoke pleasantly
to me." She smiled.
"Out of the sky; what nonsense!"
"He came in a metal thing that glittered in the sun,"
she remembered. She closed her eyes to shape it again. "I
dreamed there was the sky and something sparkled like a coin
thrown into the air, and suddenly it grew large and fell down
softly to land, a long silver craft, round and alien. And a
door opened in the side of the silver object and this tall
man stepped out."
"If you worked harder you wouldn't have these silly
dreams."
"I rather enjoyed it," she replied, lying back. "I
never suspected myself of such an imagination. Black hair, blue
eyes, and white skin! What a strange man, and yet--quite
handsome."
"Wishful thinking."
"You're unkind. I didn't think him up on purpose; he just
came in my mind while I drowsed. It wasn't like a dream. It was
so unexpected and different. He looked at me and he said, 'I've
come from the third planet in my ship. My name is Nathaniel
York--'"
"A stupid name; it's no name at all," objected the
husband.
"Of course it's stupid, because it's a dream," she
explained softly. "And he said, 'This is the first trip across
space. There are only two of us in our ship, myself and my
friend Bert.'"
"_Another_ stupid name."
"And he said, 'We're from a city on _Earth_; that's the
name of our planet,'" continued Mrs. K. "That's what he said.
'Earth' was the name he spoke. And he used another language.
Somehow I understood him. With my mind. Telepathy, I suppose."
Mr. K turned away. She stopped him with a word. "Yll?"
she called quietly. "Do you ever wonder if--well, if there
_are_ people living on the third planet?"
"The third planet is incapable of supporting life," stated
the husband patiently. "Our scientists have said there's far
too much oxygen in their atmosphere."
"But wouldn't it be fascinating if there _were_ people?
And they traveled through space in some sort of ship?"
"Really, Ylla, you know how I hate this emotional wailing.
Let's get on with our work."
It was late in the day when she began singing the song as
she moved among the whispering pillars of rain. She sang it
over and over again.
"What's that song?" snapped her husband at last, walking
in to sit at the fire table.
"I don't know." She looked up, surprised at herself. She
put her hand to her mouth, unbelieving. The sun was setting.
The house was closing itself in, like a giant flower, with
the passing of light. A wind blew among the pillars; the fire
table bubbled its fierce pool of silver lava. The wind stirred
her russet hair, crooning softly in her ears. She stood
silently looking out into the great sallow distances of sea
bottom, as if recalling something, her yellow eyes soft and
moist, "Drink to me only with thine eyes, and I will pledge
with mine," she sang, softly, quietly, slowly. "Or leave a
kiss within the cup, and I'll not ask for wine." She hummed
now, moving her hands in the wind ever so lightly, her eyes
shut. She finished the song.
It was very beautiful.
"Never heard that song before. Did you compose it?"
he inquired, his eyes sharp.
"No, Yes. No, I don't know, really!" She hesitated wildly.
"I don't even know what the words are; they're another
language!"
"What language?"
She dropped portions of meat numbly into the simmering
lava. "I don't know." She drew the meat forth a moment later,
cooked, served on a plate for him. "It's just a crazy thing I
made up, I guess. I don't know why."
He said nothing. He watched her drown meats in the hissing
fire pool. The sun was gone. Slowly, slowly the night came in
to fill the room, swallowing the pillars and both of them, like
a dark wine poured to the ceiling. Only the silver lava's glow
lit their faces.
She hummed the strange song again.
Instantly he leaped from his chair and stalked angrily
from the room.

Later, in isolation, he finished supper.
When he arose he stretched, glanced at her, and suggested,
yawning, "Let's take the flame birds to town tonight to see
an entertainment."
"You don't _mean_ it?" she said. "Are you feeling well?"
"What's so strange about that?"
"But we haven't gone for an entertainment in six months!"
"I think it's a good idea."
"Suddenly you're so solicitous," she said.
"Don't talk that way," he replied peevishly. "Do you or do
you not want to go?"
She looked out at the pale desert. The twin white moons
were rising. Cool water ran softly about her toes. She began
to tremble just the least bit. She wanted very much to sit
quietly here, soundless, not moving until this thing occurred,
this thing expected all day, this thing that could not occur
but might. A drift of song brushed through her mind.
"I----"
"Do you good," he urged. "Come along now."
"I'm tired," she said. "Some other night."
"Here's your scarf." He handed her a phial. "We haven't
gone anywhere in months."
"Except you, twice a week to Xi City." She wouldn't look
at him.
"Business," he said.
"Oh?" She whispered to herself.
From the phial a liquid poured, turned to blue mist,
settled about her neck, quivering.

The flame birds waited, like a bed of coals, glowing on
the cool smooth sands. The white canopy ballooned on the night
wind, flapping softly, tied by a thousand green ribbons to
the birds.
Ylla laid herself back in the canopy and, at a word from
her husband, the birds leaped, burning, toward the dark sky,
The ribbons tautened, the canopy lifted. The sand slid whining
under; the blue hills drifted by, drifted by, leaving their
home behind, the raining pillars, the caged flowers, the
singing books, the whispering floor creeks. She did not look at
her husband. She heard him crying out to the birds as they
rose higher, like ten thousand hot sparkles, so many red-yellow
fireworks in the heavens, tugging the canopy like a flower
petal, burning through the wind.
She didn't watch the dead, ancient bone-chess cities slide
under, or the old canals filled with emptiness and dreams. Past
dry rivers and dry lakes they flew, like a shadow of the moon,
like a torch burning.
She watched only the sky.
The husband spoke.
She watched the sky.
"Did you hear what I said?"
"What?"
He exhaled. "You might pay attention."
"I was thinking."
"I never thought you were a nature lover, but you're
certainly interested in the sky tonight," he said.
"It's very beautiful."
"I was figuring," said the husband slowly. "I thought I'd
call Hulle tonight. I'd like to talk to him about us spending
some time, oh, only a week or so, in the Blue Mountains. It's
just an idea--"
"The Blue Mountains!" She held to the canopy rim with one
hand, turning swiftly toward him.
"Oh, it's just a suggestion."
"When do you want to go?" she asked, trembling.
"I thought we might leave tomorrow morning. You know, an
early start and all that," he said very casually.
"But we _never_ go this early in the year!"
"Just this once, I thought--" He smiled. "Do us good to
get away. Some peace and quiet. You know. You haven't anything
_else_ planned? We'll go, won't we?"
She took a breath, waited, and then replied, "No."
"What?" His cry startled the birds. The canopy jerked.
"No," she said firmly. "It's settled. I won't go."
He looked at her. They did not speak after that. She
turned away.
The birds flew on, ten thousand flrebrands down the wind.

In the dawn the sun, through the crystal pillars, melted
the fog that supported Ylla as she slept. All night she had
hung above the floor, buoyed by the soft carpeting of mist
that poured from the walls when she lay down to rest. All night
she had slept on this silent river, like a boat upon a
soundless tide. Now the fog burned away, the mist level lowered
until she was deposited upon the shore of wakening.
She opened her eyes.
Her husband stood over her. He looked as if he had stood
there for hours, watching. She did not know why, but she could
not look him in the face.
"You've been dreaming again!" he said. "You spoke out and
kept me awake. I _really_ think you should see a doctor."
"I'll be all right."
"You talked a lot in your sleep!"
"Did I?" She started up.
Dawn was cold in the room. A gray light filled her as she
lay there.
"What was your dream?"
She had to think a moment to remember. "The ship. It came
from the sky again, landed, and the tall man stepped out and
talked to me, telling me little jokes, laughing, and it
was pleasant."
Mr. K touched a pillar. Founts of warm water leaped
up, steaming; the chill vanished from the room. Mr. K's face
was impassive.
"And then," she said, "this man, who said his strange name
was Nathaniel York, told me I was beautiful and--and kissed
me."
"Ha!" cried the husband, turning violently away, his
jaw working.
"It's only a dream." She was amused.
"Keep your silly, feminine dreams to yourself!"
"You're acting like a child." She lapsed back upon the
few remaining remnants of chemical mist. After a moment she
laughed softly. "I thought of some _more_ of the dream,"
she confessed.
"Well, what is it, what _is_ it?" he shouted.
"Yll, you're so bad-tempered."
"Tell me!" he demanded. "You can't keep secrets from me!"
His face was dark and rigid as he stood over her.
"I've never seen you this way," she replied, half shocked,
half entertained. "All that happened was this Nathaniel York
person told me--well, he told me that he'd take me away into
his ship, into the sky with him, and take me back to his planet
with him. It's really quite ridiculous."
"Ridiculous, is it!" he almost screamed. "You should have
heard yourself, fawning on him, talking to him, singing with
him, oh gods, all night; you should have _heard_ yourself!"
"Yll!"
"When's he landing? Where's he coming down with his damned
ship?"
"Yll, lower your voice.'
"Voice be damned!" He bent stiffly over her. "And _in_
this dream"--he seized her wrist--"didn't the ship land over
in Green Valley, _didn't_ it? Answer me!"
"Why, yes--"
"And it landed this afternoon, didn't it?" he kept at her.
"Yes, yes, I think so, yes, but only in a dream!"
"Well"--he flung her hand away stiffly--"it's good
you're truthful! I heard every word you said in your sleep.
You mentioned the valley and the time." Breathing hard, he
walked between the pillars like a man blinded by a lightning
bolt. Slowly his breath returned. She watched him as if he were
quite insane. She arose finally and went to him. "Yll,"
she whispered.
"I'm all right."
"You're sick."
"No." He forced a tired smile. "Just childish. Forgive
me, darling." He gave her a rough pat. "Too much work lately.
I'm sorry. I think I'll lie down awhile--"
"You were so excited."
"I'm all right now. Fine." He exhaled. "Let's forget it.
Say, I heard a joke about Uel yesterday, I meant to tell you.
What do you say you fix breakfast, I'll tell the joke, and
let's not talk about all this."
"It was only a dream."
"Of course," He kissed her cheek mechanically. "Only
a dream."

At noon the sun was high and hot and the hills shimmered
in the light.
"Aren't you going to town?" asked Ylla.
"Town?" he raised his brows faintly.
"This is the day you _always_ go." She adjusted a flower
cage on its pedestal. The flowers stirred, opening their hungry
yellow mouths.
He closed his book. "No. It's too hot, and it's late."
"Oh." She finished her task and moved toward the door.
"Well, I'll be back soon."
"Wait a minute! Where are you going?"
She was in the door swiftly. "Over to Pao's. She invited
me!"
"Today?"
"I haven't seen her in a long time. It's only a little
way."
"Over in Green Valley, isn't it?"
"Yes, just a walk, not far, I thought I'd--" She hurried.
"I'm sorry, really sorry," he said, running to fetch her
back, looking very concerned about his forgetfulness. "It
slipped my mind. I invited Dr. Nlle out this afternoon."
"Dr. Nile!" She edged toward the door.
He caught her elbow and drew her steadily in. "Yes."
"But Pao--"
"Pan can wait, Ylla. We must entertain Nile."
"Just for a few minutes--"
"No, Ylla."
"No?"
He shook his head. "No. Besides, it's a terribly long walk
to Pao's. All the way over through Green Valley and then past
the big canal and down, isn't it? And it'll be very, very hot,
and Dr. Nile would be delighted to see you. Well?"
She did not answer. She wanted to break and run. She
wanted to cry out. But she only sat in the chair, turning
her fingers over slowly, staring at them expressionlessly,
trapped.
"Ylla?" he murmured. "You _will_ be here, won't you?"
"Yes," she said after a long time. "I'll be here."
"All afternoon?"
Her voice was dull. "All afternoon."

Late in the day Dr. Nile had not put in an appearance.
Ylla's husband did not seem overly surprised. When it was quite
late he murmured something, went to a closet, and drew forth
an evil weapon, a long yellowish tube ending in a bellows and
a trigger. He turned, and upon his face was a mask, hammered
from silver metal, expressionless, the mask that he always wore
when he wished to hide his feelings, the mask which curved
and hollowed so exquisitely to his thin cheeks and chin and
brow. The mask glinted, and he held the evil weapon in his
hands, considering it. It hummed constantly, an insect hum.
From it hordes of golden bees could be flung out with a high
shriek. Golden, horrid bees that stung, poisoned, and fell
lifeless, like seeds on the sand.
"Where are you going?" she asked.
"What?" He listened to the bellows, to the evil hum. "If
Dr. Nile is late, I'll be damned if I'll wait. I'm going out
to hunt a bit. I'll be back. You be sure to stay right here
now, won't you?" The silver mask glimmered.
"Yes."
"And tell Dr. Nile I'll return. Just hunting."
The triangular door closed. His footsteps faded down the
hill.
She watched him walking through the sunlight until he was
gone. Then she resumed her tasks with the magnetic dusts and
the new fruits to be plucked from the crystal walls. She worked
with energy and dispatch, but on occasion a numbness took hold
of her and she caught herself singing that odd and memorable
song and looking out beyond the crystal pillars at the sky.
She held her breath and stood very still, waiting.
It was coming nearer.
At any moment it might happen.
It was like those days when you heard a thunderstorm
coming and there was the waiting silence and then the faintest
pressure of the atmosphere as the climate blew over the land
in shifts and shadows and vapors. And the change pressed at
your ears and you were suspended in the waiting time of the
coming storm. You began to tremble. The sky was stained
and coloured; the clouds were thickened; the mountains took on
an iron taint. The caged flowers blew with faint sighs of
warning. You felt your hair stir softly. Somewhere in the house
the voice-clock sang, "Time, time, time, time . . ." ever
so gently, no more than water tapping on velvet.
And then the storm. The electric illumination, the
engulfments of dark wash and sounding black fell down, shutting
in, forever.
That's how it was. A storm gathered, yet the sky was
clear. Lightning was expected, yet there was no cloud.
Ylla moved through the breathless summer house. Lightning
would strike from the sky any instant; there would be
a thunderclap, a boil of smoke, a silence, footsteps on the
path, a rap on the crystalline door, and her _running_ to
answer. . . .
Crazy Ylla! she scoffed. Why think these wild things with
your idle mind?
And then it happened.
There was a warmth as of a great fire passing in the air.
A whirling, rushing sound. A gleam in the sky, of metal.
Ylla cried out.
Running through the pillars, she flung wide a door. She
faced the hills. But by this time there was nothing.
She was about to race down the hill when she stopped
herself, She was supposed to stay here, go nowhere, The doctor
was coming to visit, and her husband would be angry if she ran
off.
She waited in the door, breathing rapidly, her hand out.
She strained to see over toward Green Valley, but saw
nothing.
Silly woman. She went inside. You and your imagination,
she thought. That was nothing but a bird, a leaf, the wind, or
a fish in the canal. Sit down. Rest.
She sat down.
A shot sounded.
Very clearly, sharply, the sound of the evil insect
weapon.
Her body jerked with it.
It came from a long way off, One shot. The swift humming
distant bees. One shot. And then a second shot, precise and
cold, and far away.
Her body winced again and for some reason she started
up, screaming, and screaming, and never wanting to stop
screaming. She ran violently through the house and once more
threw wide the door.
The echoes were dying away, away.
Gone.
She waited in the yard, her face pale, for five minutes.
Finally, with slow steps, her head down, she wandered
about the pillared rooms, laying her hand to things, her
lips quivering, until finally she sat alone in the darkening
wine room, waiting. She began to wipe an amber glass with the
hem of her scarf.
And then, from far off, the sound of footsteps crunching
on the thin, small rocks.
She rose up to stand in the center of the quiet room. The
glass fell from her fingers, smashing to bits.
The footsteps hesitated outside the door.
Should she speak? Should she cry out, "Come in, oh, come
in"?
She went forward a few paces.
The footsteps walked up the ramp. A hand twisted the door
latch.
She smiled at the door.
The door opened. She stopped smiling.
It was her husband. His silver mask glowed dully.
He entered the room and looked at her for only a moment.
Then he snapped the weapon bellows open, cracked out two dead
bees, heard them spat on the floor as they fell, stepped on
them, and placed the empty bellows gun in the corner of the
room as Ylla bent down and tried, over and over, with no
success, to pick up the pieces of the shattered glass. "What
were you doing?" she asked.
"Nothing," he said with his back turned. He removed the
mask.
"But the gun--I heard you fire it. Twice."
"Just hunting. Once in a while you like to hunt. Did Dr.
Nile arrive?"
"No."
"Wait a minute." He snapped his fingers disgustedly. "Why,
I remember _now_. He was supposed to visit us _tomorrow_
afternoon. How stupid of me."
They sat down to eat. She looked at her food and did not
move her hands. "What's wrong?" he asked, not looking up from
dipping his meat in the bubbling lava.
"I don't know. I'm not hungry," she said.
"Why not?"
"I don't know; I'm just not."
The wind was rising across the sky; the sun was going
down. The room was small and suddenly cold.
"I've been trying to remember," she said in the silent
room, across from her cold, erect, golden-eyed husband.
"Remember what?" He sipped his wine.
"That song. That fine and beautiful song." She closed her
eyes and hummed, but it was not the song. "I've forgotten it.
And, somehow, I don't want to forget it. It's something I want
always to remember." She moved her hands as if the rhythm might
help her to remember all of it. Then she lay back in her chair.
"I can't remember." She began to cry.
"Why are you crying?" he asked.
"I don't know, I don't know, but I can't help it. I'm sad
and I don't know why, I cry and I don't know why, but I'm
crying."
Her head was in her hands; her shoulders moved again and
again.
"You'll be all right tomorrow," he said.
She did not look up at him; she looked only at the empty
desert and the very bright stars coming out now on the black
sky, and far away there was a sound of wind rising and canal
waters stirring cold in the long canals. She shut her eyes,
trembling.
"Yes," she said. "I'll be all right tomorrow."

August 1999: THE SUMMER NIGHT

In the stone galleries the people were gathered in
clusters and groups filtering up into shadows among the blue
hills. A soft evening light shone over them from the stars and
the luminous double moons of Mars. Beyond the marble
amphitheater, in darkness and distances, lay little towns
and villas; pools of silver water stood motionless and canals
glittered from horizon to horizon. It was an evening in summer
upon the placid and temperate planet Mars. Up and down green
wine canals, boats as delicate as bronze flowers drifted. In
the long and endless dwellings that curved like tranquil snakes
across the hills, lovers lay idly whispering in cool night
beds. The last children ran in torchlit alleys, gold spiders
in their hands throwing out films of web. Here or there a late
supper was prepared in tables where lava bubbled silvery and
hushed. In the amphitheaters of a hundred towns on the night
side of Mars the brown Martian people with gold coin eyes
were leisurely met to fix their attention upon stages where
musicians made a serene music flow up like blossom scent on
the still air.
Upon one stage a woman sang.
The audience stirred.
She stopped singing. She put her hand to her throat. She
nodded to the musicians and they began again.
The musicians played and she sang, and this time the
audience sighed and sat forward, a few of the men stood up
in surprise, and a winter chill moved through the amphitheater.
For it was an odd and a frightening and a strange song this
woman sang. She tried to stop the words from coming out of her
lips, but the words were these:

"_She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes_ . . ."

The singer dasped her hands to her mouth. She stood,
bewildered.
"What words are those?" asked the musicians.
"What song is that?"
"What _language_ is that!"
And when they blew again upon their golden horns the
strange music came forth and passed slowly over the audience,
which now talked aloud and stood up.
"What's wrong with you?" the musicians asked each other.
"What tune is that you played?"
"What tune did _you_ play?"
The woman wept and ran from the stage, And the audience
moved out of the amphitheater. And all around the nervous towns
of Mars a similar thing had happened. A coldness had come, like
white snow falling on the air.
In the black alleys, under the torches, the children sang:

"--_and when she got there, the cupboard was bare,
And so her poor dog had none!_"

"Children!" voices cried. "What was that rhyme? Where did
you learn it?"
"We just _thought_ of it, all of a sudden. It's just words
we don't understand."
Doors slammed. The streets were deserted. Above the blue
hills a green star rose.
All over the night side of Mars lovers awoke to listen
to their loved ones who lay humming in the darkness.
"What is that tune?"
And in a thousand villas, in the middle of the night,
women awoke, screaming. They had to be soothed while the tears
ran down their faces, "There, there. Sleep. What's wrong?
A dream?"
"Something terrible will happen in the morning."
"Nothing can happen, all is well with us."
A hysterical sobbing. "It is coming nearer and nearer
and _nearer!_"
"Nothing can happen to us. What could? Sleep now. Sleep."
It was quiet in the deep morning of Mars, as quiet as a
cool and black well, with stars shining in the canal waters,
and, breathing in every room, the children curled with their
spiders in closed hands, the lovers arm in arm, the moons gone,
the torches cold, the stone amphitheaters deserted.
The only sound, just before dawn, was a night watchman,
far away down a lonely street, walking along in the darkness,
humming a very strange song. . . .

August 1999: THE EARTH MEN

Whoever was knocking at the door didn't want to stop. Mrs.
Ttt threw the door open. "Well?"
"You speak _English!_" The man standing there was
astounded.
"I speak what I speak," she said.
"It's wonderful _English!_" The man was in uniform. There
were three men with him, in a great hurry, all smiling, all
dirty.
"What do you want?" demanded Mrs. Ttt.
"You are a _Martian!_" The man smiled. "The word is
not familiar to you, certainly. It's an Earth expression."
He nodded at his then. "We are from Earth. I'm Captain
Williams. We've landed on Mars within the hour. Here we are,
the _Second_ Expedition! There was a First Expedition, but we
don't know what happened to it. But here we are, anyway. And
you are the first Martian we've met!"
"Martian?" Her eyebrows went up.
"What I mean to say is, you live on the fourth planet from
the sun. Correct?"
"Elementary," she snapped, eyeing them.
"And we"--he pressed his chubby pink hand to his chest--
"we are from Earth. Right, men?"
"Right, sir!" A chorus.
"This is the planet Tyrr," she said, "if you want to use
the proper name."
"Tyrr, Tyrr." The captain laughed exhaustedly. "What a
_fine_ name! But, my good woman, how is it you speak such
perfect English?"
"I'm not speaking, I'm thinking," she said. "Telepathy!
Good day!" And she slammed the door.
A moment later there was that dreadful man knocking again.
She whipped the door open. "What now?" she wondered.
The man was still there, trying to smile, looking
bewildered. He put out his hands. "I don't think you
_understand_--"
"What?" she snapped.
The man gazed at her in surprise. "We're from _Earth!_"
"I haven't time," she said. "I've a lot of cooking today
and there's cleaning and sewing and all. You evidently wish to
see Mr. Ttt; he's upstairs in his study."
"Yes," said the Earth Man confusedly, blinking. "By all
means, let us see Mr. Ttt."
"He's busy." She slammed the door again.
This time the knock on the door was most impertinently
loud.
"See here!" cried the man when the door was thrust open
again. He jumped in as if to surprise her. "This is no way to
treat visitors!"
"All over my clean floor!" she cried. "Mud! Get out! If
you come in my house, wash your boots first."
The man looked in dismay at his muddy boots, "This," he
said, "is no time for trivialities. I think," he said, "we
should be celebrating." He looked at her for a long time, as
if looking might make her understand.
"If you've made my crystal buns fall in the oven,"
she exclaimed, "I'll hit you with a piece of wood!" She peered
into a little hot oven. She came back, red, steamy-faced. Her
eyes were sharp yellow, her skin was soft brown, she was thin
and quick as an insect. Her voice was metallic and sharp. "Wait
here. I'll see if I can let you have a moment with Mr. Ttt.
What was your business?"
The man swore luridly, as if she'd hit his hand with
a hammer. "Tell him we're from Earth and it's never been
done before!"
"What hasn't?" She put her brown hand up. "Never mind.
I'll be back."
The sound of her feet fluttered through the stone house.
Outside, the immense blue Martian sky was hot and still as
a warm deep sea water. The Martian desert lay broiling like
a prehistoric mud pot, waves of heat rising and shimmering.
There was a small rocket ship reclining upon a hilltop nearby.
Large footprints came from the rocket to the door of this stone
house.
Now there was a sound of quarreling voices upstairs. The
men within the door stared at one another, shifting on their
boots, twiddling their fingers, and holding onto their hip
belts. A man's voice shouted upstairs. The woman's voice
replied. After fifteen minutes the Earth men began walking in
and out the kitchen door, with nothing to do.
"Cigarette?" said one of the men.
Somebody got out a pack and they lit up. They puffed
slow streams of pale white smoke. They adjusted their uniforms,
fixed their collars. The voices upstairs continued to mutter
and chant. The leader of the men looked at his watch.
"Twenty-five minutes," he said. "I wonder what they're up
to up there." He went to a window and looked out.
"Hot day," said one of the men.
"Yeah," said someone else in the slow warm time of
early afternoon. The voices had faded to a murmur and were
now silent. There was not a sound in the house. All the men
could hear was their own breathing.
An hour of silence passed. "I hope we didn't cause
any trouble," said the captain. He went and peered into the
living room.
Mrs. Ttt was there, watering some flowers that grew in
the center of the room.
"I knew I had forgotten something," she said when she saw
the captain. She walked out to the kitchen. "I'm sorry." She
handed him a slip of paper. "Mr. Ttt is much too busy." She
turned to her cooking. "Anyway, it's not Mr. Ttt you want to
see; it's Mr. Aaa. Take that paper over to the next farm, by
the blue canal, and Mr. Aaa'll advise you about whatever it is
you want to know."
"We don't want to know anything," objected the captain,
pouting out his thick lips. "We already _know_ it."
"You have the paper, what more do you want?" she asked
him straight off. And she would say no more.
"Well," said the captain, reluctant to go. He stood as
if waiting for something. He looked like a child staring at
an empty Christmas tree. "Well," he said again. "Come on, men."
The four men stepped out into the hot silent day.

Half an hour. later, Mr. Aaa, seated in his library
sipping a bit of electric fire from a metal cup, heard the
voices outside in the stone causeway. He leaned over the window
sill and gazed at the four uniformed men who squinted up at
him.
"Are you Mr. Aaa?" they called.
"I am."
"Mr. Ttt sent us to see you!" shouted the captain.
"Why did he do that?" asked Mr. Aaa.
"He was busy!"
"Well, that's a shame," said Mr. Ass sarcastically. "Does
he think I have nothing else to do but entertain people he's
too busy to bother with?"
"That's not the important thing, sir," shouted the
captain.
"Well, it is to me. I have much reading to do. Mr. Ttt
is inconsiderate. This is not the first time he has been
this thoughtless of me. Stop waving your hands, sir, until
I finish. And pay attention. People usually listen to me when
I talk. And you'll listen courteously or I won't talk at all."
Uneasily the four men in the court shifted and opened
their mouths, and once the captain, the veins on his face
bulging, showed a few little tears in his eyes.
"Now," lectured Mr. Aaa, "do you think it fair of Mr. Ttt
to be so ill-mannered?"
The four men gazed up through the heat. The captain said,
"We're from Earth!"
"I think it very ungentlemanly of him," brooded Mr. Aaa.
"A _rocket_ ship. We came in it. Over there!"
"Not the first time Ttt's been unreasonable, you know."
"All the way from Earth."
"Why, for half a mind, I'd call him up and tell him off."
"Just the four of us; myself and these three men, my
crew."
"I'll call him up, yes, that's what I'll do!"
"Earth. Rocket. Men. Trip. Space."
"Call him and give him a good lashing!" cried Mr. Aaa.
He vanished like a puppet from a stage. For a minute there were
angry voices back and forth over some weird mechanism or other.
Below, the captain and his crew glanced longingly back at their
pretty rocket ship lying on the hillside, so sweet and lovely
and fine.
Mr. Aaa jerked up in the window, wildly triumphant
"Challenged him to a duel, by the gods! A duel!"
"Mr. Aaa--" the captain started all over again, quietly.
"I'll shoot him dead, do you hear!"
"Mr. Aaa, I'd like to _tell_ you. We came sixty million
miles."
Mr. Aaa regarded the captain for the first time. "Where'd
you say you were from?"
The captain flashed a white smile. Aside to his men
he withpered, "_Now_ we're getting someplace!" To Mr. Aaa
he called, "We traveled sixty million miles. From Earth!"
Mr. Aaa yawned. "That's only _fifty_ million miles this
time of year." He picked up a frightful-looking weapon. "Well,
I have to go now. Just take that silly note, though I don't
know what good it'll do you, and go over that hill into the
little town of Iopr and tell Mr. Iii all about it. _He's_ the
man you want to see. Not Mr. Ttt, he's an idiot; I'm going to
kill him. Not me, because you're not in my line of work."
"Line of work, line of work!" bleated the captain. "Do you
have to be in a certain line of work to welcome Earth men!"
"Don't be silly, everyone knows _that!_" Mr. Aaa
rushed downstairs. "Good-by!" And down the causeway he raced,
like a pair of wild calipers.
The four travelers stood shocked. Finally the captain
said, "We'll find someone yet who'll listen to us."
"Maybe we could go out and come in again," said one of the
men in a dreary voice. "Maybe we should take off and land
again. Give them time to organize a party."
"That might be a good idea," murmured the tired captain.
The little town was full of people drifting in and out
of doors, saying hello to one another, wearing golden masks and
blue masks and crimson masks for pleasant variety, masks with
silver lips and bronze eyebrows, masks that smiled or masks
that frowned, according to the owners' dispositions.
The four men, wet from their long walk, paused and asked
a little girl where Mr. Iii's house was.
"There." The child nodded her head.
The captain got eagerly, carefully down on one knee,
looking into her sweet young face. "Little girl, I want to talk
to you."
He seated her on his knee and folded her small brown hands
neatly in his own big ones, as if ready for a bed-time story
which he was shaping in his mind slowly and with a great
patient happiness in details.
"Well, here's how it is, little girl. Six months ago
another rocket came to Mars. There was a man named York in it,
and his assistant. Whatever happened to them, we don't know.
Maybe they crashed. They came in a rocket. So did we. You
should see it! A _big_ rocket! So we're the _Second_
Expedition, following up the First! And we came all the way
from Earth. . . ."
The little girl disengaged one hand without thinking about
it, and clapped an expressionless golden mask over her face,
Then she pulled forth a golden spider toy and dropped it to
the ground while the captain talked on. The toy spider climbed
back up to her knee obediently, while she speculated upon it
coolly through the slits of her emotionless mask and the
captain shook her gently and urged his story upon her.
"We're Earth Men," he said. "Do you believe me?"
"Yes." The little girl peeped at the way she was wiggling
her toes in the dust.
"Fine." The captain pinched her arm, a little bit
with joviality, a little bit with meanness to get her to look
at him. "We built our own rocket ship. Do you believe _that?_"
The little girl dug in her nose with a finger. "Yes."
"And--take your finger out of your nose, little girl--_I_
am the captain, and--"
"Never before in history has anybody come across space in
a big rocket ship," recited the little creature, eyes shut.
"Wonderful! How did you know?"
"Oh, telepathy." She wiped a casual finger on her knee.
"Well, aren't you just _ever_ so excited?" cried the
captain. "Aren't you glad?"
"You just better go see Mr. Iii right away." She dropped
her toy to the ground. "Mr. Iii will like talking to you." She
ran off, with the toy spider scuttling obediently after her.
The captain squatted there looking after her with his hand
out. His eyes were watery in his head. He looked at his empty
hands. His mouth hung open: The other three men stood with
their shadows under them. They spat on the stone street. . . .

Mr. Iii answered his door. He was on his way to a lecture,
but he had a minute, if they would hurry inside and tell him
what they desired. . . .
"A little attention," said the captain, red-eyed and
tired. "We're from Earth, we have a rocket, there are four of
us, crew and captain, we're exhausted, we're hungry, we'd like
a place to sleep. We'd like someone to give us the key to the
city or something like that, and we'd like somebody to shake
our hands and say 'Hooray' and say 'Congratulations, old man!'
That about sums it up."
Mr. Iii was a tall, vaporous, thin man with thick blind
blue crystals over his yellowish eyes. He bent over his desk
and brooded upon some papers, glancing now and again with
extreme penetration at his guests.
"Well, I haven't the forms with me here, I don't _think_."
He rummaged through the desk drawers. "Now, where _did_ I put
the forms?" He mused. "Somewhere. Somewhere. Oh, _here_ we are!
Now!" He handed the papers over crisply. "You'll have to sign
these papers, of course."
"Do we have to go through all this rigmarole?"
Mr. Iii gave him a thick glassy look. "You say you're
from Earth, don't you? Well, then there's nothing for it but
you sign."
The captain wrote his name. "Do you want my crew to sign
also?"
Mr. Iii looked at the captain, looked at the three others,
and burst into a shout of derision. "_Them_ sign! Ho! How
marvelous! Them, oh, _them_ sign!" Tears sprang from his eyes.
He slapped his knee and bent to let his laughter jerk out of
his gaping mouth. He held himself up with the desk. "_Them_
sign!"
The four men scowled. "What's funny?"
"Them sign!" sighed Mr. Iii, weak with hilarity. "So very
funny. I'll have to tell Mr. Xxx about this!" He examined
the filled-out form, still laughing. "Everything seems to be
in order." He nodded. "Even the agreement for euthanasia if
final decision on such a step is necessary." He chuckled.
"Agreement for _what?_"
"Don't talk. I have something for you. Here. Take this
key."
The captain flushed. "It's a great honor."
"Not the key to the city, you fool!" snapped Mr. Iii.
"Just a key to the House. Go down that corridor, unlock the
big door, and go inside and shut the door tight. You can spend
the night there. In the morning I'll send Mr. Xxx to see you."
Dubiously the captain took the key in hand. He stood
looking at the floor. His men did not move. They seemed to
be emptied of all their blood and their rocket fever. They
were drained dry.
"What is it? What's wrong?" inquired Mr. Iii. "What are
you waiting for? What do you want?" He came and peered up into
the captain's face, stooping. "Out with it, you!"
"I don't suppose you could even--" suggested the captain.
"I mean, that is, try to, or think about . . ." He hesitated.
"We've worked hard, we've come a long way, and maybe you could
just shake our hands and say 'Well done!' do you--think?" His
voice faded.
Mr. Iii stuck out his hand stiffly. "Congratulations!"
He smiled a cold smile. "Congratulations." He turned away. "I
must go now. Use that key."
Without noticing them again, as if they had melted down
through the floor, Mr. Iii moved about the room packing a
little manuscript case with papers. He was in the room another
five minutes but never again addressed the solemn quartet that
stood with heads down, their heavy legs sagging, the light
dwindling from their eyes. When Mr. Iii went out the door he
was busy looking at his fingernails. . . .

They straggled along the corridor in the dull, silent
afternoon light. They came to a large burnished silver door,
and the silver key opened it. They entered, shut the door,
and turned.
They were in a vast sunlit hall. Men and woman sat at
tables and stood in conversing groups. At the sound of the door
they regarded the four uniformed men.
One Martian stepped forward, bowing. "I am Mr. Uuu," he
said.
"And I am Captain Jonathan Williams, of New York City,
on Earth," said the captain without emphasis.
Immediately the hall exploded!
The rafters trembled with shouts and cries. The people,
rushing forward, waved and shrieked happily, knocking down
tables, swarming, rollicking, seizing the four Earth Men,
lifting them swiftly to their shoulders. They charged about the
hall six times, six times making a full and wonderful circuit
of the room, jumping, bounding, singing.
The Earth Men were so stunned that they rode the toppling
shoulders for a full minute before they began to laugh and
shout at each other:
"Hey! This is more _like_ it!"
"This is the life! Boy! Yay! Yow! Whoopee!"
They winked tremendously at each other. They flung up
their hands to clap the air. "Hey!"
"Hooray!" said the crowd.
They set the Earth Men on a table. The shouting died.
The captain almost broke into tears. "Thank you. It's
good, it's good."
"Tell us about yourselves," suggested Mr. Uuu.
The captain cleared his throat.
The audience ohed and ahed as the captain talked.
He introduced his crew; each made a small speech and was
embarrassed by the thunderous applause.
Mr. Uuu dapped the captain's shoulder, "It's good to
see another man from Earth. I am from Earth also."
"How was that again?"
"There are many of us here from Earth."
"You? From Earth?" The captain stared. "But is that
possible? Did you come by rocket? Has space travel been going
on for centuries?" His voice was disappointed. "What--what
country are you from?"
"Tuiereol. I came by the spirit of my body, years ago."
"Tuiereol." The captain mouthed the word. "I don't know
that country. What's this about spirit of body?"
"And Miss Rrr over here, she's from Earth, too, _aren't_
you, Miss Rrr?"
Miss Rrr nodded and laughed strangely.
"And so is Mr. Www and Mr. Qqq and Mr. Vvv!"
"I'm from Jupiter," declared one man, preening himself.
"I'm from Saturn," said another, eyes glinting slyly.
"Jupiter, Saturn," murmured the captain, blinking.
It was very quiet now; the people stood around and sat at
the tables which were strangely empty for banquet tables. Their
yellow eyes were glowing, and there were dark shadows under
their cheekbones. The captain noticed for the first time that
there were no windows; the light seemed to permeate the walls.
There was only one door. The captain winced. "This is
confusing. Where on Earth is this Tuiereol? Is it near
America?"
"What is America?"
"You never heard of America! You say you're from Earth and
yet you don't know!"
Mr. Uuu drew himself up angrily. "Earth is a place of seas
and nothing but seas. There is no land. I am from Earth, and
know."
"Wait a minute." The captain sat back. "You look like
a regular Martian. Yellow eyes. Brown skin."
"Earth is a place of all _jungle_," said Miss Rrr proudly.
"I'm from Orri, on Earth, a civilization built of silver!"
Now the captain turned his head from and then to Mr. Uuu
and then to Mr. Www and Mr. Zzz and Mr. Nnn and Mr. Hhh and Mr.
Bbb. He saw their yellow eyes waxing and waning in the light,
focusing and unfocusing. He began to shiver. Finally he turned
to his men and regarded them somberly.
"Do you realize what this is?"
"What, sir?"
"This is no celebration," replied the captain tiredly.
"This is no banquet. These aren't government representatives.
This is no surprise party. Look at their eyes. Listen to them!"
Nobody breathed. There was only a soft white move of eyes
in the close room.
"Now I understand"--the captain's voice was far away--
"why everyone gave us notes and passed us on, one from the
other, until we met Mr. Iii, who sent us down a corridor with
a key to open a door and shut a door. And here we are . . ."
"Where are we, sir?"
The captain exhaled. "In an insane asylum."

It was night. The large hall lay quiet and dimly
illuminated by hidden light sources in the transparent walls.
The four Earth Men sat around a wooden table, their bleak heads
bent over their whispers. On the floors, men and women lay
huddled. There were little stirs in the dark corners, solitary
men or women gesturing their hands. Every half-hour one of
the captain's men would try the silver door and return to the
table. "Nothing doing, sir. We're locked in proper."
"They think we're really insane, sir?"
"Quite. That's why there was no hullabaloo to welcome us.
They merely tolerated what, to them, must be a constantly
recurring psychotic condition." He gestured at the dark
sleeping shapes all about them. "Paranoids, every single one!
What a welcome they gave us! For a moment there"--a little fire
rose and died in his eyes--"I thought we were getting our
true reception. All the yelling and singing and speeches.
Pretty nice, wasn't it--while it lasted?"
"How long will they keep us here, sir?"
"Until we prove we're not psychotics."
"That should be easy."
"I _hope_ so."
"You don't sound very certain, sir."
"I'm not. Look in that corner."
A man squatted alone in darkness. Out of his mouth issued
a blue flame which turned into the round shape of a small naked
woman. It flourished on the air softly in vapors of cobalt
light, whispering and sighing.
The captain nodded at another corner. A woman stood
there, changing. First she was embedded in a crystal pillar,
then she melted into a golden statue, finally a staff of
polished cedar, and back to a woman.
All through the midnight hall people were juggling thin
violet flames, shifting, changing, for nighttime was the time
of change and affliction.
"Magicians, sorcerers," whispered one of the Earth Men.
"No, hallucination. They pass their insanity over into us
so that we see their hallucinations too. Telepathy.
Autosuggestion and telepathy."
"Is that what worries you, sir?"
"Yes. If hallucinations can appear this 'real' to us,
to anyone, if hallucinations are catching and almost
believable, it's no wonder they mistook us for psychotics. If
that man can produce little blue fire women and that woman
there melt into a pillar, how natural if normal Martians think
_we_ produce our rocket ship with _our_ minds."
"Oh," said his men in the shadows.
Around them, in the vast hall, flames leaped blue,
flared, evaporated. Little demons of red sand ran between the
teeth of sleeping men. Women became oily snakes. There was a
smell of reptiles and animals.
In the morning everyone stood around looking fresh, happy,
and normal. There were no flames or demons in the room. The
captain and his men waited by the silver door, hoping it would
open.
Mr. Xxx arrived after about four hours. They had a
suspicion that he had waited outside the door, peering in at
them for at least three hours before he stepped in, beckoned,
and led them to his small office.
He was a jovial, smiling man, if one could believe the
mask he wore, for upon it was painted not one smile, but three.
Behind it, his voice was the voice of a not so smiling
psychologist. "What seems to be the trouble?"
"You think we're insane, and we're not," said the captain.
"Contrarily, I do not think _all_ of you are insane."
The psychologist pointed a little wand at the captain. "No.
Just _you_, sir. The others are secondary hallucinations."
The captain slapped his knee, "So _that's_ it! That's why
Mr. Iii laughed when I suggested my men sign the papers too!"
"Yes, Mr. Iii told me." The psychologist laughed out of
the carved, smiling mouth. "A good joke. Where was I?
Secondary hallucinations, yes. Women come to me with snakes
crawling from their ears. When I cure them, the snakes vanish."
"We'll be glad to be cured. Go right ahead."
Mr. Xxx seemed surprised. "Unusual. Not many people want
to be cured. The cure is drastic, you know."
"Cure ahead! I'm confident you'll find we're all sane."
"Let me check your papers to be sure they're in order for
a 'cure.'" He checked a file. "Yes. You know, such cases as
yours need special 'curing.' The people in that hall are
simpler forms. But once you've gone this far, I must point out,
with primary, secondary, auditory, olfactory, and
labial hallucinations, as well as tactile and optical
fantasies, it is pretty bad business. We have to resort
to euthanasia."
The captain leaped up with a roar. "Look here, we've stood
quite enough! Test us, tap our knees, check our hearts,
exercise us, ask questions!"
"You are free to speak."
The captain raved for an hour. The psychologist listened.
"Incredible," he mused. "Most detailed dream fantasy I've
ever heard."
"God damn it, we'll show you the rocket ship!" screamed
the captain.
"I'd like to see it. Can you manifest it in this room?"
"Oh, certainly. It's in that file of yours, under R."
Mr. Xxx peered seriously into his file. He went "Tsk" and
shut the file solemnly. "Why did you tell me to look? The
rocket isn't there."
"Of course not, you idiot! I was joking. Does an insane
man joke?"
"You find some odd senses of humor. Now, take me out to
your rocket. I wish to see it."

It was noon. The day was very hot when they reached the
rocket.
"So." The psychologist walked up to the ship and tapped
it. It gonged softly. "May I go inside?" he asked slyly.
"You may."
Mr. Xxx stepped in and was gone for a long time.
"Of all the silly, exasperating things." The captain
chewed a cigar as he waited. "For two cents I'd go back home
and tell people not to bother with Mars. What a suspicious
bunch of louts."
"I gather that a good number of their population are
insane, sir. That seems to be their main reason for doubting."
"Nevertheless, this is all so damned irritating."
The psychologist emerged from the ship after half an hour
of prowling, tapping, listening, smelling, tasting.
"_Now_ do you believe!" shouted the captain, as if he were
deaf.
The psychologist shut his eyes and scratched his nose.
"This is the most incredible example of sensual hallucination
and hypnotic suggestion I've ever encountered. I went through
your 'rocket,' as you call it." He tapped the hull. "I hear
it. Auditory fantasy." He drew a breath. "I smell it.
Olfactory hallucination, induced by sensual telepathy." He
kissed the ship. "I taste it. Labial fantasy!"
He shook the captain's hand. "May I congratulate you? You
are a psychotic genius! You have done a most complete job! The
task of projecting your psychotic image life into the mind
of another via telepathy and keeping the hallucinations from
becoming sensually weaker is almost impossible. Those people in
the House usually concentrate on visuals or, at the most,
visuals and auditory fantasies combined. You have balanced the
whole conglomeration! Your insanity is beautifully complete!"
"My insanity." The captain was pale.
"Yes, yes, what a lovely insanity. Metal, rubber,
gravitizers, foods, clothing, fuel, weapons, ladders, nuts,
bolts, spoons. Ten thousand separate items I checked on your
vessel. Never have I seen such a complexity. There were even
shadows under the bunks and under _everything!_ Such
concentration of will! And everything, no matter how or when
tested, had a smell, a solidity, a taste, a sound! Let me
embrace you!"
He stood back at last. "I'll write this into my greatest
monograph! I'll speak of it at the Martian Academy next month!
_Look_ at you! Why, you've even changed your eye color from
yellow to blue, your skin to pink from brown. And those
clothes, and your hands having five fingers instead of
six! Biological metamorphosis through psychological imbalance!
And your three friends.--"
He took out a little gun. "Incurable, of course. You
poor, wonderful man. You will be happier dead. Have you any
last words?"
"Stop, for God's sake! Don't shoot!"
"You sad creature. I shall put you out of this misery
which has driven you to imagine this rocket and these three
men. It will be most engrossing to watch your friends and your
rocket vanish once I have killed you. I will write a neat paper
on the dissolvement of neurotic images from what I perceive
here today."
"I'm from Earth! My name is Jonathan Williams, and
these--"
"Yes, I know," soothed Mr. Xxx, and fired his gun.
The captain fell with a bullet in his heart. The other
three men screamed.
Mr. Xxx stared at them. "You continue to exist? This
is superb! Hallucinations with time and spatial persistence!"
He pointed the gun at them. "Well, I'll scare you into
dissolving."
"No!" cried the three men,
"An auditory appeal, even with the patient dead," observed
Mr. Xxx as he shot the three men down.
They lay on the sand, intact, not moving.
He kicked them. Then he rapped on the ship.
"_It_ persists! _They_ persist!" He fired his gun again
and again at the bodies. Then he stood back. The smiling mask
dropped from his face.
Slowly the little psychologist's face changed. His jaw
sagged. The gun dropped from his fingers. His eyes were dull
and vacant He put his hands up and turned in a blind cirde.
He fumbled at the bodies, saliva filling his mouth.
"Hallucinations," he mumbled frantically. "Taste. Sight.
Smell. Sound. Feeling." He waved his hands. His eyes bulged.
His mouth began to give off a faint froth.
"Go away!" he shouted at the bodies. "Go away!" he
screamed at the ship. He examined his trembling hands.
"Contaminated," he whispered wildly. "Carried over into
me. Telepathy. Hypnosis. Now _I'm_ insane, Now _I'm_
contaminated. Hallucinations in all their sensual forms."
He stopped and searched around with his numb hands for the gun.
"Only one cure. Only one way to make them go away, vanish."
A shot rang out, Mr. Xxx fell.
The four bodies lay in the sun. Mr. Xxx lay where he fell.
The rocket reclined on the little sunny hill and didn't
vanish.
When the town people found the rocket at sunset they
wondered what it was. Nobody knew, so it was sold to a junkman
and hauled off to be broken up for scrap metal.
That night it rained all night. The next day was fair and
warm.

March 2000: THE TAXPAYER

He wanted to go to Mars on the rocket. He went down to
the rocket field in the early morning and yelled in through the
wire fence at the men in uniform that he wanted to go to Mars,
He told them he was a taxpayer, his name was Pritchard, and he
had a right to go to Mars. Wasn't he born right here in Ohio?
Wasn't he a good citizen? Then why couldn't _he_ go to Mars?
He shook his fists at them and told them that he wanted to get
away from Earth; anybody with any sense wanted to get away
from Earth. There was going to be a big atomic war on Earth
in about two years, and he didn't want to be here when it
happened. He and thousands of others like him, if they had
any sense, would go to Mars. See if they wouldn't! To get away
from wars and censorship and statism and conscription and
government control of this and that, of art and science! You
could have Earth! He was offering his good right hand, his
heart, his head, for the opportunity to go to Mars! What did
you have to do, what did you have to sign, whom did you have
to know, to get on the rocket?
They laughed out through the wire screen at him. He didn't
want to go to Mars, they said. Didn't he know that the First
and Second Expeditions had failed, had vanished; the men
were probably dead?
But they couldn't prove it, they didn't know for sure,
he said, clinging to the wire fence. Maybe it was a land of
milk and honey up there, and Captain York and Captain Williams
had just never bothered to come back. Now were they going to
open the gate and let him in to board the Third Expeditionary
Rocket, or was he going to have to kick it down?
They told him to shut up.
He saw the men walking out to the rocket.
Wait for me! he cried. Don't leave me here on this
terrible world, I've got to get away; there's going to be an
atom war! Don't leave me on Earth!
They dragged him, struggling, away. They slammed
the policewagon door and drove him off into the early morning,
his face pressed to the rear window, and just before they
sirened over a hill, he saw the red fire and heard the big
sound and felt the huge tremor as the silver rocket shot up and
left him behind on an ordinary Monday morning on the ordinary
planet Earth.

April 2000: THE THIRD EXPEDITION

The ship came down from space. It came from the stars and
the black velocities, and the shining movements, and the silent
gulfs of space. It was a new ship; it had fire in its body and
men in its metal cells, and it moved with a clean silence,
fiery and warm. In it were seventeen men, induding a captain.
The crowd at the Ohio field had shouted and waved their hands
up into the sunlight, and the rocket had bloomed out great
flowers of heat and color and run away into space on the
_third_ voyage to Mars!
Now it was decelerating with metal efficiency in the
upper Martian atmospheres. It was still a thing of beauty
and strength. It had moved in the midnight waters of space like
a pale sea leviathan; it had passed the ancient moon and thrown
itself onward into one nothingness following another. The men
within it had been battered, thrown about, sickened, made well
again, each in his turn. One man had died, but now the
remaining sixteen, with their eyes clear in their heads and
their faces pressed to the thick glass ports, watched Mars
swing up under them.
"Mars!" cried Navigator Lustig.
"Good old Mars!" said Samuel Hinkston, archaeologist.
"Well," said Captain John Black.
The rocket landed on a lawn of green grass. Outside, upon
this lawn, stood an iron deer. Further up on the green stood
a tall brown Victorian house, quiet in the sunlight, all
covered with scrolls and rococo, its windows made of blue and
pink and yellow and green colored glass. Upon the porch were
hairy geraniums and an old swing which was hooked into the
porch ceiling and which now swung back and forth, back and
forth, in a little breeze. At the summit of the house was a
cupola with diamond leaded-glass windows and a dunce-cap roof!
Through the front window you could see a piece of music
titled "Beautiful Ohio" sitting on the music rest.
Around the rocket in four directions spread the little
town, green and motionless in the Martian spring. There were
white houses and red brick ones, and tall elm trees blowing in
the wind, and tall maples and horse chestnuts. And church
steeples with golden bells silent in them.
The rocket men looked out and saw this. Then they looked
at one another and then they looked out again. They held to
each other's elbows, suddenly unable to breathe, it seemed,
Their faces grew pale.
"I'll be damned," whispered Lustig, rubbing his face with
his numb fingers. "I'll be damned."
"It just can't be," said Samuel Hinkston.
"Lord," said Captain John Black.
There was a call from the chemist. "Sir, the atmosphere
is thin for breathing. But there's enough oxygen. It's safe."
"Then we'll go out," said Lustig.
"Hold on," said Captain John Black. "How do we know what
this is?"
"It's a small town with thin but breathable air in it,
sir."
"And it's a small town the like of Earth towns," said
Hinkston, the archaeologist "Incredible. It can't be, but it
_is_."
Captain John Black looked at him idly. "Do you think that
the civilizations of two planets can progress at the same rate
and evolve in the same way, Hinkston?"
"I wouldn't have thought so, sir."
Captain Black stood by the port. "Look out there.
The geraniums. A specialized plant. That specific variety has
only been known on Earth for fifty years. Think of the
thousands of years it takes to evolve plants. Then tell me if
it is logical that the Martians should have: one, leaded-glass
windows; two, cupolas; three, porch swings; four, an instrument
that looks like a piano and probably is a piano; and five, if
you look closely through this telescopic lens here, is it
logical that a Martian composer would have published a piece
of music titled, strangely enough, 'Beautiful Ohio'? All of
which means that we have an Ohio River on Mars!"
"Captain Williams, of course!" cried Hinkston,
"What?"
"Captain Williams and his crew of three men! Or Nathaniel
York and his partner. That would explain it!"
"That would explain absolutely nothing. As far as we've
been able to figure, the York expedition exploded the day
it reached Mars, killing York and his partner. As for Williams
and his three men, their ship exploded the second day after
their arrival. At least the pulsations from their radios ceased
at that time, so we figure that if the men were alive after
that they'd have contacted us. And anyway, the York expedition
was only a year ago, while Captain Williams and his men landed
here some time during last August. Theorizing that they are
still alive, could they, even with the help of a brilliant
Martian race, have built such a town as this and _aged_ it in
so short a time? Look at that town out there; why, it's been
standing here for the last seventy years. Look at the wood on
the porch newel; look at the trees, a century old, all of them!
No, this isn't York's work or Williams'. It's something else.
I don't like it. And I'm not leaving the ship until I know what
it is."
"For that matter," said Lustig, nodding, "Williams and his
men, as well as York, landed on the _opposite_ side of Mars.
We were very careful to land on _this_ side."
"An excellent point. Just in case a hostile local tribe
of Martians killed off York and Williams, we have instructions
to land in a further region, to forestall a recurrence of such
a disaster. So here we are, as far as we know, in a land
that Williams and York never saw."
"Damn it," said Hinkston, "I want to get out into this
town, sir, with your permission. It may be there are similar
thought patterns, civilization graphs on every planet in our
sun system. We may be on the threshold of the greatest
psychological and metaphysical discovery of our age!"
"I'm willing to wait a moment," said Captain John Black.
"It may be, sir, that we're looking upon a phenomenon
that, for the first time, would absolutely prove the existence
of God, sir."
"There are many people who are of good faith without such
proof, Mr. Hinkston."
"I'm one myself, sir. But certainly a town like this could
not occur without divine intervention. The _detail_. It fills
me with such feelings that I don't know whether to laugh or
cry."
"Do neither, then, until we know what we're up against."
"Up against?" Lustig broke in. "Against nothing, Captain.
It's a good, quiet green town, a lot like the old-fashioned one
I was born in. I like the looks of it."
"When were you born, Lustig?"
"Nineteen-fifty, sir."
"And you, Hinkston?"
"Nineteen fifty-five, sir. Grinnell, Iowa. And this looks
like home to me."
"Hinkston, Lustig, I could be either of your fathers. I'm
just eighty years old. Born in 1920 in Illinois, and through
the grace of God and a science that, in the last fifty years,
knows how to make _some_ old men young again, here I am on
Mars, not any more tired than the rest of you, but infinitely
more suspicious. This town out here looks very peaceful and
cool, and so much like Green Bluff, Illinois, that it frightens
me. It's too _much_ like Green Bluff." He turned to the
radioman. "Radio Earth. Tell them we've landed. That's all.
Tell them we'll radio a full report tomorrow."
"Yes, sir."
Captain Black looked out the rocket port with his face
that should have been the face of a man eighty but seemed like
the face of a man in his fortieth year. "Tell you what we'll
do, Lustig; you and I and Hinkston'll look the town over. The
other men'll stay aboard. If anything happens they can get the
hell out. A loss of three men's better than a whole ship.
If something bad happens, our crew can warn the next rocket.
That's Captain Wilder's rocket, I think, due to be ready to
take off next Christmas. if there's something hostile about
Mars we certainly want the next rocket to be well armed."
"So are we. We've got a regular arsenal with us."
"Tell the men to stand by the guns then. Come on,
Lustig, Hinkston."
The three men walked together down through the levels of
the ship.

It was a beautiful spring day. A robin sat on a blossoming
apple tree and sang continuously. Showers of petal snow sifted
down when the wind touched the green branches, and the blossom
scent drifted upon the air. Somewhere in the town someone
was playing the piano and the music came and went, came and
went, softly, drowsily. The song was "Beautiful Dreamer."
Somewhere else a phonograph, scratchy and faded, was hissing
out a record of "Roamin' in the Gloamin'," sung by Harry
Lauder.
The three men stood outside the ship. They sucked and
gasped at the thin, thin air and moved slowly so as not to
tire themselves.
Now the phonograph record being played was:

"_Oh, give me a June night
The moonlight and you_ . . ."

Lustig began to tremble. Samuel Hinkston did likewise.
The sky was serene and quiet, and somewhere a stream of
water ran through the cool caverns and tree shadings of a
ravine. Somewhere a horse and wagon trotted and rolled by,
bumping.
"Sir," said Samuel Hinkston, "it must be, it _has_ to be,
that rocket travel to Mars began in the years before the first
World War!"
"No."
"How else can you explain these houses, the iron deer,
the pianos, the music?" Hinkston took the captain's elbow
persuasively and looked into the captain's face. "Say that
there were people in the year 1905 who hated war and got
together with some scientists in secret and built a rocket and
came out here to Mars--"
"No, no, Hinkston."
"Why not? The world was a different world in 1905; they
could have kept it a secret much more easily."
"But a complex thing like a rocket, no, you couldn't keep
it secret."
"And they came up here to live, and naturally the houses
they built were similar to Earth houses because they brought
the culture with them."
"And they've lived here all these years?" said the
captain.
"In peace and quiet, yes. Maybe they made a few trips,
enough to bring enough people here for one small town, and
then stopped for fear of being discovered. That's why this town
seems so old-fashioned. I don't see a thing, myself, older than
the year 1927, do you? Or maybe, sir, rocket travel is older
than we think. Perhaps it started in some part of the world
centuries ago and was kept secret by the small number of men
who came to Mars with only occasional visits to Earth over
the centuries."
"You make it sound almost reasonable."
"It has to be. We've the proof here before us; all we have
to do is find some people and verify it."
Their boots were deadened of all sound in the thick green
grass. It smelled from a fresh mowing. In spite of himself,
Captain John Black felt a great peace come over him. It had
been thirty years since he had been in a small town, and the
buzzing of spring bees on the air lulled and quieted him, and
the fresh look of things was a balm to the soul.
They set foot upon the porch. Hollow echoes sounded from
under the boards as they walked to the screen door. Inside they
could see a bead curtain hung across the hall entry, and a
crystal chandelier and a Maxfield Parrish painting framed on
one wall over a comfortable Morris chair. The house smelled
old, and of the attic, and infinitely comfortable. You could
hear the tinkle of ice in a lemonade pitcher. In a distant
kitchen, because of the heat of the day, someone was preparing
a cold lunch. Someone was humming under her breath, high and
sweet.
Captain John Black rang the bell.

Footsteps, dainty and thin, came along the hall, and
a kind-faced lady of some forty years, dressed in a sort of
dress you might expect in the year 1909, peered out at them.
"Can I help you?" she asked.
"Beg your pardon," said Captain Black uncertainly. "But
we're looking for--that is, could you help us--" He stopped.
She looked out at him with dark, wondering eyes.
"If you're selling something--" she began.
"No, wait!" he cried. "What town is this?"
She looked him up and down. "What do you mean, what town
is it? How could you be in a town and not know the name?"
The captain looked as if he wanted to go sit under a shady
apple tree. "We're strangers here. We want to know how this
town got here and how you got here."
"Are you census takers?"
"No."
"Everyone knows," she said, "this town was built in 1868.
Is this a game?"
"No, not a game!" cried the captain. "We're from Earth."
"Out of the _ground_, do you mean?" she wondered.
"No, we came from the third planet, Earth, in a ship. And
we've landed here on the fourth planet, Mars--"
"This," explained the woman, as if she were addressing
a child, "is Green Bluff, Illinois, on the continent of
America, surrounded by the Atlantic and Pacific oceans, on a
place called the world, or, sometimes, the Earth. Go away
now. Goodby."
She trotted down the hall, running her fingers through
the beaded curtains.
The three men looked at one another.
"Let's knock the screen door in," said Lustig.
"We can't do that. This is private property. Good God!"
They went to sit down on the porch step.
"Did it ever strike you, Hinkston, that perhaps we
got ourselves somehow, in some way, off track, and by accident
came back and landed on Earth?"
"How could we have done that?"
"I don't know, I don't know. Oh God, let me think."
Hinkston said, "But we checked every mile of the way.
Our chronometers said so many miles. We went past the Moon and
out into space, and here we are. I'm _positive_ we're on Mars."
Lustig said, "But suppose, by accident, in space, in time,
we got lost in the dimensions and landed on an Earth that is
thirty or forty years ago."
"Oh, go away, Lustig!"
Lustig went to the door, rang the bell, and called into
the cool dim rooms: "What year is this?"
"Nineteen twenty-six, of course," said the lady, sitting
in a rocking chair, taking a sip of her lemonade.
"Did you hear that?" Lustig turned wildly to the others.
"Nineteen twenty-six! We _have_ gone back in time! This _is_
Earth!"

Lustig sat down, and the three men let the wonder and
terror of the thought afflict them. Their hands stirred
fitfully on their knees. The captain said, "I didn't ask for
a thing like this. It scares the hell out of me. How can a
thing like this happen? I wish we'd brought Einstein with us."
"Will anyone in this town believe us?" said Hinkston. "Are
we playing with something dangerous? Time, I mean. Shouldn't
we just take off and go home?"
"No. Not until we try another house."
They walked three houses down to a little white cottage
under an oak tree. "I like to be as logical as I can be," said
the captain. "And I don't believe we've put our finger on it
yet. Suppose, Hinkston, as you originally suggested, that
rocket travel occurred years ago? And when the Earth people
lived here a number of years they began to get homesick for
Earth. First a mild neurosis about it, then a full-fledged
psychosis. Then threatened insanity. What would you do as
a psychiatrist if faced with such a problem?"
Hinkston thought "Well, I think I'd rearrange the
civilization on Mars so it resembled Earth more and more each
day. If there was any way of reproducing every plant, every
road, and every lake, and even an ocean, I'd do so. Then by
some vast crowd hypnosis I'd convince everyone in a town this
size that this really _was_ Earth, not Mars at all."
"Good enough, Hinkston. I think we're on the right track
now. That woman in that house back there just _thinks_ she's
living on Earth. It protects her sanity. She and all the others
in this town are the patients of the greatest experiment
in migration and hypnosis you will ever lay eyes on in your
life."
"That's _it_, sir!" cried Lustig.
"Right!" said Hinkston.
"Well." The captain sighed. "Now we've got somewhere. I
feel better. It's all a bit more logical. That talk about time
and going back and forth and traveling through time turns
my stomach upside down. But _this_ way--" The captain smiled.
"Well, well, it looks as if we'll be fairly popular here."
"Or will we?" said Lustig. "After all, like the Pilgrims,
these people came here to escape Earth. Maybe they won't be
too happy to see us. Maybe they'll try to drive us out or kill
us."
"We have superior weapons. This next house now. Up we go."
But they had hardly crossed the lawn when Lustig stopped
and looked off across the town, down the quiet, dreaming
afternoon street. "Sir," he said.
"What is it, Lustig?"
"Oh, sir, _sir_, what I _see_--" said Lustig, and he began
to cry. His fingers came up, twisting and shaking, and his face
was all wonder and joy and incredulity. He sounded as if at
any moment he might go quite insane with happiness. He looked
down the street and began to run, stumbling awkwardly, falling,
picking himself up, and running on. "Look, look!"
"Don't let him get away!" The captain broke into a run.
Now Lustig was running swiftly, shouting. He turned into
a yard halfway down the shady street and leaped up upon the
porch of a large green house with an iron rooster on the roof.
He was beating at the door, hollering and crying, when
Hinkston and the captain ran up behind him. They were all
gasping and wheezing, exhausted from their run in the thin
air. "Grandma! Grandpa!" cried Lustig.
Two old people stood in the doorway.
"David!" their voices piped, and they rushed out to
embrace and pat him on the back and move around him. "David,
oh, David, it's been so many years! How you've grown, boy; how
big you are, boy. Oh, David boy, how are you?"
"Grandma, Grandpa!" sobbed David Lustig. "You look fine,
fine!" He held them, turned them, kissed them, hugged them,
cried on them, held them out again, blinking at the little
old people. The sun was in the sky, the wind blew, the grass
was green, the screen door stood wide.
"Come in, boy, come in. There's iced tea for you, fresh,
lots of it!"
"I've got friends here." Lustig turned and waved at the
captain and Hinkston frantically, laughing. "Captain, come on
up."
"Howdy," said the old people. "Come in. Any friends of
David's are our friends too. Don't stand there!"

In the living room of the old house it was cool, and
a grandfather clock ticked high and long and bronzed in one
corner. There were soft pillows on large couches and walls
filled with books and a rug cut in a thick rose pattern, and
iced tea in the hand, sweating, and cool on the thirsty tongue.
"Here's to our health." Grandma tipped her glass to
her porcelain teeth.
"How long you been here, Grandma?" said Lustig.
"Ever since we died," she said tartly.
"Ever since you what?" Captain John Black set down his
glass.
"Oh yes." Lustig nodded. "They've been dead thirty years."
"And you sit there calmly!" shouted the captain.
"Tush." The old woman winked glitteringly. "Who are you
to question what happens? Here we are. What's life, anyway? Who
does what for why and where? All we know is here we are, alive
again, and no questions asked. A second chance." She toddled
over and held out her thin wrist. "Feel." The captain felt.
"Solid, ain't it?" she asked. He nodded. "Well, then," she
said triumphantly, "why go around questioning?"
"Well," said the captain, "it's simply that we never
thought we'd find a thing like this on Mars."
"And now you've found it. I dare say there's lots on every
planet that'll show you God's infinite ways."
"Is this Heaven?" asked Hinkston.
"Nonsense, no. It's a world and we get a second chance.
Nobody told us why. But then nobody told us why we were on
Earth, either. That other Earth, I mean. The one you came from.
How do we know there wasn't _another_ before _that_ one?"
"A good question," said the captain.
Lustig kept smiling at his grandparents. "Gosh, it's good
to see you. Gosh, it's good."
The captain stood up and slapped his hand on his leg in
a casual fashion. "We've got to be going. Thank you for the
drinks."
"You'll be back, of course," said the old people. "For
supper tonight?"
"We'll try to make it, thanks. There's so much to be done.
My men are waiting for me back at the rocket and--"
He stopped. He looked toward the door, startled.
Far away in the sunlight there was a sound of voices,
a shouting and a great hello.
"What's that?" asked Hinkston,
"We'll soon find out." And Captain John Black was out the
front door abruptly, running across the green lawn into the
street of the Martian town.
He stood looking at the rocket. The ports were open and
his crew was streaming out, waving their hands. A crowd of
people had gathered, and in and through and among these people
the members of the crew were hurrying, talking, laughing,
shaking hands. People did little dances. People swarmed. The
rocket lay empty and abandoned.
A brass band exploded in the sunlight, flinging off a gay
tune from upraised tubas and trumpets. There was a bang of
drums and a shrill of fifes. Little girls with golden hair
jumped up and down. Little boys shouted, "Hooray!" Fat men
passed around ten-cent cigars. The town mayor made a speech.
Then each member of the crew, with a mother on one arm, a
father or sister on the other, was spirited off down the street
into little cottages or big mansions.
"Stop!" cried Captain Black.
The doors slammed shut.
The heat rose in the clear spring sky, and all was silent.
The brass band banged off around a corner, leaving the rocket
to shine and dazzle alone in the sunlight
"Abandoned!" said the captain. "They abandoned the ship,
they did! I'll have their skins, by God! They had orders!"
"Sir," said Lustig, "don't be too hard on them. Those were
all old relatives and friends."
"That's no exuse!"
"Think how they felt, Captain, seeing familiar faces
outside the ship!"
"They had their orders, damn it!"
"But how would you have felt, Captain?"
"I would have obeyed orders--" The captain's mouth
remained open.
Striding along the sidewalk under the Martian sun, tall,
smiling, eyes amazingly clear and blue, came a young man of
some twenty-six years. "John!" the man called out, and broke
into a trot.
"What?" Captain John Black swayed.
"John, you old son of a bitch!"
The man ran up and gripped his hand and slapped him on
the back.
"It's you," said Captain Black.
"Of course, who'd you _think_ it was?"
"Edward!" The captain appealed now to Lustig and Hinkston,
holding the stranger's hand. "This is my brother Edward. Ed,
meet my men, Lustig, Hinkston! My brother!"
They tugged at each other's hands and arms and then
finally embraced.
"Ed!"
"John, you bum, you!"
"You're looking fine, Ed, but, Ed, what _is_ this? You
haven't changed over the years. You died, I remember, when you
were twenty-six and I was nineteen. Good God, so many years
ago, and here you are and, Lord, what goes on?"
"Mom's waiting," said Edward Black, grinning.
"Mom?"
"And Dad too."
"Dad?" The captain almost fell as if he had been hit by
a mighty weapon. He walked stiffly and without co.ordination.
"Mom and Dad alive? Where?"
"At the old house on Oak Knoll Avenue."
"The old house." The captain stared in delighted amaze.
"Did you hear that, Lustig, Hinkston?"
Hinkston was gone. He had seen his own house down the
street and was running for it. Lustig was laughing. "You
see, Captain, what happened to everyone on the rocket? They
couldn't help themselves."
"Yes. Yes." The captain shut his eyes. "When I open my
eyes you'll be gone." He blinked. "You're still there. God, Ed,
but you look _fine!_"
"Come on, lunch's waiting. I told Mom."
Lustig said, "Sir, I'll be with my grandfolks if you need
me."
"What? Oh, fine, Lustig. Later, then."
Edward seized his arm and marched him. "There's the
house. Remember it?"
"Hell! Bet I can beat you to the front porch!"
They ran. The trees roared over Captain Black's head; the
earth roared under his feet. He saw the golden figure of Edward
Black pull ahead of him in the amazing dream of reality. He saw
the house rush forward, the screen door swing wide. "Beat you!"
cried Edward. "I'm an old man," panted the captain, "and you're
still young. But then, you _always_ beat me, I remember!"
In the doorway, Mom, pink, plump, and bright. Behind
her, pepper-gray, Dad, his pipe in his hand.
"Mom, Dad!"
He ran up the steps like a child to meet them.

It was a fine long afternoon. They finished a late lunch
and they sat in the parlor and he told them all about his
rocket and they nodded and smiled upon him and Mother was just
the same and Dad bit the end off a cigar and lighted
it thoughtfully in his old fashion. There was a big turkey
dinner at night and time flowing on. When the drumsticks were
sucked clean and lay brittle upon the plates, the captain
leaned back and exhaled his deep satisfaction, Night was in all
the trees and coloring the sky, and the lamps were halos of
pink light in the gentle house. From all the other houses down
the street came sounds of music, pianos playing, doors slammng.
Mom put a record on the victrola, and she and Captain John
Black had a dance. She was wearing the same perfume he
remembered from the summer when she and Dad had been killed in
the train accident. She was very real in his arms as they
danced lightly to the music. "It's not every day," she said,
"you get a second chance to live."
"I'll wake in the morning," said the captain. "And I'll be
in my rocket, in space, and all this will be gone."
"No, don't think that," she cried softly. "Don't question.
God's good to us. Let's be happy."
"Sorry, Mom."
The record ended in a circular hissing.
"You're tired, Son." Dad pointed with his pipe. "Your
old bedroom's waiting for you, brass bed and all."
"But I should report my men in."
"Why?"
"Why? Well, I don't know. No reason, I guess. No, none at
all. They're all eating or in bed. A good night's sleep won't
hurt them."
"Good night, Son." Mom kissed his cheek. "It's good to
have you home."
"It's good to _be_ home."
He left the land of cigar smoke and perfume and books
and gentle light and ascended the stairs, talking, talking
with Edward. Edward pushed a door open, and there was the
yellow brass bed and the old semaphore banners from college and
a very musty raccoon coat which he stroked with muted
affection. "It's too much," said the captain. "I'm numb and
I'm tired. Too much has happened today. I feel as if I'd been
out in a pounding rain for forty-eight hours without an
umbrella or a coat. I'm soaked to the skin with emotion."
Edward slapped wide the snowy linens and flounced the
pillows. He slid the window up and let the night-blooming
jasmine float in. There was moonlight and the sound of distant
dancing and whispering.
"So this is Mars," said the captain, undressing.
"This is it." Edward undressed in idle, leisurely moves,
drawing his shirt off over his head, revealing golden shoulders
and the good muscular neck.
The lights were out; they were in bed, side by side, as in
the days how many decades ago? The captain lolled and was
flourished by the scent of jasmine pushing the lace curtains
out upon the dark air of the room. Among the trees, upon a
lawn, someone had cranked up a portable phonograph and now it
was playing softly, "Always."
The thought of Marilyn came to his mind.
"Is Marilyn here?"
His brother, lying straight out in the moonlight from
the window, waited and then said, "Yes. She's out of town.
But she'll be here in the morning."
The captain shut his eyes. "I want to see Marilyn very
much."
The room was square and quiet except for their breathing.
"Good night, Ed."
A pause. "Good night, John."
He lay peacefully, letting his thoughts float. For the
first time the stress of the day was moved aside; he could
think logically now, It had all been emotion. The bands
playing, the familiar faces. But now . . .
How? he wondered. How was all this made? And why? For
what purpose? Out of the goodness of some divine intervention?
Was God, then, really that thoughtful of his children? How and
why and what for?
He considered the various theories advanced in the first
heat of the afternoon by Hinkston and Lustig. He let all kinds
of new theories drop in lazy pebbles down through his mind,
turning, throwing out dull flashes of light. Mom. Dad. Edward.
Mars. Earth. Mars. Martians.
Who had lived here a thousand years ago on Mars? Martians?
Or had this always been the way it was today?
Martians. He repeated the word idly, inwardly.
He laughed out loud almost. He had the most ridiculous
theory quite suddenly. It gave him a kind of chill. It was
really nothing to consider, of course. Highly improbable.
Silly. Forget it. Ridiculous.
But, he thought, just _suppose_ . . . Just suppose, now,
that there were Martians living on Mars and they saw our ship
coming and saw us inside our ship and hated us, Suppose, now,
just for the hell of it, that they wanted to destroy us,
as invaders, as unwanted ones, and they wanted to do it in a
very clever way, so that we would be taken off guard. Well,
what would the best weapon be that a Martian could use against
Earth Men with atomic weapons?
The answer was interesting. Telepathy, hypnosis, memory,
and imagination.
Suppose all of these houses aren't real at all, this bed
not real, but only figments of my own imagination, given
substance by telepathy and hypnosis through the Martians,
thought Captain John Black. Suppose these houses are really
some _other_ shape, a Martian shape, but, by playing on my
desires and wants, these Martians have made this seem like my
old home town, my old house, to lull me out of my suspicions.
What better way to fool a man, using his own mother and father
as bait?
And this town, so old, from the year 1926, long before
_any_ of my men were born. From a year when I was six years old
and there _were_ records of Harry Lauder, and Maxfield Parrish
paintings _still_ hanging, and bead curtains, and "Beautiful
Ohio," and turn-of-the-century architecture. What if the
Martians took the memories of a town _exclusively_ from _my_
mind? They say childhood memories are the clearest. And after
they built the town from my mind, they populated it with
the most-loved people from all the minds of the people on
the rocket!
And suppose those two people in the next room, asleep, are
not my mother and father at all, But two Martians, incredibly
brilliant, with the ability to keep me under this dreaming
hypnosis all of the time.
And that brass band today? What a startlingly wonderful
plan it would be. First, fool Lustig, then Hinkston, then
gather a crowd; and all the men in the rocket, seeing mothers,
aunts, uncles, sweethearts, dead ten, twenty wears ago,
naturally, disregarding orders, rush out and abandon ship. What
more natural? What more unsuspecting? What more simple? A
man doesn't ask too many questions when his mother is soddenly
brought back to life; he's much too happy. And here we all
are tonight, in various houses, in various beds, with no
weapons to protect us, and the rocket lies in the moonlight,
empty. And wouldn't it be horrible and terrifying to discover
that all of this was part of some great clever plan by the
Martians to divide and conquer us, and kill us? Sometime during
the night, perhaps, my brother here on this bed will change
form, melt, shift, and become another thing, a terrible thing,
a Martian. It would be very simple for him just to turn over in
bed and put a knife into my heart. And in all those other
houses down the street, a dozen other brothers or fathers
suddenly melting away and taking knives and doing things to
the unsuspecting, sleeping men of Earth. . . .
His hands were shaking under the covers. His body was
cold. Suddenly it was not a theory. Suddenly he was very
afraid.
He lifted himself in bed and listened. The night was very
quiet The music had stopped. The wind had died. His brother
lay sleeping beside him.
Carefully he lifted the covers, rolled them back. He
slipped from bed and was walking softly across the room when
his brother's voice said, "Where are you going?"
"What?"
His brother's voice was quite cold. "I said, where do you
think you're going?"
"For a drink of water."
"But you're not thirsty."
"Yes, yes, I am."
"No, you're not."
Captain John Black broke and ran across the room. He
screamed. He screamed twice.
He never reached the door.

In the morning the brass band played a mournful dirge.
From every house in the street came little solemn processions
bearing long boxes, and along the sun-filled street, weeping,
came the grandmas and mothers and sisters and brothers and
uncles and fathers, walking to the churchyard, where there were
new holes freshly dug and new tombstones installed. Sixteen
holes in all, and sixteen tombstones.
The mayor made a little sad speech, his face sometimes
looking like the mayor, sometimes looking like something else.
Mother and Father Black were there, with Brother Edward,
and they cried, their faces melting now from a familiar face
into something else.
Grandpa and Grandma Lustig were there, weeping, their
faces shifting like wax, shimmering as all things shimmer on a
hot day.
The coffins were lowered. Someone murmured about "the
unexpected and sudden deaths of sixteen fine men during the
night--"
Earth pounded down on the coffin lids.
The brass band, playing "Columbia, the Gem of the Ocean,"
marched and slammed back into town, and everyone took the day
off.

June 2001: --AND THE MOON BE STILL AS BRIGHT

It was so cold when they first came from the rocket into
the night that Spender began to gather the dry Martian wood
and build a small fire. He didn't say anything about
a celebration; he merely gathered the wood, set fire to it,
and watched it burn.
In the flare that lighted the thin air of this dried-up
sea of Mars he looked over his shoulder and saw the rocket that
had brought them all, Captain Wilder and Cheroke and Hathaway
and Sam Parkhill and himself, across a silent black space of
stars to land upon a dead, dreaming world.
Jeff Spender waited for the noise. He watched the other
men and waited for them to jump around and shout. It would
happen as soon as the numbness of being the "first" men to Mars
wore off. None of them said anything, but many of them were
hoping, perhaps, that the other expeditions had failed and that
this, the Fourth, would be _the_ one. They meant nothing evil
by it. But they stood thinking it, nevertheless, thinking of
the honor and fame, while their lungs became accustomed to
the thinness of the atmosphere, which almost made you drunk if
you moved too quiddy.
Gibbs walked over to the freshly ignited fire and said,
"Why don't we use the ship chemical fire instead of that wood?"
"Never mind," said Spender, not looking up.
It wouldn't be right, the first night on Mars, to make a
loud noise, to introduce a strange, silly bright thing like
a stove. It would be a kind of imported blasphemy. There'd be
time for that later; time to throw condensed-milk cans in the
proud Martian canals; time for copies of the New York _Times_
to blow and caper and rustle across the lone gray Martian
sea bottoms; time for banana peels and picnic papers in the
fluted, delicate ruins of the old Martian valley towns. Plenty
of time for that. And he gave a small inward shiver at the
thought.
He fed the fire by hand, and it was like an offering to
a dead giant, They had landed on an immense tomb. Here
a civilization had died. It was only simple courtesy that the
first night be spent quietly.
"This isn't my idea of a celebration." Gibbs turned to
Captain Wilder. "Sir, I thought we might break out rations of
gin and meat and whoop it up a bit."
Captain Wilder looked off toward a dead city a mile away.
"We're all tired," he said remotely, as if his whole attention
was on the city and his men forgotten. "Tomorrow night,
perhaps. Tonight we should be glad we got across all that
space without getting a meteor in our bulkhead or having one
man of us die."
The men shifted around. There were twenty of them, holding
to each other's shoulders or adjusting their belts. Spender
watched them. They were not satisfied. They had risked their
lives to do a big thing. Now they wanted to be shouting drunk,
firing off guns to show how wonderful they were to have kicked
a hole in space and ridden a rocket all the way to Mars.
But nobody was yelling.
The captain gave a quiet order. One of the men ran into
the ship and brought forth food tins which were opened and
dished out without much noise. The men were beginning to talk
now. The captain sat down and recounted the trip to them.
They already knew it all, but it was good to hear about it,
as something over and done and safely put away. They would not
talk about the return trip. Someone brought that up, but they
told him to keep quiet. The spoons moved in the double
moonlight; the food tasted good and the wine was even better.
There was a touch of fire across the sky, and an instant
later the auxiliary rocket landed beyond the camp. Spender
watched as the small port opened and Hathaway,
the physician-geologist--they were all men of twofold ability,
to conserve space on the trip--stepped out. He walked slowly
over to the captain.
"Well?" said Captain Wilder.
Hathaway gazed out at the distant cities twinkling in
the starlight. After swallowing and focusing his eyes he said,
"That city there, Captain, is dead and has been dead a good
many thousand years. That applies to those three cities in the
hills also. But that fifth city, two hundred miles over, sir--"
"What about it?"
"People were living in it last week, sir."
Spender got to his feet.
"Martians," said Hathaway.
"Where are they now?"
"Dead," said Hathaway. "I went into a house on one street.
I thought that it, like the other towns and houses, had been
dead for centuries. My God, there were bodies there. It was
like walking in a pile of autumn leaves. Like sticks and pieces
of burnt newspaper, that's all. And _fresh_. They'd been dead
ten days at the outside."
"Did you check other towns? Did you see _anything_ alive?"
"Nothing whatever. So I went out to check the other towns.
Four out of five have been empty for thousands of years.
What happened to the original inhabitants I haven't the
faintest idea. But the fifth city always contained the same
thing. Bodies. Thousands of bodies."
"What did they die of?" Spender moved forward.
"You won't believe it."
"What killed them?"
Hathaway said simply, "Chicken pox."
"My God, no!"
"Yes. I made tests. Chicken pox. It did things to the
Martians it never did to Earth Men. Their metabolism
reacted differently, I suppose. Burnt them black and dried them
out to brittle flakes. But it's chicken pox, nevertheless. So
York and Captain Williams and Captain Black must have got
through to Mars, all three expeditions. God knows what happened
to them. But we at least know what _they_ unintentionally did
to the Martians."
"You saw no other life?"
"Chances are a few of the Martians, if they were smart,
escaped to the mountains. But there aren't enough, I'll lay
you money, to be a native problem. This planet is through."
Spender turned and went to sit at the fire, looking into
it. Chicken pox, God, chicken pox, think of it! A race builds
itself for a million years, refines itself, erects cities like
those out there, does everything it can to give itself respect
and beauty, and then it dies. Part of it dies slowly, in its
own time, before our age, with dignity. But the rest! Does the
rest of Mars die of a disease with a fine name or a terrifying
name or a majestic name? No, in the name of all that's holy, it
has to be chicken pox, a child's disease, a disease that
doesn't even kill _children_ on Earth! It's not right and it's
not fair. It's like saying the Greeks died of mumps, or the
proud Romans died on their beautiful hills of athlete's foot!
If only we'd given the Martians time to arrange their death
robes, lie down, look fit, and think up some _other_ excuse
for dying. It can't be a dirty, silly thing like chicken pox.
It doesn't fit the architecture; it doesn't fit this entire
world!
"All right, Hathaway, get yourself some food."
"Thank you, Captain."
And as quickly as that it was forgotten. The men talked
among themselves.
Spender did not take his eyes off them. He left his food
on his plate under his hands. He felt the land getting colder.
The stars drew closer, very clear.
When anyone talked too loudly the captain would reply in
a low voice that made them talk quietly from imitation.
The air smelled clean and new. Spender sat for a long time
just enjoying the way it was made. It had a lot of things in it
he couldn't identify: flowers, chemistries, dusts, winds.
"Then there was that time in New York when I got that
blonde, what's her name?--Ginnie!" cried Biggs. "_That_ was
it!"
Spender tightened in. His hand began to quiver. His eyes
moved behind the thin, sparse lids.
"And Ginnie said to me--" cried Biggs.
The men roared.
"So I smacked her!" shouted Biggs with a bottle in his
hand.
Spender set down his plate. He listened to the wind over
his ears, cool and whispering. He looked at the cool ice of
the white Martian buildings over there on the empty sea lands.
"What a woman, what a woman!" Biggs emptied his bottle in
his wide mouth. "Of all the women I ever knew!"
The smell of Biggs's sweating body was on the air. Spender
let the fire die. "Hey, kick her up there, Spender!" said
Biggs, glancing at him for a moment, then back to his bottle.
"Well, one night Ginnie and me--"
A man named Schoenke got out his accordion and did a
kicking dance, the dust springing up around him.
"Ahoo--I'm alive!" he shouted.
"Yay!" roared the men. They threw down their empty plates.
Three of them lined up and kicked like chorus maidens, joking
loudly. The others, clapping hands, yelled for something to
happen. Cheroke pulled off his shirt and showed his naked
chest, sweating as he whirled about. The moonlight shone on
his crewcut hair and his young, clean-shaven cheeks.
In the sea bottom the wind stirred along faint vapors, and
from the mountains great stone visages looked upon the silvery
rocket and the small fire.
The noise got louder, more men jumped up, someone sucked
on a mouth organ, someone else blew on a tissue-papered comb.
Twenty more bottles were opened and drunk. Biggs staggered
about, wagging his arms to direct the dancing men.
"Come on, sir!" cried Cheroke to the captain, wailing a
song.
The captain had to join the dance. He didn't want to. His
face was solemn. Spender watched, thinking: You poor man, what
a night this is! They don't know what they're doing. They
should have had an orientation program before they came to Mars
to tell them how to look and how to walk around and be good for
a few days.
"That does it." The captain begged off and sat down,
saying he was exhausted. Spender looked at the captain's chest.
It wasn't moving up and down very fast. His face wasn't sweaty,
either.
Accordion, harmonica, wine, shout, dance, wail,
roundabout, dash of pan, laughter.
Biggs weaved to the rim of the Martian canal. He carried
six empty bottles and dropped them one by one into the deep
blue canal waters. They made empty, hollow, drowning sounds as
they sank.
"I christen thee, I christen thee, I christen thee--" said
Biggs thickly. "I christen thee Biggs, Biggs, Biggs Canal--"
Spender was on his feet, over the fire, and alongside
Biggs before anyone moved. He hit Biggs once in the teeth and
once in the ear. Biggs toppled and fell down into the canal
water. After the splash Spender waited silently for Biggs to
climb back up onto the stone bank. By that time the men were
holding Spender.
"Hey, what's eating you, Spender? Hey?" they asked.
Biggs climbed up and stood dripping. He saw the men
holding Spender. "Well," he said, and started forward.
"That's enough," snapped Captain Wilder. The men broke
away from Spender. Biggs stopped and glanced at the captain.
"All right, Biggs, get some dry clothes. You men, carry
on your party! Spender, come with me!"
The men took up the party. Wilder moved off some distance
and confronted Spender. "Suppose you explain what just
happened," he said.
Spender looked at the canal. "I don't know, I was ashamed.
Of Biggs and us and the noise. Christ, what a spectade."
"It's been a long trip. They've got to have their fling."
"Where's their respect, sir? Where's their sense of the
right thing?"
"You're tired, and you've a different way of seeing
things, Spender. That's a fifty-dollar fine for you."
"Yes, sir. It was just the idea of Them watching us make
fools of ourselves."
"Them?"
"The Martians, whether they're dead or not."
"Most certainly dead," said the captain. "Do you think
They know we're here?"
"Doesn't an old thing always know when a new thing comes?"
"I suppose so. You sound as if you believe in spirits."
"I believe in the things that were done, and there
are evidences of many things done on Mars. There are streets
and houses, and there are books, I imagine, and big canals and
docks and places for stabling, if not horses, well, then
some domestic animal, perhaps with twelve legs, who knows?
Everywhere I look I see things that were _used_. They were
touched and handled for centuries,
"Ask me, then, if I believe in the spirit of the things
as they were used, and I'll say yes. They're all here. All
the things which had uses. All the mountains which had names.
And we'll never be able to use them without feeling
uncomfortable. And somehow the mountains will never sound right
to us; we'll give them new names, but the old names are
there, somewhere in time, and the mountains were shaped and
seen under those names. The names we'll give to the canals
and mountains and cities will fall like so much water on the
back of a mallard. No matter how we touch Mars, we'll never
touch it. And then we'll get mad at it, and you know what we'll
do? We'll rip it up, rip the skin off, and change it to
fit ourselves."
"We won't ruin Mars," said the captain. "It's too big and
too good."
"You think not? We Earth Men have a talent for ruining
big, beautiful things. The only reason we didn't set up hot-dog
stands in the midst of the Egyptian temple of Karnak is because
it was out of the way and served no large commercial purpose.
And Egypt is a small part of Earth. But here, this whole thing
is ancient and different, and we have to set down somewhere
and start fouling it up. We'll call the canal the Rockefeller
Canal and the mountain King George Mountain and the sea the
Dupont sea, and there'll be Roosevelt and Lincoln and Coolidge
cities and it won't ever be right, when there are the _proper_
names for these places."
"That'll be your job, as archaeologists, to find out the
old names, and we'll use them."
"A few men like us against all the commercial interests."
Spender looked at the iron mountains. "_They_ know we're
here tonight, to spit in their wine, and I imagine they hate
us."
The captain shook his head. "There's no hatred here."
He listened to the wind. "From the look of their cities they
were a graceful, beautiful, and philosophical people. They
accepted what came to them. They acceded to racial death, that
much we know, and without a last-moment war of frustration
to tumble down their cities. Every town we've seen so far has
been flawlessly intact. They probably don't mind us being here
any more than they'd mind children playing on the lawn, knowing
and understanding children for what they are. And, anyway,
perhaps all this will change us for the better.
"Did you notice the peculiar quiet of the men, Spender,
until Biggs forced them to get happy? They looked pretty humble
and frightened. Looking at all this, we know we're not so hot;
we're kids in rompers, shouting with our play rockets and
atoms, loud and alive. But one day Earth will be as Mars is
today. This will sober us. It's an object lesson in
civilizations. We'll learn from Mars. Now suck in your chin.
Let's go back and play happy. That fifty-dollar fine still
goes."

The party was not going too well. The wind kept coming in
off the dead sea. It moved around the men and it moved around
the captain and Jeff Spender as they returned to the group. The
wind pulled at the dust and the shining rocket and pulled at
the accordion, and the dust got into the vamped harmonica. The
dust got in their eyes and the wind made a high singing sound
in the air. As suddenly as it had come the wind died.
But the party had died too.
The men stood upright against the dark cold sky.
"Come on, gents, come on!" Biggs bounded from the ship in
a fresh uniform, not looking at Spender even once. His voice
was like someone in an empty auditorium. It was alone. "Come
on!"
Nobody moved.
"Come on, Whitie, your harmonica!"
Whitie blew a chord. It sounded funny and wrong. Whitie
knocked the moisture from his harmonica and put it away.
"What kinda party _is_ this?" Biggs wanted to know.
Someone hugged the accordion. It gave a sound like a
dying animal. That was all.
"Okay, me and my bottle will go have our own party."
Biggs squatted against the rocket, drinking from a flask.
Spender watched him. Spender did not move for a long time.
Then his fingers crawled up along his trembling leg to his
holstered pistol, very quietly, and stroked and tapped the
leather sheath.
"All those who want to can come into the city with
me," announced the captain. "We'll post a guard here at the
rocket and go armed, just in case."
The men counted off. Fourteen of them wanted to go,
including Biggs, who laughingly counted himself in, waving
his bottle. Six others stayed behind.
"Here we go!" Biggs shouted.
The party moved out into the moonlight, silently. They
made their way to the outer rim of the dreaming dead city in
the light of the racing twin moons. Their shadows, under them,
were double shadows. They did not breathe, or seemed not
to, perhaps, for several minutes. They were waiting for
something to stir in the dead city, some gray form to rise,
some ancient, ancestral shape to come galloping across the
vacant sea bottom on an ancient, armored steel of impossible
lineage, of unbelievable derivation.
Spender filled the streets with his eyes and his mind.
People moved like blue vapor lights on the cobbled avenues,
and there were faint murmurs of sound, and odd animals
scurrying across the gray-red sands. Each window was given
a person who leaned from it and waved slowly, as if under
a timeless water, at some moving form in the fathoms of space
below the moon-silvered towers. Music was played on some inner
ear, and Spender imagined the shape of such instruments to
evoke such music. The land was haunted.
"Hey!" shouted Biggs, standing tall, his hands around his
open mouth. "Hey, you people in the city there, you!"
"Biggs!" said the captain.
Biggs quieted.
They walked forward on a tiled avenue. They were all
whispering now, for it was like entering a vast open library or
a mausoleum in which the wind lived and over which the stars
shone. The captain spoke quietly. He wondered where the people
had gone, and what they had been, and who their kings were, and
how they had died. And he wondered, quietly aloud, how they
had built this city to last the ages through, and had they ever
come to Earth? Were they ancestors of Earth Men ten thousand
years removed? And had they loved and hated similar loves and
hates, and done similar silly things when silly things were
done?
Nobody moved. The moons held and froze them; the wind
beat slowly around them.
"Lord Byron," said Jeff Spender.
"Lord who?" The captain turned and regarded him.
"Lord Byron, a nineteenth-century poet. He wrote a poem
a long time ago that fits this city and how the Martians must
feel, if there's anything left of them to feel. It might have
been written by the last Martian poet."
The men stood motionless, their shadows under them.
The captain said, "How does the poem go, Spender?"
Spender shifted, put out his hand to remember, squinted
silently a moment; then, remembering, his slow quiet voice
repeated the words and the men listened to everything he said:

"_So we'll go no more a-roving
So late into the night,
Though the heart be still as loving,
And the moon be still as bright_."

The city was gray and high and motionless. The men's faces
were turned in the light.

"_For the sword outwears its sheath,
And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And love itself must rest.

"Though the night was made for loving,
And the day returns too soon,
Yet we'll go no more a-roving
By the light of the moon_."

Without a word the Earth Men stood in the center of the
city. It was a clear night. There was not a sound except the
wind. At their feet lay a tile court worked into the shapes
of ancient animals and peoples. They looked down upon it.
Biggs made a sick noise in his throat. His eyes were dull.
His hands went to his mouth; he choked, shut his eyes, bent,
and a thick rush of fluid filled his mouth, spilled out, fell
to splash on the tiles, covering the designs. Biggs did this
twice, A sharp winy stench filled the cool air.
No one moved to help Biggs. He went on being sick.
Spender stared for a moment, then turned and walked off
into the avenues of the city, alone in the moonlight. Never
once did he pause to look back at the gathered men there.

They turned in at four in the morning. They lay upon
blankets and shut their eyes and breathed the quiet air.
Captain Wilder sat feeding little sticks into the fire.
McClure opened his eyes two hours later. "Aren't you
sleeping, sir?"
"I'm waiting for Spender." The captain smiled faintly.
McClure thought it over. "You know, sir, I don't think
he'll ever come back. I don't know how I know, but that's the
way I feel about him, sir; he'll never come back."
McClure rolled over into sleep. The fire cradded and died.

Spender did not return in the following week. The captain
sent searching parties, but they came back saying they didn't
know where Spender could have gone. He would be back when he
got good and ready. He was a sorehead, they said. To the devil
with him!
The captain said nothing but wrote it down in his log. . .
.
It was a morning that might have been a Monday or a
Tuesday or any day on Mars. Biggs was on the canal rim; his
feet hung down into the cool water, soaking, while he took the
sun on his face.
A man walked along the bank of the canal. The man threw
a shadow down upon Biggs. Biggs glanced up.
"Well, I'll be damned!" said Biggs.
"I'm the last Martian," said the man, taking out a gun.
"What did you say?" asked Biggs.
"I'm going to kill you."
"Cut it. What kind of joke's that, Spender?"
"Stand up and take it in the stomach."
"For Christ's sake, put that gun away."
Spender pulled the trigger only once. Biggs sat on the
edge of the canal for a moment before he leaned forward and
fell into the water. The gun had made only a whispering hum.
The body drifted with slow unconcern under the slow canal
tides. It made a hollow bubbling sound that ceased after a
moment.
Spender shoved his gun into its holster and walked
soundlessly away. The sun was shining down upon Mars. He felt
it burn his hands and slide over the sides of his tight face.
He did not run; he walked as if nothing were new except
the daylight. He walked down to the rocket, and some of the men
were eating a freshly cooked breakfast under a shelter built
by Cookie.
"Here comes The Lonely One," someone said.
"Hello, Spender! Long time no see!"
The four men at the table regarded the silent man who
stood looking back at them.
"You and them goddamn ruins," laughed Cookie, stirring
a black substance in a crock. "You're like a dog in a bone
yard."
"Maybe," said Spender, "I've been finding out things. What
would you say if I said I'd found a Martian prowling around?"
The four men laid down their forks.
"Did you? Where?"
"Never mind. Let me ask you a question. How would you feel
if you were a Martian and people came to your land and started
tearing it up?"
"I know exactly how I'd feel," said Cheroke. "I've got
some Cherokee blood in me. My grandfather told me lots of
things about Oklahoma Territory. If there's a Martian around,
I'm all for him."
"What about you other men?" asked Spender carefully.
Nobody answered; their silence was talk enough. Catch as
catch can, finder's keepers, if the other fellow turns his
cheek slap it hard, etc. . . .
"Well," said Spender, "I've found a Martian."
The men squinted at him.
"Up in a dead town. I didn't think I'd find him. I didn't
intend looking him up. I don't know what he was doing there.
I've been living in a little valley town for about a week,
learning how to read the ancient books and looking at their old
art forms. And one day I saw this Martian. He stood there for
a moment and then he was gone. He didn't come back for another
day. I sat around, learning how to read the old writing, and
the Martian came back, each time a little nearer, until on the
day I learned how to decipher the Martian language--it's
amazingly simple and there are picturegraphs to help you--the
Martian appeared before me and said, 'Give me your boots.' And
I gave him my boots and he said, 'Give me your uniform and all
the rest of your apparel.' And I gave him all of that, and then
he said, 'Give me your gun,' and I gave him my gun. Then he
said, 'Now come along and watch what happens.' And the Martian
walked down into camp and he's here now."
"I don't see any Martian," said Cheroke.
"I'm sorry."
Spender took out his gun. It hummed softly. The first
bullet got the man on the left; the second and third bullets
took the men on the right and the center of the table. Cookie
turned in horror from the fire to receive the fourth bullet.
He fell back into the fire and lay there while his clothes
caught fire.
The rocket lay in the sun. Three men sat at breakfast,
their hands on the table, not moving, their food getting cold
in front of them. Cheroke, untouched, sat alone, staring in
numb disbelief at Spender.
"You can come with me," said Spender.
Cheroke said nothing.
"You can be with me on this." Spender waited.
Finally Cheroke was able to speak. "You killed them," he
said, daring to look at the men around him.
"They deserved it."
"You're crazy!"
"Maybe I am. But you can come with me."
"Come with you, for what?" cried Cheroke, the color gone
from his face, his eyes watering. "Go on, get out!"
Spender's face hardened. "Of all of them, I thought you
would understand."
"Get out!" Cheroke reached for his gun.
Spender fired one last time. Cheroke stopped moving.
Now Spender swayed. He put his hand to his sweating face.
He glanced at the rocket and suddenly began to shake all over.
He almost fell, the physical reaction was so overwhelming. His
face held an expression of one awakening from hypnosis, from
a dream. He sat down for a moment and told the shaking to go
away.
"Stop it, stop it!" he commanded of his body. Every fiber
of him was quivering and shaking. "Stop it!" He crushed his
body with his mind until all the shaking was squeezed out of
it. His hands lay calmly now upon his silent knees.
He arose and strapped a portable storage locker on his
back with quiet efficiency. His hand began to tremble again,
just for a breath of an instant, but he said, "No!" very
firmly, and the trembling passed. Then, walking stiffly, he
moved out between the hot red hills of the land, alone.

The sun burned farther up the sky. An hour later the
captain climbed down out of the rocket to get some ham and
eggs. He was just saying hello to the four men sitting there
when he stopped and noticed a faint smell of gun fumes on the
air. He saw the cook lying on the ground, with the campfire
under him. The four men sat before food that was now cold.
A moment later Parkhill and two others climbed down.
The captain stood in their way, fascinated by the silent men
and the way they sat at their breakfast.
"Call the men, all of them," said the captain.
Parkhill hurried off down the canal rim.
The captain touched Cheroke. Cheroke twisted quietly and
fell from his chair. Sunlight burned in his bristled short hair
and on his high cheekbones.
The men came in.
"Who's missing?"
"It's still Spender, sir. We found Biggs floating in
the canal."
"Spender!"
The captain saw the hills rising in the daylight, The
sun showed his teeth in a grimace. "Damn him," he said tiredly.
"Why didn't he come and talk to me?"
"He should've talked to _me_," cried Parkhill, eyes
blazing. "I'd have shot his bloody brains out, that's what I'd
have done, by God!"
Captain Wilder nodded at two of his men. "Get shovels,"
he said.
It was hot digging the graves. A warm wind came from over
the vacant sea and blew the dust into their faces as the
captain turned the Bible pages. When the captain closed the
book someone began shoveling slow streams of sand down upon
the wrapped figures.
They walked back to the rocket, clicked the mechanisms
of their rifles, put thick grenade packets on their backs,
and checked the free play of pistols in their holsters. They
were each assigned part of the hills. The captain directed
them without raising his voice or moving his hands where they
hung at his sides.
"Let's go," he said.

Spender saw the thin dust rising in several places in
the valley and he knew the pursuit was organized and ready. He
put down the thin silver book that he had been reading as he
sat easily on a flat boulder. The book's pages were
tissue-thin, pure silver, hand-painted in black and gold. It
was a book of philosophy at least ten thousand years old he
had found in one of the villas of a Martian valley town. He
was reluctant to lay it aside.
For a time he had thought, What's the use? I'll sit here
reading until they come along and shoot me.
The first reaction to his killing the six men this morning
had caused a period of stunned blankness, then sickness, and
now, a strange peace. But the peace was passing, too, for he
saw the dust billowing from the trails of the hunting men, and
he experienced the return of resentment.
He took a drink of cool water from his hip canteen. Then
he stood up, stretched, yawned, and listened to the peaceful
wonder of the valley around him. How very fine if he and a
few others he knew on Earth could be here, live out their lives
here, without a sound or a worry.
He carried the book with him in one hand, the pistol ready
in his other. There was a little swift-running stream filled
with white pebbles and rocks where he undressed and waded in
for a brief washing. He took all the time he wanted before
dressing and picking up his gun again.
The firing began about three in the afternoon. By then
Spender was high in the hills. They followed him through three
small Martian hill towns. Above the towns, scattered like
pebbles, were single villas where ancient families had found
a brook, a green spot, and laid out a tile pool, a library, and
a court with a pulsing fountain. Spender took half an hour,
swimming in one of the pools which was filled with the seasonal
rain, waiting for the pursuers to catch up with him.
Shots rang out as he was leaving the little villa. Tile
chipped up some twenty feet behind him, exploded. He broke into
a trot, moved behind a series of small bluffs, turned, and with
his first shot dropped one of the men dead in his tracks.
They would form a net, a circle; Spender knew that. They
would go around and close in and they would get him. It was
a strange thing that the grenades were not used. Captain Wilder
could easily order the grenades tossed.
But I'm much too nice to be blown to bits, thought
Spender. That's what the captain thinks. He wants me with only
one hole in me. Isn't that odd? He wants my death to be clean.
Nothing messy. Why? Because he understands me. And because
he understands, he's willing to risk good men to give me a
clean shot in the head. Isn't that it?
Nine, ten shots broke out in a rattle. Rocks around him
jumped up. Spender fired steadily, sometimes while glancing at
the silver book he carried in his hand.
The captain ran in the hot sunlight with a rifle in his
hands. Spender followed him in his pistol sights but did not
fire. Instead he shifted and blew the top off a rock where
Whitie lay, and heard an angry shout.
Suddenly the captain stood up. He had a white handkerchief
in his hands. He said something to his men and came walking up
the mountain after putting aside his rifle. Spender lay there,
then got to his feet, his pistol ready.
The captain came up and sat down on a warm boulder, not
looking at Spender for a moment.
The captain reached into his blouse pocket. Spender's
fingers tightened on the pistol.
The captain said, "Cigarette?"
"Thanks." Spender took one.
"Light?"
"Got my own."
They took one or two puffs in silence.
"Warm," said the captain.
"It is."
"You comfortable up here?"
"Quite."
"How long do you think you can hold out?"
"About twelve men's worth."
"Why didn't you kill all of us this morning when you had
the chance? You could have, you know."
"I know. I got sick. When you want to do a thing badly
enough you lie to yourself. You say the other people are all
wrong. Well, soon after I started killing people I realized
they were just fools and I shouldn't be killing them. But it
was too late. I couldn't go on with it then, so I came up here
where I could lie to myself some more and get angry, to build
it all up again.
"Is it built up?"
"Not very high. Enough."
The captain considered his cigarette. "Why did you do it?"
Spender quietly laid his pistol at his feet. "Because I've
seen that what these Martians had was just as good as anything
we'll ever hope to have. They stopped where we should have
stopped a hundred years ago. I've walked in their cities and
I know these people and I'd be glad to call them my ancestors."
"They have a beautiful city there." The captain nodded at
one of several places.
"It's not that alone. Yes, their cities are good. They
knew how to blend art into their living. It's always been a
thing apart for Americans. Art was something you kept in the
crazy son's room upstairs. Art was something you took in Sunday
doses, mixed with religion, perhaps. Well, these Martians have
art and religion and everything."
"You think they knew what it was all about, do you?"
"For my money."
"And for that reason you started shooting people."
"When I was a kid my folks took me to visit Mexico City.
I'll always remember the way my father acted--loud and big. And
my mother didn't like the people because they were dark and
didn't wash enough. And my sister wouldn't talk to most of
them. I was the only one really liked it. And I can see my
mother and father coming to Mars and acting the same way here.
"Anything that's strange is no good to the average
American. If it doesn't have Chicago plumbing, it's nonsense.
The thought of that! Oh God, the thought of that! And then--the
war. You heard the congressional speeches before we left. If
things work out they hope to establish three atomic research
and atom bomb depots on Mars. That means Mars is finished; all
this wonderful stuff gone. How would you feel if a Martian
vomited stale liquor on the White House floor?"
The captain said nothing but listened.
Spender continued: "And then the other power interests
coming up. The mineral men and the travel men. Do you remember
what happened to Mexico when Cortez and his very fine good
friends arrived from Spain? A whole civilization destroyed
by greedy, righteous bigots. History will never forgive
Cortez."
"You haven't acted ethically yourself today," observed
the captain.
"What could I do? Argue with you? It's simply me against
the whole crooked grinding greedy setup on Earth. They'll
be flopping their filthy atoms bombs up here, fighting for
bases to have wars. Isn't it enough they've ruined one planet,
without ruining another; do they have to foul someone else's
manger? The simple-minded windbags. When I got up here I felt
I was not only free of their so-called culture, I felt I was
free of their ethics and their customs. I'm out of their frame
of reference, I thought. All I have to do is kill you all off
and live my own life."
"But it didn't work out," said the captain.
"No. After the fifth killing at breakfast, I discovered
I wasn't all new, all Martian, after all. I couldn't throw
away everything I had learned on Earth so easily. But now
I'm feeling steady again. I'll kill you all off. That'll delay
the next trip in a rocket for a good five years. There's no
other rocket in existence today, save this one. The people on
Earth will wait a year, two years, and when they hear nothing
from us, they'll be very afraid to build a new rocket. They'll
take twice as long and make a hundred extra experimental models
to insure themselves against another failure."
"You're correct."
"A good report from you, on the other hand, if you
returned, would hasten the whole invasion of Mars. If I'm lucky
I'll live to be sixty years old. Every expedition that lands
on Mars will be met by me. There won't be more than one ship at
a time coming up, one every year or so, and never more than
twenty men in the crew. After I've made friends with them
and explained that our rocket exploded one day--I intend to
blow it up after I finish my job this week--I'll kill them off,
every one of them. Mars will be untouched for the next half
century. After a while, perhaps the Earth people will give
up trying. Remember how they grew leery of the idea of building
Zeppelins that were always going down in flames?"
"You've got it all planned," admitted the captain.
"I have."
"Yet you're outnumbered. In an hour we'll have you
surrounded. In an hour you'll be dead."
"I've found some underground passages and a place to live
you'll never find. I'll withdraw there to live for a few weeks.
Until you're off guard. I'll come out then to pick you off, one
by one."
The captain nodded. "Tell me about your civilization
here," he said, waving his hand at the mountain towns.
"They knew how to live with nature and get along with
nature. They didn't try too hard to be all men and no animal.
That's the mistake we made when Darwin showed up. We embraced
him and Huxley and Freud, all smiles. And then we discovered
that Darwin and our religions didn't mix. Or at least we didn't
think they did, We were fools. We tried to budge Darwin and
Huxley and Freud. They wouldn't move very well. So, like
idiots, we tried knocking down religion.
"We succeeded pretty well. We lost our faith and went
around wondering what life was for. If art was no more than
a frustrated outflinging of desire, if religion was no more
than self-delusion, what good was life? Faith had always given
us answers to all things. But it all went down the drain with
Freud and Darwin. We were and still are a lost people."
"And these Martians are a _found_ people?" inquired
the captain.
"Yes. They knew how to combine science and religion so the
two worked side by side, neither denying the other, each
enriching the other."
"That sounds ideal."
"It was. I'd like to show you how the Martians did it."
"My men are waiting."
"We'll be gone half an hour. Tell them that, sir."
The captain hesitated, then rose and called an order down
the hill.
Spender led him over into a little Martian village built
all of cool perfect marble. There were great friezes of
beautiful animals, white-limbed cat things and yellow-limbed
sun symbols, and statues of bull-like creatures and statues of
men and women and huge fine-featured dogs.
"There's your answer, Captain."
"I don't see."
"The Martians discovered the secret of life among animals.
The animal does not question life. It lives. Its very reason
for living _is_ life; it enjoys and relishes life. You see--the
statuary, the animal symbols, again and again."
"It looks pagan."
"On the contrary, those are God symbols, symbols of life.
Man had become too much man and not enough animal on Mars too.
And the men of Mars realized that in order to survive they
would have to forgo asking that one question any longer: _Why
live?_ Life was its own answer. Life was the propagation of
more life and the living of as good a life is possible. The
Martians realized that they asked the question 'Why live at
all?' at the height of some period of war and despair, when
there was no answer. But once the civilization calmed, quieted,
and wars ceased, the question became senseless in a new way.
Life was now good and needed no arguments."
"It sounds as if the Martians were quite naive."
"Only when it paid to be naive. They quit trying too hard
to destroy everything, to humble everything. They blended
religion and art and science because, at base, science is no
more than an investigation of a miracle we can never explain,
and art is an interpretation of that mirade. They never let
science crush the aesthetic and the beautiful. It's all simply
a matter of degree. An Earth Man thinks: 'In that picture,
color does not exist, really. A scientist can prove that color
is only the way the cells are placed in a certain material
to reflect light. Therefore, color is not really an actual part
of things I happen to see.' A Martian, far cleverer, would say:
"This is a fine picture. It came from the hand and the mind of
a man inspired. Its idea and its color are from life. This
thing is good.'"
There was a pause. Sitting in the afternoon sun, the
captain looked curiously around at the little silent cool town.
"I'd like to live here," he said.
"You may if you want."
"You ask _me_ that?"
"Will any of those men under you ever really understand
all this? They're professional cynics, and it's too late for
them. Why do you want to go back with them? So you can keep up
with the Joneses? To buy a gyro just like Smith has? To listen
to music with your pocketbook instead of your glands? There's
a little patio down here with a reel of Martian music in it
at least fifty thousand years old. It still plays. Music you'll
never hear in your life. You could hear it. There are books.
I've gotten on well in reading them already. You could sit
and read."
"It all sounds quite wonderful, Spender."
"But you won't stay?"
"No. Thanks, anyway."
"And you certainly won't let me stay without trouble. I'll
have to kill you all."
"You're optimistic."
"I have something to fight for and live for; that makes me
a better killer. I've got what amounts to a religion, now.
It's learning how to breathe all over again. And how to lie in
the sun getting a tan, letting the sun work into you. And how
to hear music and how to read a book. What does your
civilization offer?"
The captain shifted his feet. He shook his head. "I'm
sorry this is happening. I'm sorry about it all."
"I am too. I guess I'd better take you back now so you
can start the attack."
"I guess so."
"Captain, I won't kill you. When it's all over, you'll
still be alive."
"What?"
"I decided when I started that you'd be untouched."
"Well . . ."
"I'll save you out from the rest. When they're dead,
perhaps you'll change your mind."
"No," said the captain. "There's too much Earth blood in
me. I'll have to keep after you."
"Even when you have a chance to stay here?"
"It's funny, but yes, even with that. I don't know why.
I've never asked myself. Well, here we are." They had returned
to their meeting place now. "Will you come quietly, Spender?
This is my last offer."
"Thanks, no." Spender put out his hand. "One last thing.
If you win, do me a favor. See what can be done to restrict
tearing this planet apart, at least for fifty years, until
the archaeologists have had a decent chance, will you?"
"Right."
"And last--if it helps any, just think of me as a very
crazy fellow who went berserk one summer day and never was
right again. It'll be a little easier on you that way."
"I'll think it over. So long, Spender. Good luck."
"You're an odd one," said Spender as the captain walked
back down the trail in the warm-blowing wind.
The captain returned like something lost to his dusty men.
He kept squinting at the sun and breathing bard.
"Is there a drink?" he said. He felt a bottle put cool
into his hand. "Thanks." He drank. He wiped his mouth.
"All right," he said. "Be careful. We have all the time
we want. I don't want any more lost. You'll have to kill him.
He won't come down. Make it a clean shot if you can. Don't mess
him. Get it over with."
"I'll blow his damned brains out," said Sam Parkhill.
"No, through the chest," said the captain. He could
see Spender's strong, clearly determined face.
"His bloody brains," said Parkhill.
The captain handed him the bottle jerkingly. "You heard
what I said. Through the chest"
Parkhill muttered to himself.
"Now," said the captain.

They spread again, walking and then running, and then
walking on the hot hillside places where there would be sudden
cool grottoes that smelled of moss, and sudden open blasting
places that smelled of sun on stone.
I hate being clever, thought the captain, when you don't
really feel clever and don't want to be clever. To sneak around
and make plans and feel big about making them. I hate this
feeling of thinking I'm doing right when I'm not really certain
I am. Who are we, anyway? The majority? Is that the answer?
The majority is always holy, is it not? Always, always; just
never wrong for one little insignificant tiny moment, is it?
Never ever wrong in ten million years? He thought: What is
this majority and who are in it? And what do they think and how
did they get that way and will they ever change and how the
devil did I get caught in this rotten majority? I don't
feel comfortable. Is it claustrophobia, fear of crowds, or
common sense? Can one man be right, while all the world thinks
they are right? Let's not think about it. Let's crawl around
and act exciting and pull the trigger. There, and _there!_
The men ran and ducked and ran and squatted in shadows
and showed their teeth, gasping, for the air was thin, not
meant for running; the air was thin and they had to sit for
five minutes at a time, wheezing and seeing black lights in
their eyes, eating at the thin air and wanting more, tightening
their eyes, and at last getting up, lifting their guns to tear
holes in that thin summer air, holes of sound and heat.
Spender remained where he was, firing only on occasion.
"Damned brains all over!" Parkhill yelled, running uphill.
The captain aimed his gun at Sam Parkhill. He put it down
and stared at it in horror. "What were you doing?" he asked of
his limp hand and the gun.
He had almost shot Parkhill in the back.
"God help me."
He saw Parkhill still running, then falling to lie safe.
Spender was being gathered in by a loose, running net of
men. At the hilltop, behind two rocks, Spender lay, grinning
with exhaustion from the thin atmosphere, great islands of
sweat under each arm. The captain saw the two rocks. There was
an interval between them of some four inches, giving free
access to Spender's chest.
"Hey, you!" cried Parkhill. "Here's a slug for your head!"
Captain Wilder waited. Go on, Spender, he thought. Get
out, like you said you would. You've only a few minutes to
escape. Get out and come back later. Go on. You said you would.
Go down in the tunnels you said you found, and lie there and
live for months and years, reading your fine books and bathing
in your temple pools. Go on, now, man, before it's too late.
Spender did not move from his position.
"What's wrong with him?" the captain asked himself.
The captain picked up his gun. He watched the running,
hiding men. He looked at the towers of the little clean Martian
village, like sharply carved chess pieces lying in the
afternoon. He saw the rocks and the interval between where
Spender's chest was revealed.
Parkhill was charging up, screaming in fury.
"No, Parkhill," said the captain. "I can't let you do it.
Nor the others. No, none of you. Only me." He raised the gun
and sighted it.
Will I be clean after this? he thought. Is it right that
it's me who does it? Yes, it is. I know what I'm doing for
what reason and it's right, because I think I'm the right
person. I hope and pray I can live up to this.
He nodded his head at Spender. "Go on," he called in a
loud whisper which no one heard. "I'll give you thirty seconds
more to get away. Thirty seconds!"
The watch ticked on his wrist, The captain watched it
tick. The men were running. Spender did not move. The watch
ticked for a long time, very loudly in the captain's ears. "Go
on, Spender, go on, get away!"
The thirty seconds were up.
The gun was sighted. The captain drew a deep breath.
"Spender," he said, exhaling.
He pulled the trigger.
All that happened was that a faint powdering of rock went
up in the sunlight. The echoes of the report faded.

The captain arose and called to his men: "He's dead."
The other men did not believe it. Their angles had
prevented their seeing that particular. fissure in the rocks.
They saw their captain run up the hill, alone, and thought
him either very brave or insane.
The men came after him a few minutes later.
They gathered around the body and someone said, "In the
chest?"
The captain looked down. "In the chest," he said, He saw
how the rocks had changed color under Spender. "I wonder why
he waited. I wonder why he didn't escape as he planned. I
wonder why he stayed on and got himself killed."
"Who knows?" someone said.
Spender lay there, his hands clasped, one around the gun,
the other around the silver book that glittered in the sun.
Was it because of me? thought the captain. Was it because
I refused to give in myself? Did Spender hate the idea of
killing me? Am I any different from these others here? Is that
what did it? Did he figure he could trust me? What other answer
is there?
None. He squatted by the silent body.
I've got to live up to this, he thought. I can't let him
down now. If he figured there was something in me that was
like himself and couldn't kill me because of it, then what a
job I have ahead of me! That's it, yes, that's it. I'm Spender
all over again, but I think before I shoot. I don't shoot at
all, I don't kill. I do things with people. And he couldn't
kill me because I was himself under a slightly different
condition.
The captain felt the sunlight on the back of his neck.
He heard himself talking: "If only he had come to me and talked
it over before he shot anybody, we could have worked it
out somehow."
"Worked what out?" said Parkhill. "What could we have
worked out with _his_ likes?"
There was a singing of heat in the land, off the rocks and
off the blue sky. "I guess you're right," said the captain.
"We could never have got together. Spender and myself, perhaps.
But Spender and you and the others, no, never, He's better off
now. Let me have a drink from that canteen."
It was the captain who suggested the empty sarcophagus
for Spender. They had found an ancient Martian tomb yard. They
put Spender into a silver case with waxes and wines which were
ten thousand years old, his hands folded on his chest. The last
they saw of him was his peaceful face.
They stood for a moment in the ancient vault. "I think
it would be a good idea for you to think of Spender from time
to time," said the captain.
They walked from the vault and shut the marble door.
The next afternoon Parkhill did some target practice in
one of the dead cities, shooting out the crystal windows and
blowing the tops off the fragile towers. The captain caught
Parkhiil and knocked his teeth out.

August 2001: THE SETTLERS

The men of Earth came to Mars.
They came because they were afraid or unafraid, because
they were happy or unhappy, because they felt like Pilgrims or
did not feel like Pilgrims. There was a reason for each man.
They were leaving bad wives or bad jobs or bad towns; they
were coming to find something or leave something or get
something, to dig up something or bury something or leave
something alone. They were coming with small dreams or large
dreams or none at all. But a government finger pointed
from four-color posters in many towns: THERE'S WORK FOR YOU IN
THE SKY: SEE MARS! and the men shuffled forward, only a few
at first, a double-score, for most men felt the great illness
in them even before the rocket fired into space. And this
disease was called The Loneliness, because when you saw your
home town dwindle the size of your fist and then lemon-size and
then pin-size and vanish in the fire-wake, you felt you had
never been born, there was no town, you were nowhere, with
space all around, nothing familiar, only other strange men. And
when the state of Illinois, Iowa, Missouri, or Montana vanished
into cloud seas, and, doubly, when the United States shrank to
a misted island and the entire planet Earth became a muddy
baseball tossed away, then you were alone, wandering in the
meadows of space, on your way to a place you couldn't imagine.
So it was not unusual that the first men were few. The
number grew steadily in proportion to the census of Earth
Men already on Mars. There was comfort in numbers. But the
first Lonely Ones had to stand by themselves.

December 2001: THE GREEN MORNING

When the sun set he crouched by the path and cooked a
small supper and listened to the fire crack while he put the
food in his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. It had been a day
not unlike thirty others, with many neat holes dug in the dawn
hours, seeds dropped in, and water brought from the bright
canals. Now, with an iron weariness in his slight body, he lay
and watched the sky color from one darkness to another.
His name was Benjamin Driscoll, and he was thirty-one
years old. And the thing that be wanted was Mars grown green
and tall with trees and foliage, producing air, more air,
growing larger with each season; trees to cool the towns in
the boiling summer, trees to hold back the winter winds. There
were so many things a tree could do: add color, provide shade,
drop fruit, or become a children's playground, a whole sky
universe to climb and hang from; an architecture of food
and pleasure, that was a tree. But most of all the trees would
distill an icy air for the lungs, and a gentle rustling for the
ear when you lay nights in your snowy bed and were gentled to
sleep by the sound.
He lay listening to the dark earth gather itself, waiting
for the sun, for the rains that hadn't come yet. His ear to
the ground, he could hear the feet of the years ahead moving at
a distance, and he imagined the seeds he had placed today
sprouting up with green and taking hold on the sky, pushing
out branch after branch, until Mars was an afternoon forest,
Mars was a shining orchard.
In the early morning, with the small sun lifting faintly
among the folded hills, he would be up and finished with a
smoky breakfast in a few minutes and, trodding out the fire
ashes, be on his way with knapsacks, testing, digging, placing
seed or sprout, tamping lightly, watering, going on, whistling,
looking at the clear sky brightening toward a warm noon.
"You need the air," he told his night fire. The fire was
a ruddy, lively companion that snapped back at you, that slept
close by with drowsy pink eyes warm through the chilly night.
"We all need the air. It's a thin air here on Mars. You get
tired so soon. It's like living in the Andes, in South America,
high. You inhale and don't get anything. It doesn't satisfy."
He felt his rib case. In thirty days, how it had grown.
To take in more air, they would all have to build their lungs.
Or plant more trees.
"That's what I'm here for," he said. The fire popped.
"In school they told a story about Johnny Appleseed walking
across America planting apple trees. Well, I'm doing more.
I'm planting oaks, elms, and maples, every kind of tree, aspens
and deodars and chestnuts. Instead of making just fruit for
the stomach, I'm making air for the lungs. When those trees
grow up some year, _think_ of the oxygen they'll make!"
He remembered his arrival on Mars. Like a thousand others,
he had gazed out upon a still morning and thought, How do I
fit here? What will I do? Is there a job for me?
Then he had fainted.
Someone pushed a vial of ammonia to his nose and,
coughing, he came around.
"You'll be all right," said the doctor.
"What happened?"
"The air's pretty thin. Some can't take it. I think you'll
have to go back to Earth."
"No!" He sat up and almost immediately felt his eyes
darken and Mars revolve twice around under him. His nostrils
dilated and he forced his lungs to drink in deep nothingness.
"I'll be all right. I've got to stay here!"
They let him lie gasping in horrid fishlike motions. And
he thought, Air, air, air. They're sending me back because of
air. And he turned his head to look across the Martian fields
and hills. He brought them to focus, and the first thing he
noticed was that there were no trees, no trees at all, as far
as you could look in any direction. The land was down upon
itself, a land of black loam, but nothing on it, not even
grass. Air, he thought, the thin stuff whistling in his
nostrils. Air, air. And on top of hills, or in their shadows,
or even by little creeks, not a tree and not a single green
blade of grass. Of course! He felt the answer came not from
his mind, but his lungs and his throat. And the thought was
like a sudden gust of pure oxygen, raising him up. Trees and
grass. He looked down at his hands and turned them over. He
would plant trees and grass. That would be his job, to fight
against the very thing that might prevent his staying here.
He would have a private horticultural war with Mars. There lay
the old soil, and the plants of it so ancient they had
worn themselves out. But what if new forms were introduced?
Earth trees, great mimosas and weeping willows and magnolias
and magnificent eucalyptus. What then? There was no guessing
what mineral wealth hid in the soil, untapped because the old
ferns, flowers, bushes, and trees had tired themselves to
death.
"Let me up!" he shouted. "I've got to see the
Co-ordinator!"
He and the Co-ordinator had talked an entire morning about
things that grew and were green. It would be months, if not
years, before organized planting began. So far, frosted food
was brought from Earth in flying icicles; a few community
gardens were greening up in hydroponic plants.
"Meanwhile," said the Co-ordinator, "it's your job. We'll
get what seed we can for you, a little equipment. Space on
the rockets is mighty precious now. I'm afraid, since these
first towns are mining communities, there won't be much
sympathy for your tree planting--"
"But you'll let me do it?"
They let him do it. Provided with a single motorcycle, its
bin full of rich seeds and sprouts, he had parked his vehicle
in the valley wilderness and struck out on foot over the land.
That had been thirty days ago, and he had never glanced
back. For looking back would have been sickening to the heart.
The weather was excessively dry; it was doubtful if any seeds
had sprouted yet. Perhaps his entire campaign, his four weeks
of bending and scooping were lost. He kept his eyes only ahead
of him, going on down this wide shallow valley under the sun,
away from First Town, waiting for the rains to come.
Clouds were gathering over the dry mountains now as he
drew his blanket over his shoulders. Mars was a place
as unpredictable as time. He felt the baked hills simmering
down into frosty night, and he thought of the rich, inky soil,
a soil so black and shiny it almost crawled and stirred in your
fist, a rank soil from which might sprout gigantic beanstalks
from which, with bone-shaking concussion, might drop screaming
giants.
The fire fluttered into sleepy ash. The air tremored to
the distant roll of a cartwheel. Thunder. A sudden odor of
water. Tonight, he thought, and put his hand out to feel for
rain. Tonight.

He awoke to a tap on his brow.
Water ran down his nose into his lips. Another drop hit
his eye, blurring it, Another splashed his chin.
The rain.
Raw, gentle, and easy, it mizzled out of the high air,
a special elixir, tasting of spells and stars and air, carrying
a peppery dust in it, and moving like a rare light sherry on
his tongue.
Rain.
He sat up. He let the blanket fall and his blue denim
shirt spot, while the rain took on more solid drops. The fire
looked as though an invisible animal were dancing on it,
crushing it, until it was angry smoke. The rain fell. The great
black lid of sky cracked in six powdery blue chips, like
a marvelous crackled glaze, and rushed down. He saw ten billion
rain crystals, hesitating long enough to be photographed by
the electrical display. Then darkness and water.
He was drenched to the skin, but he held his face up and
let the water hit his eyelids, laughing. He clapped his hands
together and stepped up and walked around his little camp, and
it was one o'clock in the morning.
It rained steadily for two hours and then stopped. The
stars came out, freshly washed and clearer than ever.
Changing into dry clothes from his cellophane pack,
Mr. Benjamin Driscoll lay down and went happily to sleep.

The sun rose slowly among the hills. It broke out upon the
land quietly and wakened Mr. Driscoll where he lay.
He waited a moment before arising. He had worked and
waited a long hot month, and now, standing up, he turned at
last and faced the direction from which he had come.
It was a green morning.
As far as he could see the trees were standing up against
the sky. Not one tree, not two, not a dozen, but the thousands
he had planted in seed and sprout. And not little trees, no,
not saplings, not little tender shoots, but great trees, huge
trees, trees as tall as ten men, green and green and huge and
round and full, trees shimmering their metallic leaves,
trees whispering, trees in a line over hills, lemon trees,
lime trees, redwoods and mimosas and oaks and elms and aspens,
cherry, maple, ash, apple, orange, eucalyptus, stung by
a tumultuous rain, nourished by alien and magical soil and,
even as he watched, throwing out new branches, popping open
new buds.
"Impossible!" cried Mr. Benjamin Driscoll.
But the valley and the morning were green.
And the air!
All about, like a moving current, a mountain river, came
the new air, the oxygen blowing from the green trees. You could
see it shimmer high in crystal billows. Oxygen, fresh, pure,
green, cold oxygen turning the valley into a river delta. In
a moment the town doors would flip wide, people would run
out through the new miracle of oxygen, sniffing, gusting
in lungfuls of it, cheeks pinking with it, noses frozen with
it, lungs revivified, hearts leaping, and worn bodies lifted
into a dance.
Mr. Benjamin Driscoll took one long deep drink of green
water air and fainted.
Before he woke again five thousand new trees had climbed
up into the yellow sun.

February 2002: THE LOCUSTS

The rockets set the bony meadows afire, turned rock to
lava, turned wood to charcoal, transmitted water to steam, made
sand and silica into green glass which lay like shattered
mirrors reflecting the invasion, all about. The rockets came
like drums, beating in the night. The rockets came like
locusts, swarming and settling in blooms of rosy smoke. And
from the rockets ran men with hammers in their hands to beat
the strange world into a shape that was familiar to the eye,
to bludgeon away all the strangeness, their mouths fringed with
nails so they resembled steel-toothed carnivores, spitting them
into their swift hands as they hammered up frame cottages
and scuttled over roofs with shingles to blot out the eerie
stars, and fit green shades to pull against the night. And when
the carpenters had hurried on, the women came in with
flowerpots and chintz and pans and set up a kitchen clamor to
cover the silence that Mars made waiting outside the door and
the shaded window.
In six months a dozen small towns had been laid down upon
the naked planet, filled with sizzling neon tubes and yellow
electric bulbs. In all, some ninety thousand people came to
Mars, and more, on Earth, were packing their grips. . . .

August 2002: NIGHT MEETING

Before going up into the blue hills, Tomбs Gomez stopped
for gasoline at the lonely station.
"Kind of alone out here, aren't you, Pop?" said Tomбs.
The old man wiped off the windshield of the small truck.
"Not bad."
"How do you like Mars, Pop?"
"Fine. Always something new. I made up my mind when I came
here last year I wouldn't expect nothing, nor ask nothing, nor
be surprised at nothing. We've got to forget Earth and how
things were. We've got to look at what we're in here, and
how _different_ it is. I get a hell of a lot of fun out of just
the weather here. It's _Martian_ weather. Hot as hell daytimes,
cold as hell nights. I get a big kick out of the different
flowers and different rain. I came to Mars to retire and I
wanted to retire in a place where everything is different. An
old man needs to have things different. Young people don't want
to talk to him, other old people bore hell out of him. So
I thought the best thing for me is a place so different that
all you got to do is open your eyes and you're entertained. I
got this gas station. If business picks up too much, I'll move
on back to some other old highway that's not so busy, where I
can earn just enough to live on and still have time to feel
the _different_ things here."
"You got the right idea, Pop," said Tomбs, his brown hands
idly on the wheel. He was feeling good. He had been working in
one of the new colonies for ten days straight and now he had
two days off and was on his way to a party.
"I'm not surprised at anything any more," said the old
man. "I'm just looking. I'm just experiencing. If you can't
take Mars for what she is, you might as well go back to
Earth. Everything's crazy up here, the soil, the air, the
canals, the natives (I never saw any yet, but I hear they're
around), the clocks. Even my clock acts funny. Even _time_ is
crazy up here. Sometimes I feel I'm here all by myself, no one
else on the whole damn planet. I'd take bets on it. Sometimes
I feel about eight years old, my body squeezed up and
everything else tall. Jesus, it's just the place for an old
man. Keeps me alert and keeps me happy. You know what Mars is?
It's like a thing I got for Christmas seventy years ago--don't
know if you ever had one--they called them kaleidoscopes, bits
of crystal and cloth and beads and pretty junk. You held it up
to the sunlight and looked in through at it, and it took your
breath away. All the patterns! Well, that's Mars. Enjoy it.
Don't ask it to be nothing else but what it is. Jesus, you know
that highway right there, built by the Martians, is over
sixteen centuries old and still in good condition? That's one
dollar and fifty cents, thanks and good night."
Tomбs drove off down the ancient highway, laughing
quietly.
It was a long road going into darkness and hills and he
held to the wheel, now and again reaching into his lunch bucket
and taking out a piece of candy. He had been driving steadily
for an hour, with no other car on the road, no light, just the
road going under, the hum, the roar, and Mars out there, so
quiet. Mars was always quiet, but quieter tonight than any
other. The deserts and empty seas swung by him, and the
mountains against the stars.
There was a smell of Time in the air tonight. He smiled
and turned the fancy in his mind. There was a thought. What did
Time smell like? Like dust and clocks and people. And if
you wondered what Time sounded like it sounded like water
running in a dark cave and voices crying and dirt dropping down
upon hollow box lids, and rain. And, going further, what did
Time _look_ like? Time looked like snow dropping silently into
a black room or it looked like a silent film in an ancient
theater, one hundred billion faces falling like those New
Year balloons, down and down into nothing. That was how Time
smelled and looked and sounded. And tonight--Tomбs shoved a
hand into the wind outside the truck--tonight you could almost
_touch_ Time.
He drove the truck between hills of Time. His neck
prickled and he sat up, watching ahead.
He pulled into a little dead Martian town, stopped the
engine, and let the silence come in around him. He sat,
not breathing, looking out at the white buildings in the
moonlight. Uninhabited for centuries. Perfect, faultless, in
ruins, yes, but perfect, nevertheless.
He started the engine and drove on another mile or more
before stopping again, climbing out, carrying his lunch bucket,
and walking to a little promontory where he could look back at
that dusty city. He opened his thermos and poured himself a cup
of coffee. A night bird flew by. He felt very good, very much
at peace.
Perhaps five minutes later there was a sound. Off in the
hills, where the ancient highway curved, there was a motion, a
dim light, and then a murmur.
Tomбs turned slowly with the coffee cup in his hand.
And out of the hills came a strange thing.
It was a machine like a jade-green insect, a praying
mantis, delicately rushing through the cold air, indistinct,
countless green diamonds winking over its body, and red jewels
that glittered with multifaceted eyes. Its six legs fell upon
the ancient highway with the sounds of a sparse rain which
dwindled away, and from the back of the machine a Martian with
melted gold for eyes looked down at Tomбs as if he were looking
into a well.
Tomбs raised his hand and thought Hello! automatically but
did not move his lips, for this _was_ a Martian. But Tomбs had
swum in blue rivers on Earth, with strangers passing on the
road, and eaten in strange houses with strange people, and
his weapon had always been his smile. He did not carry a gun.
And he did not feel the need of one now, even with the little
fear that gathered about his heart at this moment
The Martian's hands were empty too. For a moment they
looked across the cool air at each other.
It was Tomis who moved first.
"Hello!" he called.
"Hello!" called the Martian in his own language.
They did not understand each other.
"Did you say hello?" they both asked.
"What did you say?" they said, each in a different tongue.
They scowled.
"Who are you?" said Tomбs in English.
"What are you doing here?" In Martian; the stranger's
lips moved.
"Where are you going?" they said, and looked bewildered.
"I'm Tomбs Gomez."
"I'm Muhe Ca."
Neither understood, but they tapped their chests with the
words and then it became clear.
And then the Martian laughed. "Wait!" Tomбs felt his
head touched, but no hand had touched him. "There!" said the
Martian in English. "That is better!"
"You learned my language, so quick!"
"Nothing at all!"
They looked, embarrassed with a new silence, at the
steaming coffee he had in one hand.
"Something different?" said the Martian, eying him and
the coffee, referring to them both, perhaps.
"May I offer you a drink?" said Tomбs.
"Please."
The Martian slid down from his machine.
A second cup was produced and filled, steaming. Tomбs held
it out.
Their hands met and--like mist--fell through each other.
"Jesus Christ!" cried Tomбs, and dropped the cup.
"Name of the gods!" said the Martian in his own tongue.
"Did you see what happened?" they both whispered.
They were very cold and terrified.
The Martian bent to touch the cup but could not touch it.
"Jesus!" said Tomбs.
"Indeed." The Martian tried again and again to get hold of
the cup, but could not. He stood up and thought for a moment,
then took a knife from his belt. "Hey!" cried Tomбs.
"You misunderstand, catch!" said the Martian, and tossed it.
Tomбs cupped his hands. The knife fell through his flesh. It
hit the ground. Tomбs bent to pick it up but could not touch
it, and he recoiled, shivering.
Now he looked at the Martian against the sky.
"The stars!" he said.
"The stars!" said the Martian, looking, in turn, at Tomбs.
The stars were white and sharp beyond the flesh of the
Martian, and they were sewn into his flesh like scintillas
swallowed into the thin, phosphorescent membrane of a
gelatinous sea fish. You could see stars flickering like violet
eyes in the Martian's stomach and chest, and through his
wrists, like jewelry.
"I can see through you!" said Tomбs.
"And I through you!" said the Martian, stepping back.
Tomбs felt of his own body and, feeling the warmth,
was reassured. _I_ am real, he thought
The Martian touched his own nose and lips. "_I_ have
flesh," he said, half aloud. "_I_ am alive."
Tomбs stared at the stranger. "And if _I_ am real, then
_you_ must be dead."
"No, you!"
"A ghost!"
"A phantom!"
They pointed at each other, with starlight burning in
their limbs like daggers and icicles and fireflies, and then
fell to judging their limbs again, each finding himself intact,
hot, excited, stunned, awed, and the other, ah yes, that other
over there, unreal, a ghostly prism flashing the accumulated
light of distant worlds.
I'm drunk, thought Tomбs. I won't tell anyone of this
tomorrow, no, no.
They stood there on the ancient highway, neither of them
moving.
"Where are you from?" asked the Martian at last.
"Earth."
"What is that?"
"There." Tomбs nodded to the sky.
"When?"
"We landed over a year ago, remember?"
"No."
"And all of you were dead, all but a few. You're rare,
don't you _know_ that?"
"That's not true."
"Yes, dead. I saw the bodies. Black, in the rooms, in
the houses, dead. Thousands of them."
"That's ridiculous. We're _alive!_"
"Mister, you're invaded, only you don't know it. You must
have escaped."
"I haven't escaped; there was nothing to escape. What do
you mean? I'm on my way to a festival now at the canal, near
the Eniall Mountains. I was there last night. Don't you see the
city there?" The Martian pointed.
Tomбs looked and saw the ruins. "Why, that city's been
dead thousands of years."
The Martian laughed. "Dead. I slept there yesterday!"
"And I was in it a week ago and the week before that, and
I just drove through it now, and it's a heap. See the broken
pillars?"
"Broken? Why, I see them perfectly. The moonlight helps.
And the pillars are upright."
"There's dust in the streets," said Tomбs.
"The streets are clean!"
"The canals are empty right there."
"The canals are full of lavender wine!"
"It's dead."
"It's alive!" protested the Martian, laughing more now.
"Oh, you're quite wrong. See all the carnival lights? There
are beautiful boats as slim as women, beautiful women as slim
as boats, women the color of sand, women with fire flowers in
their hands. I can see them, small, running in the streets
there. That's where I'm going now, to the festival; we'll float
on the waters all night long; we'll sing, we'll drink, we'll
make love, Can't you see it?"
"Mister, that city is dead as a dried lizard. Ask any of
our party. Me, I'm on my way to Green City tonight; that's the
new colony we just raised over near Illinois Highway. You're
mixed up. We brought in a million board feet of Oregon lumber
and a couple dozen tons of good steel nails and hammered
together two of the nicest little villages you ever saw.
Tonight we're warming one of them. A couple rockets are coming
in from Earth, bringing our wives and girl friends. There'll
be barn dances and whisky--"
The Martian was now disquieted. "You say it is over that
way?"
"There are the rockets." Tomбs walked him to the edge of
the hill and pointed down. "See?"
"No."
"Damn it, there they _are!_ Those long silver things."
"No."
Now Tomбs laughed. "You're blind!"
"I see very well. You are the one who does not see."
"But you see the new _town_, don't you?"
"I see nothing but an ocean, and water at low tide."
"Mister, that water's been evaporated for forty
centuries."
"Ah, now, now, that _is_ enough."
"It's true, I tell you."
The Martian grew very serious. "Tell me again. You do not
see the city the way I describe it? The pillars very white,
the boats very slender, the festival lights--oh, I see
them _clearly!_ And listen! I can hear them singing. It's no
space away at all."
Tomбs listened and shook his head. "No."
"And I, on the other hand," said the Martian, "cannot see
what you describe. Well."
Again.they were cold. An ice was in their flesh.
"Can it be . . . ?"
"What?"
"You say 'from the sky'?"
"Earth."
"Earth, a name, nothing," said the Martian. "_But_ . . .
as I came up the pass an hour ago. . ." He touched the back of
his neck. "I felt . . ."
"Cold?"
"Yes."
"And now?"
"Cold again. Oddly. There was a thing to the light, to
the hills, the road," said the Martian. "I felt the
strangeness, the road, the light, and for a moment I felt as if
I were the last man alive on this world. . . ."
"So did I!" said Tomбs, and it was like talking to an old
and dear friend, confiding, growing warm with the topic.
The Martian closed his eyes and opened them again. "This
can only mean one thing. It has to do with Time. Yes. You are
a figment of the Past!"
"No, you are from the Past," said the Earth Man, having
had time to think of it now.
"You are so _certain_. How can you prove who is from the
Past, who from the Future? What year is it?"
"Two thousand and one!"
"What does that mean to _me?_"
Tomбs considered and shrugged. "Nothing."
"It is as if I told you that it is the year 4462853 S.E.C.
It is nothing and more than nothing! Where is the clock to show
us how the stars stand?"
"But the ruins prove it! They prove that _I_ am the
Future, _I_ am alive, _you_ are dead!"
"Everything in me denies this. My heart beats, my stomach
hungers, my mouth thirsts. No, no, not dead, not alive, either
of us. More alive than anything else. Caught between is more
like it. Two strangers passing in the night, that is it.
Two strangers passing. Ruins, you say?"
"Yes. You're afraid?"
"Who wants to see the Future, who _ever_ does? A man can
face the Past, but to think--the pillars _crumbled_, you say?
And the sea empty, and the canals dry, and the maidens dead,
and the flowers withered?" The Martian was silent, but then
he looked on ahead. "But there they _are_. I _see_ them. Isn't
that enough for me? They wait for me now, no matter _what_ you
say."
And for Tomбs the rockets, far away, waiting for _him_,
and the town and the women from Earth. "We can never agree,"
he said.
"Let us agree to disagree," said the Martian. "What does
it matter who is Past or Future, if we are both alive, for
what follows will follow, tomorrow or in ten thousand years.
How do you know that those temples are not the temples of your
own civilization one hundred centuries from now, tumbled and
broken? You do not know. Then don't ask. But the night is very
short. There go the festival fires in the sky, and the birds."
Tomгs put out his hand. The Martian did likewise in
imitation.
Their hands did not touch; they melted through each other.
"Will we meet again?"
"Who knows? Perhaps some other night."
"I'd like to go with you to that festival."
"And I wish I might come to your new town, to see this
ship you speak of, to see these men, to hear all that has
happened."
"Good-by," said Tomбs.
"Good night."
The Martian rode his green metal vehicle quietly away into
the hills, The Earth Man turned his truck and drove it silently
in the opposite direction.
"Good lord, what a dream that was," sighed Tomбs, his
hands on the wheel, thinking of the rockets, the women, the
raw whisky, the Virginia reels, the party.
How strange a vision was that, thought the Martian,
rushing on, thinking of the festival, the canals, the boats,
the women with golden eyes, and the songs.
The night was dark. The moons had gone down. Starlight
twinkled on the empty highway where now there was not a sound,
no car, no person, nothing. And it remained that way all the
rest of the cool dark night.

October 2002: THE SHORE

Mars was a distant shore, and the men spread upon it in
waves. Each wave different, and each wave stronger. The first
wave carried with it men accustomed to spaces and coldness and
being alone, the coyote and cattlemen, with no fat on them,
with faces the years had worn the flesh off, with eyes
like nailheads, and hands like the material of old gloves,
ready to touch anything. Mars could do nothing to them, for
they were bred to plains and prairies as open as the Martian
fields. They came and made things a little less empty, so that
others would find courage to follow. They put panes in hollow
windows and lights behind the panes.
They were the first men.
Everyone knew who the first women would be.
The second men should have traveled from other countries
with other accents and other ideas. But the rockets were
American and the men were American and it stayed that way,
while Europe and Asia and South America and Australia and
the islands watched the Roman candles leave them behind. The
rest of the world was buried in war or the thoughts of war.
So the second men were Americans also. And they came from
the cabbage tenements and subways, and they found much rest
and vacation in the company of silent men from the tumbleweed
states who knew how to use silences so they filled you up with
peace after long years crushed in tubes, tins and boxes in New
York.
And among the second men were men who looked, by their
eyes, as if they were on their way to God. . . .

February 2003: INTERIM

They brought in fifteen thousand lumber feet of Oregon
pine to build Tenth City, and seventy-nine thousand feet
of California redwood and they hammered together a clean, neat
little town by the edge of the stone canals. On Sunday nights
you could see red, blue, and green stained-glass light in
the churches and hear the voices singing the numbered hymns.
"We will now sing 79. We will now sing 94." And in certain
houses you heard the hard clatter of a typewriter, the novelist
at work; or the scratch of a pen, the poet at work; or no sound
at all, the former beachcomber at work. It was as if, in many
ways, a great earthquake had shaken loose the roots and cellars
of an Iowa town, and then, in an instant, a whirlwind twister
of Oz-like proportions had carried the entire town off to Mars
to set it down without a bump.

April 2003: THE MUSICIANS

The boys would hike far out into the Martian country.
They carried odorous paper bags into which from time to time
upon the long walk they would insert their noses to inhale the
rich smell of the ham and mayonnaised pickles, and to listen to
the liquid gurgle of the orange soda in the warming bottles.
Swinging their grocery bags full of clean watery green onions
and odorous liverwurst and red catsup and white bread, they
would dare each other on past the limits set by their stem
mothers. They would run, yelling:
"First one there gets to kick!"
They biked in summer, autumn, or winter. Autumn was most
fun, because then they imagined, like on Earth, they were
scuttering through autumn leaves.
They would come like a scatter of jackstones on the marble
flats beside the canals, the candy-cheeked boys with blue-agate
eyes, panting onion-tainted commands to each other. For now
that they had reached the dead, forbidden town it was no longer
a matter of "Last one there's a girl!" or "First one gets to
play Musician!" Now the dead town's doors lay wide and they
thought they could hear the faintest crackle, like autumn
leaves, from inside. They would hush themselves forward, by
each other's elbows, carrying sticks, remembering their parents
had told them, "Not there! No, to none of the old towns! Watch
where you hike. You'll get the beating of your life when you
come home. We'll check your shoes!"
And there they stood in the dead city, a heap of boys,
their hiking lunches half devoured, daring each other in
shrieky whispers.
"Here goes nothing!" And suddenly one of them took off,
into the nearest stone house, through the door, across the
living room, and into the bedroom where, without half looking,
he would kick about, thrash his feet, and the black leaves
would fly through the air, brittle, thin as tissue cut from
midnight sky. Behind him would race six others, and the first
boy there would be the Musician, playing the white xylophone
bones beneath the outer covering of black flakes. A great skull
would roll to view, like a snowball; they shouted! Ribs, like
spider legs, plangent as a dull harp, and then the black flakes
of mortality blowing all about them in their scuffling dance;
the boys pushed and heaved and fell in the leaves, in the death
that had turned the dead to flakes and dryness, into a game
played by boys whose stomachs gurgled with orange pop.
And then out of one house into another, into seventeen
houses, mindful that each of the towns in its turn was being
burned clean of its horrors by the Firemen, antiseptic warriors
with shovels and bins, shoveling away at the ebony tatters
and peppermint-stick bones, slowly but assuredly separating
the terrible from the normal; so they must play very hard,
these boys, the Firemen would soon be here!
Then, luminous with sweat, they gnashed at their
last sandwiches. With a final kick, a final marimba concert,
a final autumnal lunge through leaf stacks, they went home.
Their mothers examined their shoes for black flakelets
which, when discovered, resulted in scalding baths and fatherly
beatings.
By the year's end the Firemen had raked the autumn leaves
and white xylophones away, and it was no more fun.

June 2003: WAY IN THE MIDDLE OF THE AIR

"Did you hear about it?"
"About what?"
"The niggers, the niggers!"
"What about 'em?"
"Them leaving, pulling out, going away; did you hear?"
"What you mean, pulling out? How can they do that?"
"They can, they will, they are."
"Just a couple?"
"Every single one here in the South!"
"No."
"Yes!"
"I got to see that. I don't believe it. Where they going--
Africa?"
A silence.
"Mars."
"You mean the _planet_ Mars?"
"That's right."
The men stood up in the hot shade of the hardware porch.
Someone quit lighting a pipe. Somebody else spat out into the
hot dust of noon.
"They can't leave, they can't do that."
"They're doing it, anyways."
"Where'd you hear this?"
"It's everywhere, on the radio a minute ago, just come
through."
Like a series of dusty statues, the men came to life.
Samuel Teece, the hardware proprietor, laughed uneasily.
"I _wondered_ what happened to Silly. I sent him on my bike an
hour ago. He ain't come back from Mrs. Bordman's yet. You think
that black fool just pedaled off to Mars?"
The men snorted.
"All I say is, he better bring back my bike. I don't
take stealing from no one, by God."
"Listen!"
The men collided irritably with each other, turning.
Far up the street the levee seemed to have broken. The
black warm waters descended and engulfed the town. Between
the blazing white banks of the town stores, among the tree
silences, a black tide flowed. Like a kind of summer molasses,
it poured turgidly forth upon the cinnamon-dusty road. It
surged slow, slow, and it was men and women and horses and
barking dogs, and it was little boys and girls. And from the
mouths of the people partaking of this tide came the sound of
a river. A summer-day river going somewhere, murmuring
and irrevocable. And in that slow, steady channel of darkness
that cut across the white glare of day were touches of alert
white, the eyes, the ivory eyes staring ahead, glancing aside,
as the river, the long and endless river, took itself from
old channels into a new one. From various and uncountable
tributaries, in creeks and brooks of color and motion, the
parts of this river had joined, become one mother current,
and flowed on. And brimming the swell were things carried by
the river: grandfather clocks chiming, kitchen clocks ticking,
caged hens screaming, babies wailing; and swimming among
the thickened eddies were mules and cats, and sudden excursions
of burst mattress springs floating by, insane hair stuffing
sticking out, and boxes and crates and pictures of dark
grandfathers in oak frames- the river flowing it on while the
men sat like nervous hounds on the hardware porch, too late to
mend the levee, their hands empty.
Samuel Teece wouldn't believe it. "Why, hell, where'd they
get the transportation? How they goin' to _get_ to Mars?"
"Rockets," said Grandpa Quartermain.
"All the damn-fool things. Where'd they get rockets?"
"Saved their money and built them."
"I never heard about it."
"Seems these niggers kept it secret, worked on the rockets
all themselves, don't know where--in Africa, maybe."
"Could they _do_ that?" demanded Samuel Teece, pacing
about the porch. "Ain't there a law?"
"It ain't as if they're declarin' war," said Grandpa
quietly.
"Where do they get off, God damn it, workin' in secret,
plottin'?" shouted Teece.
"Schedule is for all this town's niggers to gather out by
Loon Lake. Rockets be there at one o'clock, pick 'em up, take
'em to Mars."
"Telephone the governor, call out the militia," cried
Teece. "They should've given notice!"
"Here comes your woman, Teece."
The men turned again.
As they watched, down the hot road in the windless light
first one white woman and then another arrived, all of them
with stunned faces, all of them rustling like ancient papers.
Some of them were crying, some were stern. All came to find
their husbands. They pushed through barroom swing doors,
vanishing. They entered cool, quiet groceries. They went in at
drug shops and garages. And one of them, Mrs. Clara Teece, came
to stand in the dust by the hardware porch, blinking up at her
stiff and angry husband as the black river flowed full behind
her.
"It's Lucinda, Pa; you got to come home!"
"I'm not comin' home for no damn darkie!"
"She's leaving. What'll I do without her?"
"Fetch for yourself, maybe. I won't get down on my knees
to stop her."
"But she's like a family member," Mrs. Teece moaned.
"Don't shout! I won't have you blubberin' in public this
way about no goddamn--"
His wife's small sob stopped him. She dabbed at her eyes.
"I kept telling her, 'Lucinda,' I said, 'you stay on and I
raise your pay, and you get _two_ nights off a week, if you
want,' but she just looked set! I never seen her so set, and
I said, 'Don't you _love_ me, Lucinda?' and she said yes, but
she had to go because that's the way it was, is all. She
cleaned the house and dusted it and put luncheon on the table
and then she went to the parlor door and--and stood there with
two bundles, one by each foot, and shook my hand and said,
'Good-by, Mrs. Teece.' And she went out the door. And there was
her luncheon on the table, and all of us too upset to even eat
it. It's still there now, I know; last time I looked it was
getting cold."
Teece almost struck her. "God damn it, Mrs. Teece, you get
the hell home. Standin' there makin' a sight of yourself!"
"But, Pa . . ."
He strode away into the hot dimness of the store. He came
back out a few seconds later with a silver pistol in his hand.
His wife was gone.
The river flowed black between the buildings, with a
rustle and a creak and a constant whispering shuffle. It was
a very quiet thing, with a great certainty to it; no laughter,
no wildness, just a steady, decided, and ceaseless flow.
Teece sat on the edge of his hardwood chair. "If one of
'em so much as laughs, by Christ, I'll kill 'em."
The men waited.
The river passed quietly in the dreamful noon.
"Looks like you goin' to have to hoe your own turnips,
Sam," Grandpa chuckled.
"I'm not bad at shootin' white folks neither." Teece
didn't look at Grandpa. Grandpa turned his head away and shut
up his mouth.
"Hold on there!" Samuel Teece leaped off the porch. He
reached up and seized the reins of a horse ridden by a tall
Negro man. "You, Belter, come down off there!"
"Yes, sir." Belter slid down.
Teece looked him over. "Now, just what you think you're
doin'?"
"Well, Mr. Teece . . ."
"I reckon you think you're goin', just like that
song--what's the words? 'Way up in the middle of the air';
ain't _that_ it?"
"Yes, sir." The Negro waited.
"You recollect you owe me fifty dollars, Belter?"
"Yes, sir."
"You tryin' to sneak out? By God, I'll horsewhip you!"
"All the excitement, and it slipped my mind, sir."
"It slipped his mind." Teece gave a vicious wink at his
men on the hardware porch. "God damn, mister, you know what
you're goin' to do?"
"No, sir."
"You're stayin' here to work out that fifty bucks, or my
name ain't Samuel W. Teece." He turned again to smile
confidently at the men in the shade.
Belter looked at the river going along the street, that
dark river flowing and flowing between the shops, the dark
river on wheels and horses and in dusty shoes, the dark river
from which he had been snatched on his journey. He began to
shiver. "Let me go, Mr. Teece. I'll send your money from up
there, I promise!"
"Listen, Belter." Teece grasped the man's suspenders like
two harp strings, playing them now and again, contemptuously,
snorting at the sky, pointing one bony finger straight at
God. "Belter, you know anything about what's up there?"
"What they tells me."
"What they tells him! Christ! Hear that? What they tells
him!" He swung the man's weight by his suspenders, idly, ever
so casual, flicking a finger in the black face. "Belter, you
fly up and up like a July Fourth rocket, and bang! There you
are, cinders, spread all over space. Them crackpot scientists,
they don't know nothin', they kill you all off!"
"I don't care."
"Glad to hear that. Because you know what's up on that
planet Mars? There's monsters with big raw eyes like mushrooms!
You seen them pictures on those future magazines you buy at
the drugstore for a dime, ain't you? Well! Them monsters jump
up and suck marrow from your bones!"
"I don't care, don't care at all, don't care." Belter
watched the parade slide by, leaving him. Sweat lay on his dark
brow. He seemed about to collapse.
"And it's cold up there; no air, you fall down, jerk like
a fish, gaspin', dyin', stranglin', stranglin' and dyin'. You
_like_ that?"
"Lots of things I don't like, sir. Please, sir, let me go.
I'm late."
"I'll let you go when I'm _ready_ to let you go. We'll
just talk here polite until I say you can leave, and you know
it damn well. You want to travel, do you? Well, Mister Way up
in the Middle of the Air, you get the hell home and work out
that fifty bucks you owe me! Take you two months to do that!"
"But if I work it out, I'll miss the rocket, sir!"
"Ain't that a shame now?" Teece tried to look sad.
"I give you my horse, sir."
"Horse ain't legal tender. You don't move until I get
my money." Teece laughed inside. He felt very warm and good.
A small crowd of dark people had gathered to hear all
this. Now as Belter stood, head down, trembling, an old man
stepped forward.
"Mister?"
Teece flashed him a quick look. "Well?"
"How much this man owe you, mister?"
"None of your damn business!"
The old man looked at Belter. "How much, son?"
"Fifty dollars."
The old man put out his black hands at the people around
him, "There's twenty-five of you. Each give two dollars; quick
now, this no time for argument."
"Here, now!" cried Teece, stiffening up, tall, tall.
The money appeared. The old man fingered it into his hat
and gave the hat to Belter. "Son," he said, "you ain't missin'
no rocket."
Belter smiled into the hat. "No, sir, I guess I ain't!"
Teece shouted: "You give that money back to them!"
Belter bowed respectfully, handing the money over, and
when Teece would not touch it he set it down in the dust at
Teece's feet. "There's your money, sir," he said. "Thank
you kindly." Smiling, he gained the saddle of his horse and
whipped his horse along, thanking the old man, who rode with
him now until they were out of sight and hearing.
"Son of a bitch," whispered Teece, staring blind at the
sun. "Son of a bitch."
"Pick up the money, Samuel," said someone from the porch.
It was happening all along the way. Little white boys,
barefoot, dashed up with the news. "Them that has helps them
that hasn't! And that way they _all_ get free! Seen a rich man
give a poor man two hundred bucks to pay off some'un! Seen
some'un else give some'un else ten bucks, five bucks, sixteen,
lots of that, all over, everybody!"
The white men sat with sour water in their mouths. Their
eyes were almost puffed shut, as if they had been struck in
their faces by wind and sand and heat.
The rage was in Samuel Teece. He climbed up on the porch
and glared at the passing swarms. He waved his gun. And after
a while when he had to do something, he began to shout at
anyone, any Negro who looked up at him. "Bang! There's another
rocket out in space!" he shouted so all could hear. "Bang! By
God!" The dark heads didn't flicker or pretend to hear, but
their white eyes slid swiftly over and back. "Crash! All them
rockets fallin'! Screamin', dyin'! Bang! God Almighty, I'm glad
_I'm_ right here on old terra firma. As they says in that old
joke, the more firma, the less terra! Ha, ha!"
Horses clopped along, shuffling up dust. Wagons bumbled
on ruined springs.
"Bang!" His voice was lonely in the heat, trying to
terrify the dust and the blazing sun sky. "Wham! Niggers all
over space! Jerked outa rockets like so many minnows hit by
a meteor, by God! Space fulla meteors. You know that? Sure!
Thick as buckshot; powie! Shoot down them tin-can rockets like
so many ducks, so many clay pipes! Ole sardine cans full of
black cod! Bangin' like a stringa ladyfingers, bang, bang,
bang! Ten thousand dead here, ten thousand there. Floatin'
in space, around and around earth, ever and ever, cold and way
out, Lord! You hear that, _you_ there!"
Silence. The river was broad and continuous. Having
entered all cotton shacks during the hour, having flooded all
the valuables out, it was now carrying the clocks and
the washboards, the silk bolts and curtain rods on down to
some distant black sea.
High tide passed. It was two o'clock. Low tide came. Soon
the river was dried up, the town silent, the dust settling in
a film on the stores, the seated men, the tall hot trees.
Silence.
The men on the porch listened.
Hearing nothing, they extended their thoughts and
their imaginations out and into the surrounding meadows. In
the early morning the land had been filled with its usual
concoctions of sound. Here and there, with stubborn persistence
to custom, there had been voices singing, the honey laughter
under the mimosa branches, the pickaninnies rushing in clear
water laughter at the creek, movements and bendings in the
fields, jokes and shouts of amusement from the shingle shacks
covered with fresh green vine.
Now it was as if a great wind had washed the land clean
of sounds. There was nothing. Skeleton doors hung open on
leather hinges. Rubber-tire swings hung in the silent
air, uninhibited. The washing rocks at the river were empty,
and the watermelon patches, if any, were left alone to heat
their hidden liquors in the sun. Spiders started building new
webs in abandoned huts; dust started to sift in from unpatched
roofs in golden spicules. Here and there a fire, forgotten in
the last rush, lingered and in a sudden access of strength fed
upon the dry bones of some littered shack. The sound of a
gentle feeding burn went up through the silenced air.
The men sat on the hardware porch, not blinking or
swallowing.
"I can't figure why they left _now_. With things lookin'
up. I mean, every day they got more rights. What they _want_,
anyway? Here's the poll tax gone, and more and more states
passin' anti-lynchin' bills, and all kinds of equal rights.
What _more_ they want? They make almost as good money as a
white man, but there they go."
Far down the empty street a bicycle came.
"I'll be goddamned. Teece, here comes your Silly now."
The bicycle pulled up before the porch, a
seventeen-year-old colored boy on it, all arms and feet and
long legs and round watermelon head. He looked up at Samuel
Teece and smiled.
"So you got a guilty conscience and came back," said
Teece.
"No, sir, I just brought the bicycle."
"What's wrong, couldn't get it on the rocket?"
"That wasn't it, sir."
"Don't tell me what it was! Get off, you're not goin' to
steal my property!" He gave the boy a push. The bicycle fell.
"Get inside and start cleaning the brass."
"Beg pardon?" The boy's eyes widened.
"You heard what I said. There's guns need unpacking there,
and a crate of nails just come from Natchez--"
"Mr. Teece."
"And a box of hammers need fixin'--"
"Mr. Teece, sir?"
"You _still_ standin' there!" Teece glared.
"Mr. Teece, you don't mind I take the day off," he
said apologetically.
"And tomorrow and day after tomorrow and the day after the
day after that," said Teece.
"I'm afraid so, sir."
"You _should_ be afraid, boy. Come here." He marched the
boy across the porch and drew a paper out of a desk. "Remember
this?"
"Sir?"
"It's your workin' paper. You signed it, there's your X
right there, ain't it? Answer me."
"I didn't sign that, Mr. Teece." The boy trembled. "Anyone
can make an X."
"Listen to this, Silly. Contract: 'I will work for Mr.
Samuel Teece two years, starting July 15, 2001, and if
intending to leave will give four weeks' notice and continue
working until my position is filled.' There." Teece slapped
the paper, his eyes glittering. "You cause trouble, we'll take
it to court."
"I can't do that," wailed the boy, tears starting to roll
down his face, "If I don't go today, I don't go."
"I know just how you feel, Silly; yes, sir, I sympathize
with you, boy. But we'll treat you good and give you good food,
boy. Now you just get inside and start working and forget all
about that nonsense, eh, Silly? Sure." Teece grinned and patted
the boy's shoulder.
The boy turned and looked at the old men sitting on the
porch. He could hardly see now for his tears. "Maybe--maybe one
of these gentlemen here . . ." The men looked up in the hot,
uneasy shadows, looking first at the boy and then at Teece.
"You meanin' to say you think a _white man_ should take
your place, boy?" asked Teece coldly.
Grandpa Quartermain took his red hands off his knees.
He looked out at the horizon thoughtfully and said, "Teece,
what about me?"
"What?"
"I'll take Silly's job."
The porch was silent.
Teece balanced himself in the air. "Grandpa," he said
warningly.
"Let the boy go. I'll clean the brass."
"Would you, would you, really?" Silly ran over to Grandpa,
laughing, tears on his cheeks, unbelieving.
"Sure."
"Grandpa," said Teece, "keep your damn trap outa this."
"Give the kid a break, Teece."
Teece walked over and seized the boy's arm. "He's mine.
I'm lockin' him in the back room until tonight."
"Don't, Mr. Teece!"
The boy began to sob now. His crying filled the air of
the porch. His eyes were tight. Far down the street an old tin
Ford was choking along, approaching, a last load of colored
people in it. "Here comes my family, Mr. Teece, oh please,
please, oh God, please!"
"Teece," said one of the other men on the porch, getting
up, "let him go."
Another man rose also. "That goes for me too."
"And me," said another.
"What's the use?" The men all talked now. "Cut it out,
Teece."
"Let him go."
Teece felt for his gun in his pocket. He saw the men's
faces. He took his hand away and left the gun in his pocket
and said, "So that's how it is?"
"That's how it is," someone said.
Teece let the boy go. "All right. Get out." He jerked his
hand back in the store. "But I hope you don't think you're
gonna leave any trash behind to clutter my store."
"No, sir!"
"You clean everything outa your shed in back; burn it."
Silly shook his head. "I'll take it with."
"They won't let you put it on that damn rocket."
"I'll take it with," insisted the boy softly.
He rushed back through the hardware store. There were
sounds of sweeping and cleaning out, and a moment later
he appeared, his hands full of tops and marbles and old dusty
kites and junk collected through the years. Just then the old
tin Ford drove up and Silly climbed in and the door slammed.
Teece stood on the porch with a bitter smile. "What you goin'
to do _up there?_"
"Startin' new," said Silly. "Gonna have my _own_
hardware."
"God damn it, you been learnin' my trade so you could run
off and use it!"
"No, sir, I never thought one day _this'd_ happen, sir,
but it did. I can't help it if I learned, Mr. Teece."
"I suppose you got names for your rockets?"
They looked at their one clock on the dashboard of the
car.
"Yes, sir."
"Like Elijah and the Chariot, The Big Wheel and The Little
Wheel, Faith, Hope, and Charity, eh?"
"We got names for the ships, Mr. Teece."
"God the Son and the Holy Ghost, I wouldn't wonder? Say,
boy, you got one named the First Baptist Church?"
"We got to leave now, Mr. Teece."
Teece laughed. "You got one named Swing Low, and another
named Sweet Chariot?"
The car started up. "Good-by, Mr. Teece."
"You got one named Roll Dem Bones?"
"Good-by, mister!"
"And another called Over Jordan! Ha! Well, tote that
rocket, boy, lift that rocket, boy, go on, get blown up, see if
I care!"
The car churned off into the dust. The boy rose and cupped
his hands to his mouth and shouted one last time at Teece:
"Mr. Teece, Mr. Teece, what _you_ goin' to do nights from now
on? What you goin' to _do_ nights, Mr. Teece?"
Silence. The car faded down the road. It was gone. "What
in hell did he mean?" mused Teece. "What am I goin' to do
nights?"
He watched the dust settle, and it suddenly came to him.
He remembered nights when men drove to his house, their
knees sticking up sharp and their shotguns sticking up sharper,
like a carful of cranes under the night trees of summer, their
eyes mean. Honking the horn and him slamming his door, a gun in
his hand, laughing to himself, his heart racing like
a ten-year-old's, driving off down the summer-night road, a
ring of hemp rope coiled on the car floor, fresh shell boxes
making every man's coat look bunchy. How many nights over the
years, how many nights of the wind rushing in the car, flopping
their hair over their mean eyes, roaring, as they picked a
tree, a good strong tree, and rapped on a shanty door!
"So _that's_ what the son of a bitch meant?" Teece leaped
out into the sunlight. "Come back, you bastard! What am I goin'
to do nights? Why, that lousy, insolent son of a . . ."
It was a good question. He sickened and was empty. Yes.
What _will_ we do nights? he thought. Now _they're_ gone, what?
He was absolutely empty and numb.
He pulled the pistol from his pocket, checked its load.
"What you goin' to do, Sam?" someone asked.
"Kill that son of a bitch."
Grandpa said, "Don't get yourself heated."
But Samuel Teece was gone around behind the store. A
moment later he drove out the drive in his open-top car.
"Anyone comin' with me?"
"I'd like a drive," said Grandpa, and got up.
"Anyone else?"
Nobody replied.
Grandpa got in and slammed the door. Samuel Teece gutted
the car out in a great whorl of dust. They didn't speak as
they rushed down the road under the bright sky. The heat from
the dry meadows was shimmering.
They stopped at a crossroad. "Which way'd they go,
Grandpa?"
Grandpa squinted. "Straight on ahead, I figure."
They went on. Under the summer trees their car made a
lonely sound. The road was empty, and as they drove along they
began to notice something. Teece slowed the car and bent out,
his yellow eyes fierce.
"God damn it, Grandpa, you see what them bastards did?"
"What?" asked Grandpa, and looked.
Where they had been carefully set down and left, in neat
bundles every few feet along the empty country road, were old
roller skates, a bandanna full of knicknacks, some old shoes,
a cartwheel, stacks of pants and coats and ancient hats, bits
of oriental crystal that had once tinkled in the wind, tin cans
of pink geraniums, dishes of waxed fruit, cartons of
Confederate money, washtubs, scrubboards, wash lines, soap,
somebody's tricycle, someone else's hedge shears, a toy wagon,
a jack-in-the-box, a stained-glass window from the Negro
Baptist Church, a whole set of brake rims, inner tubes,
mattresses, couches, rocking chairs, jars of cold cream,
hand mirrors. None of it flung down, no, but deposited gently
and with feeling, with decorum, upon the dusty edges of the
road, as if a whole city had walked here with hands full, at
which time a great bronze trumpet had sounded, the articles had
been relinquished to the quiet dust, and one and all,
the inhabitants of the earth had fled straight up into the
blue heavens.
"Wouldn't burn them, they said," cried Teece angrily.
"No, wouldn't burn them like I said, but had to take them along
and leave them where they could see them for the last time, on
the road, all together and whole. Them niggers think they're
smart."
He veered the car wildly, mile after mile, down the
road, tumbling, smashing, breaking, scattering bundles of
paper, jewel boxes, mirrors, chairs. "There, by damn, and
_there!_"
The front tire gave a whistling cry. The car spilled
crazily off the road into a ditch, flinging Teece against the
glass.
"Son of a bitch!" He dusted himself off and stood out of
the car, almost crying with rage.
He looked at the silent, empty road. "We'll never catch
them now, never, never." As far as he could see there was
nothing but bundles and stacks and more bundles neatly placed
like little abandoned shrines in the late day, in the
warm-blowing wind.
Teece and Grandpa came walking tiredly back to the
hardware store an hour later. The men were still sitting
there, listening, and watching the sky. Just as Teece sat down
and eased his tight shoes off someone cried, "Look!"
"I'll be _damned_ if I will," said Teece.
But the others looked. And they saw the golden bobbins
rising in the sky, far away. Leaving flame behind, they
vanished.
In the cotton fields the wind blew idly among the snow
dusters. In still farther meadows the watermelons
lay, unfingerprinted, striped like tortoise cats lying in the
sun.
The men on the porch sat down, looked at each other,
looked at the yellow rope piled neat on the store shelves,
glanced at the gun shells glinting shiny brass in their
cartons, saw the silver pistols and long black metal shotguns
hung high and quiet in the shadows. Somebody put a straw in
his mouth, Someone else drew a figure in the dust.
Finally Samuel Teece held his empty shoe up in triumph,
turned it over, stared at it, and said, "Did you notice? Right
up to the very last, by God, he said 'Mister'!"

2004-05: THE NAMING OF NAMES

They came to the strange blue lands and put their names
upon the lands. Here was Hinkston Creek and Lustig Corners and
Black River and Driscoll Forest and Peregrine Mountain and
Wilder Town, all the names of people and the things that the
people did. Here was the place where Martians killed the first
Earth Men, and it was Red Town and had to do with blood. And
here where the second expedition was destroyed, and it was
named Second Try, and each of the other places where the rocket
men had set down their fiery caldrons to burn the land, the
names were left like cinders, and of course there was a Spender
Hill and a Nathaniel York Town. . . .
The old Martian names were names of water and air and
hills. They were the names of snows that emptied south in stone
canals to fill the empty seas. And the names of sealed and
buried sorcerers and towers and obeisks. And the rockets struck
at the names like hammers, breaking away the marble into
shale, shattering the crockery milestones that named the old
towns, in the rubble of which great pylons were plunged with
new names: IRON TOWN, STEEL TOWN, ALUMINUM CITY, ELECTRIC
VILLAGE, CORN TOWN, GRAIN VILLA, DETROIT II, all the mechanical
names and the metal names from Earth.
And after the towns were built and named, the graveyards
were built and named, too: Green Hill, Moss Town, Boot Hill,
Bide a Wee; and the first dead went into their graves.
But after everything was pinned down and neat and in its
place, when everything was safe and certain, when the towns
were well enough fixed and the loneliness was at a minimum,
then the sophisticates came in from Earth. They came on parties
and vacations, on little shopping trips for trinkets and
photographs and the "atmosphere"; they came to study and
apply sociological laws; they came with stars and badges and
rules and regulations, bringing some of the red tape that had
rawled across Earth like an alien weed, and letting it grow on
Mars wherever it could take root. They began to plan people's
lives and libraries; they began to instruct and push about the
very people who had come to Mars to get away from being
instructed and ruled and pushed about.
And it was inevitable that some of these people pushed
back. . . .

April 2005: USHER II

"'During the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless day in
the autumn of the year, when the clouds hung oppressively low
in the heavens, I had been passing alone, on horseback. through
a singularly dreary tract of country, and at length found
myself, as the shades of evening drew on, within view of
the melancholy House of Usher. . . .'"
Mr. William Stendahl paused in his quotation. There, upon
a low black hill, stood the House, its cornerstone bearing
the inscription 2005 A.D.
Mr. Bigelow, the architect, said, "It's completed. Here's
the key, Mr. Stendahl."
The two men stood together silently in the quiet autumn
afternoon. Blueprints rustled on the raven grass at their feet.
"The House of Usher," said Mr. Stendahl with pleasure.
"Planned, built, bought, paid for. Wouldn't Mr. Poe
be _delighted?_"
Mr. Bigelow squinted. "Is it everything you wanted, sir?"
"Yes!"
"Is the color right? Is it _desolate_ and _terrible?_"
"_Very_ desolate, _very_ terrible!"
"The walls are--_bleak?_"
"Amazingly so!"
"The tarn, is it 'black and lurid' enough?"
"Most incredibly black and lurid."
"And the sedge--we've dyed it, you know--is it the proper
gray and ebon?"
"Hideous!"
Mr. Bigelow consulted his architectural plans. From these
he quoted in part: "Does the whole structure cause an 'iciness,
a sickening of the heart, a dreariness of thought'? The House,
the lake, the land, Mr. Stendahl?"
"Mr. Bigelow, it's worth every penny! My God, it's
beautiful!"
"Thank you. I had to work in total ignorance. Thank the
Lord you had your own private rockets or we'd never have been
allowed to bring most of the equipment through. You notice,
it's always twilight here, this land, always October, barren,
sterile, dead. It took a bit of doing. We killed everything.
Ten thousand tons of DDT. Not a snake, frog, or Martian fly
left! Twilight always, Mr. Stendahl; I'm proud of that. There
are machines, hidden, which blot out the sun. It's always
properly 'dreary.'"
Stendahl drank it in, the dreariness, the oppression, the
fetid vapors, the whole "atmosphere," so delicately contrived
and fitted. And that House! That crumbling horror, that evil
lake, the fungi, the extensive decay! Plastic or otherwise,
who could guess?
He looked at the autumn sky. Somewhere above, beyond, far
off, was the sun. Somewhere it was the month of April on the
planet Mars, a yellow month with a blue sky. Somewhere above,
the rockets burned down to civilize a beautifully dead planet.
The sound of their screaming passage was muffled by this
dim, soundproofed world, this ancient autumn world.
"Now that my job's done," said Mr. Bigelow uneasily, "I
feel free to ask what you're going to do with all this."
"With Usher? Haven't you guessed?"
"No."
"Does the name Usher mean nothing to you?"
"Nothing."
"Well, what about _this_ name: Edgar Allan Poe?"
Mr. Bigelow shook his head.
"Of course." Stendahl snorted delicately, a combination
of dismay and contempt. "How could I expect you to know blessed
Mr. Poe? He died a long while ago, before Lincoln. All of his
books were burned in the Great Fire. That's thirty years
ago--1975."
"Ah," said Mr. Bigelow wisely. "One of _those!_"
"Yes, one of those, Bigelow. He and Lovecraft and
Hawthorne and Ambrose Bierce and all the tales of terror and
fantasy and horror and, for that matter, tales of the future
were burned. Heartlessly. They passed a law. Oh, it started
very small. In 1950 and '60 it was a grain of sand. They began
by controlling books of cartoons and then detective books and,
of course, films, one way or another, one group or another,
political bias, religions prejudice, union pressures; there
was always a minority afraid of something, and a great majority
afraid of the dark, afraid of the future, afraid of the past,
afraid of the present, afraid of themselves and shadows
of themselves."
"I see."
"Afraid of the word 'politics' (which eventually became
a synonym for Communism among the more reactionary elements, so
I hear, and it was worth your life to use the word!), and with
a screw tightened here, a bolt fastened there, a push, a pull,
a yank, art and literature were soon like a great twine of
taffy strung about, being twisted in braids and tied in knots
and thrown in all directions, until there was no more
resiliency and no more savor to it. Then the film cameras
chopped short and the theaters turned dark. and the print
presses trickled down from a great Niagara of reading matter to
a mere innocuous dripping of 'pure' material. Oh, the word
'escape' was radical, too, I tell you!"
"Was it?"
"It was! Every man, they said, must face reality. Must
face the Here and Now! Everything that was _not_ so must go.
All the beautiful literary lies and flights of fancy must be
shot in mid-air. So they lined them up against a library wall
one Sunday morning thirty years ago, in 1975; they lined them
up, St. Nicholas and the Headless Horseman and Snow White
and Rumpelstiltskin and Mother Goose--oh, what a wailing!--and
shot them down, and burned the paper castles and the fairy
frogs and old kings and the people who lived happily ever after
(for of course it was a fact that _nobody_ lived happily
ever after!), and Once Upon A Time became No More! And they
spread the ashes of the Phantom Rickshaw with the rubble of the
Land of Oz; they filleted the bones of Glinda the Good and Ozma
and shattered Polychrome in a spectroscope and served
Jack Pumpkinhead with meringue at the Biologists' Ball!
The Beanstalk died in a bramble of red tape! Sleeping Beauty
awoke at the kiss of a scientist and expired at the fatal
puncture of his syringe. And they made Alice drink something
from a bottle which reduced her to a size where she could no
longer cry 'Curiouser and curiouser,' and they gave the Looking
Glass one hammer blow to smash it and every Red King and Oyster
away!"
He clenched his fists. Lord, how immediate it was! His
face was red and he was gasping for breath.
As for Mr. Bigelow, he was astounded at this long
explosion. He blinked and at last said, "Sorry. Don't know
what you're talking about. Just names to me. From what I hear,
the Burning was a good thing."
"Get out!" screamed Stendahl. "You've done your job, now
let me alone, you idiot!"
Mr. Bigelow summoned his carpenters and went away.
Mr. Stendahl stood alone before his House.
"Listen here," he said to the unseen rockets. "I came to
Mars to get away from you Clean-Minded people, but you're
flocking in thicker every day, like flies to offal. So I'm
going to show you. I'm going to teach you a fine lesson for
what you did to Mr. Poe on Earth. As of this day, beware. The
House of Usher is open for business!"
He pushed a fist at the sky.

The rocket landed. A man stepped out jauntily. He glanced
at the House, and his gray eyes were displeased and vexed.
He strode across the moat to confront the small man there.
"Your name Stendahl?"
"Yes."
"I'm Garrett, Investigator of Moral Climates."
"So you finally got to Mars, you Moral Climate people?
I wondered when you'd appear."
"We arrived last week. We'll soon have things as neat and
tidy as Earth." The man waved an identification card irritably
toward the House. "Suppose you tell me about that place,
Stendahl?"
"It's a haunted castle, if you like."
"I don't like. Stendahl, I _don't_ like. The sound of that
word 'haunted.'"
"Simple enough. In this year of our Lord 2005 I have built
a mechanical sanctuary. In it copper bats fly on electronic
beams, brass rats scuttle in plastic cellars, robot skeletons
dance; robot vampires, harlequins, wolves, and white phantoms,
compounded of chemical and ingenuity, live here."
"That's what I was afraid of," said Garrett, smiling
quietly. "I'm afraid we're going to have to tear your place
down."
"I knew you'd come out as soon as you discovered what went
on."
"I'd have come sooner, but we at Moral Climates wanted to
be sure of your intentions before we moved in. We can have
the Dismantlers and Burning Crew here by supper. By midnight
your place will be razed to the cellar. Mr. Stendahl, I
consider you somewhat of a fool, sir. Spending hard-earned
money on a folly. Why, it must have cost you three million
dollars--"
"Four million! But, Mr. Garrett, I inherited twenty-five
million when very young. I can afford to throw it about. Seems
a dreadful shame, though, to have the House finished only an
hour and have you race out with your Dismantlers. Couldn't
you possibly let me play with my Toy for just, well,
twenty-four hours?"
"You know the law. Strict to the letter. No books, no
houses, nothing to be produced which in any way suggests
ghosts, vampires, fairies, or any creature of the imagination."
"You'll be burning Babbitts next!"
"You've caused us a lot of trouble, Mr. Stendahl. It's in
the record. Twenty years ago. On Earth. You and your library."
"Yes, me and my library. And a few others like me. Oh,
Poe's been forgotten for many years now, and Oz and the
other creatures. But I had my little cache. We had our
libraries, a few private citizens, until you sent your men
around with torches and incinerators and tore my fifty thousand
books up and burned them. Just as you put a stake through the
heart of Halloween and told your film producers that if they
made anything at all they would have to make and remake
Earnest Hemingway. My God, how many times have I seen _For Whom
the Bell Tolls_ done! Thirty different versions. All realistic.
Oh, realism! Oh, here, oh, now, oh hell!"
"It doesn't pay to be bitter!"
"Mr. Garrett, you must turn in a full report, mustn't
you?"
"Yes."
"Then, for curiosity's sake, you'd better come in and
look around. It'll take only a minute."
"All right. Lead the way. And no tricks. I've a gun with
me."
The door to the House of Usher creaked wide. A moist wind
issued forth. There was an immense sighing and moaning, like
a subterranean bellows breathing in the lost catacombs.
A rat pranced across the floor stones. Garrett, crying
out, gave it a kick. It fell over, the rat did, and from its
nylon fur streamed an incredible horde of metal fleas.
"Amazing!" Garrett bent to see.
An old witch sat in a niche, quivering her wax hands over
some orange-and-blue tarot cards. She jerked her head and
hissed through her toothless mouth at Garrett, tapping her
greasy cards.
"Death!" she cried.
"Now _that's_ the sort of thing I mean," said Garrett.
"Deplorable!"
"I'll let you burn her personally."
"Will you, really?" Garrett was pleased. Then he frowned.
"I must say you're taking this all so well."
"It was enough just to be able to create this place. To
be able to say I did it. To say I nurtured a medieval
atmosphere in a modern, incredulous world."
"I've a somewhat reluctant admiration for your genius
myself, sir." Garrett watched a mist drift by, whispering
and whispering, shaped like a beautiful and nebulous woman.
Down a moist corridor a machine whirled. Like the stuff from
a cotton-candy centrifuge, mists sprang up and floated,
murmuring, in the silent halls.
An ape appeared out of nowhere.
"Hold on!" cried Garrett.
"Don't be afraid," Stendahl tapped the animal's black
chest. "A robot. Copper skeleton and all, like the witch. See?"
He stroked the fur, and under it metal tubing came to light.
"Yes." Garrett put out a timid hand to pet the thing. "But
why, Mr. Stendahl, why all _this?_ What obsessed you?"
"Bureaucracy, Mr. Garrett. But I haven't time to explain.
The government will discover soon enough." He nodded to the
ape. "All right. _Now_."
The ape killed Mr. Garrett.

"Are we almost ready, Pikes?"
Pikes looked up from the table. "Yes, sir."
"You've done a splendid job."
"Well, I'm paid for it, Mr. Stendahl," said Pikes softly
as he lifted the plastic eyelid of the robot and inserted the
glass eyeball to fasten the rubberoid muscles neatly. "There."
"The spitting image of Mr. Garrett."
"What do we do with him, sir?" Pikes nodded at the slab
where the real Mr. Garrett lay dead.
"Better burn him, Pikes. We wouldn't want two Mr.
Gasretts, would we?"
Pikes wheeled Mr. Garrett to the brick incinerator.
"Goodby." He pushed Mr. Garrett in and slammed the door.
Stendahl confronted the robot Garrett. "You have your
orders, Garrett?"
"Yes, sir." The robot sat up. "I'm to return to Moral
Climates. I'll file a complementary report. Delay action for
at least forty-eight hours. Say I'm investigating more fully."
"Right, Garrett. Good-by."
The robot hurried out to Garrett's rocket, got in, and
flew away.
Stendahl turned. "Now, Pikes, we send the remainder of
the invitations for tonight. I think we'll have a jolly time,
don't you?"
"Considering we waited twenty years, quite jolly!"
They winked at each other.
Seven o'clock. Stendahl studied his watch. Almost time.
He twirled the sherry glass in his hand. He sat quietly. Above
him, among the oaken beams, the bats, their delicate copper
bodies hidden under rubber flesh, blinked at him and shrieked.
He raised his glass to them. "To our success." Then he leaned
back, closed his eyes, and considered the entire affair. How
he would savor this in his old age. This paying back of
the antiseptic government for its literary terrors
and conflagrations. Oh, how the anger and hatred had grown in
him through the years. Oh, how the plan had taken a slow shape
in his numbed mind, until that day three years ago when he had
met Pikes.
Ah yes, Pikes. Pikes with the bitterness in him as deep as
a black, charred well of green acid. Who was Pikes? Only
the greatest of them all! Pikes, the man of ten thousand faces,
a fury, a smoke, a blue fog, a white rain, a bat, a gargoyle,
a monster, that was Pikes! Better than Lon Chaney, the father?
Stendabi ruminated. Night after night he had watched Chaney in
the old, old films. Yes, better than Chaney. Better than that
other ancient mummer? What was his name? Karloff? Far better!
Lugosi? The comparison was odious! No, there was only one
Pikes, and he was a man stripped of his fantasies now, no place
on Earth to go, no one to show off to. Forbidden even to
perform for himself before a mirror!
Poor impossible, defeated Pikes! How must it have felt,
Pikes, the night they seized your films, like entrails yanked
from the camera, out of your guts, dutching them in coils and
wads to stuff them up a stove to burn away! Did it feel as bad
as having some fifty thousand books annihilated with no
recompense? Yes. Yes. Stendahl felt his hands grow cold with
the senseless anger. So what more natural than they would one
day talk over endless coffeepots into innumerable midnights,
and out of all the talk and the bitter brewings would come--
the House of Usher.
A great church bell rang. The guests were arriving.
Smiling he went to greet them.

Full grown without memory, the robots waited. In green
silks the color of forest pools, in silks the color of frog
and fern, they waited. In yellow hair the color of the sun and
sand, the robots waited. Oiled, with tube bones cut from bronze
and sunk in gelatin, the robots lay. In coffins for the not
dead and not alive, in planked boxes, the metronomes waited to
be set in motion. There was a smell of lubrication and lathed
brass. There was a silence of the tomb yard. Sexed but sexless,
the robots. Named but unnamed, and borrowing from humans
everything but humanity, the robots stared at the nailed lids
of their labeled F.O.B. boxes, in a death that was not even
a death, for there had never been a life. And now there was a
vast screaming of yanked nails. Now there was a lifting of
lids. Now there were shadows on the boxes and the pressure of
a hand squirting oil from a can. Now one clock was set in
motion, a faint ticking. Now another and another, until this
was an immense clock shop, purring. The marble eyes rolled wide
their rubber lids. The nostrils winked. The robots, clothed in
hair of ape and white of rabbit, arose: Tweedledum following
Tweedledee, Mock-Turtle, Dormouse, drowned bodies from the
sea compounded of salt and whiteweed, swaying; hanging
blue-throated men with turned-up, clam-flesh eyes, and
creatures of ice and burning tinsel, loam-dwarfs and
pepper-elves, Tik-tok, Ruggedo, St. Nicholas with a self-made
snow flurry blowing on before him, Bluebeard with whiskers
like acetylene flame, and sulphur clouds from which green fire
snouts protruded, and, in scaly and gigantic serpentine, a
dragon with a furnace in its belly reeled out the door with
a scream, a tick, a bellow, a silence, a rush, a wind. Ten
thousand lids fell back. The clock shop moved out into Usher.
The night was enchanted.

A warm breeze came over the land. The guest rockets,
burning the sky and turning the weather from autumn to spring
arrived.
The men stepped out in evening clothes and the women
stepped out after them, their hair coiffed up in elaborate
detail.
"So _that's_ Usher!"
"But where's the door?"
At this moment Stendahl appeared. The women laughed
and chattered. Mr. Stendahl raised a hand to quiet them.
Turning, he looked up to a high castle window and called:
"Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair."
And from above, a beautiful maiden leaned out upon the
night wind and let down her golden hair. And the hair twined
and blew and became a ladder upon which the guests might
ascend, laughing, into the House.
What eminent sociologists! What clever psychologists!
What tremendously important politicians, bacteriologists,
and neurologists! There they stood, within the dank walls.
"Welcome, all of you!"
Mr. Tryon, Mr. Owen, Mr. Dunne, Mr. Lang, Mr. Steffens,
Mr. Fletcher, and a double-dozen more.
"Come in, come in!"
Miss Gibbs, Miss Pope, Miss Churchil, Miss Blunt, Miss
Drummond, and a score of other women, glittering.
Eminent, eminent people, one and all, members of the
Society for the Prevention of Fantasy, advocators of the
banishment of Halloween and Guy Fawkes, killers of bats,
burners of books, bearers of torches; good clean citizens,
every one, who had waited until the rough men had come up and
buried the Martians and cleansed the cities and built the towns
and repaired the highways and made everything safe. And then,
with everything well on its way to Safety, the Spoil-Funs,
the people with mercurochrome for blood and iodine-colored
eyes, came now to set up their Moral Climates and dole out
goodness to everyone. And they were his friends! Yes,
carefully, carefully, he had met and befriended each of them
on Earth in the last year!
"Welcome to the vasty halls of Death!" he cried.
"Hello, Stendahl, what _is_ all this?"
"You'll see. Everyone off with their clothes. You'll find
booths to one side there. Change into costumes you find there.
Men on this side, women on that."
The people stood uneasily about.
"I don't know if we should stay," said Miss Pope. "I don't
like the looks of this. It verges on--blasphemy."
"Nonsense, a _costume_ ball!"
"Seems quite illegal." Mr. Steffens sniffed about.
"Come off it." Stendahl laughed. "Enjoy yourselves.
Tomorrow it'll be a ruin. Get in the booths!"
The House blazed with life and color; harlequins rang by
with belled caps and white mice danced miniature quadrilles to
the music of dwarfs who tickled tiny fiddles with tiny bows,
and flags rippled from scorched beams while bats flew in clouds
about gargoyle mouths which spouted down wine, cool, wild,
and foaming. A creek wandered through the seven rooms of the
masked ball. Guests sipped and found it to be sherry. Guests
poured from the booths, transformed from one age into another,
their faces covered with dominoes, the very act of putting on
a mask revoking all their licenses to pick a quarrel with
fantasy and horror. The women swept about in red gowns,
laughing. The men danced them attendance. And on the walls
were shadows with no people to throw them, and here or there
were mirrors in which no image showed. "All of us vampires!"
laughed Mr. Fletcher. "Dead!"
There were seven rooms, each a different color, one blue,
one purple, one green, one orange, another white, the sixth
violet, and the seventh shrouded in black velvet. And in the
black room was an ebony clock which struck the hour loud.
And through these rooms the guests ran, drunk at last, among
the robot fantasies, amid the Dormice and Mad Hatters, the
Trolls and Giants, the Black Cats and White Queens, and under
their dancing feet the floor gave off the massive pumping beat
of a hidden and telltale heart.
"Mr. Stendahl!"
A whisper.
"Mr. Stendahl!"
A monster with the face of Death stood at his elbow. It
was Pikes. "I must see you alone."
"What is it?"
"Here." Pikes held out a skeleton hand. In it were a
few half-melted, charred wheels, nuts, cogs, bolts.
Stendahl looked at them for a long moment. Then he drew
Pikes into a corridor. "Garrett?" he whispered.
Pikes nodded. "He sent a robot in his place. Cleaning out
the incinerator a moment ago, I found these."
They both stared at the fateful cogs for a time.
"This means the police will be here any minute," said
Pikes. "Our plan will be ruined."
"I don't know." Stendahl glanced in at the whirling yellow
and blue and orange people. The music swept through the misting
halls. "I should have guessed Garrett wouldn't be fool enough
to come in person. But wait!"
"What's the matter?"
"Nothing. There's nothing the matter. Garrett sent a robot
to us. Well, we sent one back. Unless he checks closely, he
won't notice the switch."
"Of course!"
"Next time he'll come _himself_. Now that he thinks it's
safe. Why, he might be at the door any minute, in _person!_
More wine, Pikes!"
The great bell rang.
"There he is now, I'll bet you. Go let Mr. Garrett in."
Rapunzel let down her golden hair.
"Mr. Stendahl?"
"Mr. Garrett. The _real_ Mr. Garrett?"
"The same." Garrett eyed the dank walls and the whirling
people. "I thought I'd better come see for myself. You can't
depend on robots. Other people's robots, especially. I also
took the precaution of summoning the Dismantlers. They'll be
here in one hour to knock the props out from under this
horrible place."
Stendahl bowed. "Thanks for telling me." He waved his
hand. "In the meantime, you might as well enjoy this. A little
wine?"
"No, thank you. What's going on? How low can a man sink?"
"See for yourself, Mr. Garrett."
"Murder," said Garrett.
"Murder most foul," said Stendahl.
A woman screamed. Miss Pope ran up, her face the color of
a cheese. "The most horrid thing just happened! I saw Miss
Blunt strangled by an ape and stuffed up a chimney!"
They looked and saw the long yellow hair trailing down
from the flue. Garrett cried out.
"Horrid!" sobbed Miss Pope, and then ceased crying. She
blinked and turned. "Miss Blunt!"
"Yes," said Miss Blunt, standing there.
"But I just saw you crammed up the flue!"
"No," laughed Miss Blunt. "A robot of myself. A clever
facsimile!"
"But, but . . ."
"Don't cry darling. I'm quite all right. Let me look
at myself. Well, so there I _am!_ Up the chimney. Like you
said. Isn't that funny?"
Miss Blunt walked away, laughing.
"Have a drink, Garrett?"
"I believe I will. That unnerved me. My God, what a place.
This _does_ deserve tearing down. For a moment there . . ."
Garrett drank.
Another scream. Mr. Steffens, borne upon the shoulders of
four white rabbits, was carried down a flight of stairs
which magically appeared in the floor. Into a pit went Mr.
Steffens, where, bound and tied, he was left to face the
advancing razor steel of a great pendulum which now whirled
down, down, closer and closer to his outraged body.
"Is that me down there?" said Mr. Steffens, appearing
at Garrett's elbow. He bent over the pit. "How strange, how
odd, to see yourself die."
The pendulum made a final stroke.
"How realistic," said Mr. Steffens, turning away.
"Another drink, Mr. Garrett?"
"Yes, please."
"It won't be long. The Dismantlers will be here."
"Thank God!"
And for a third time, a scream.
"What now?" said Garrett apprehensively.
"It's my turn," said Miss Drummond. "Look."
And a second Miss Druxnmond, shrieking, was nailed into
a coffin and thrust into the raw earth under the floor.
"Why, I remember _that_," gasped the Investigator of
Moral Climates. "From the old forbidden books. The Premature
Burial. And the others. The Pit, the Pendulum, and the ape,
the chimney, the Murders in the Rue Morgue. In a book I burned,
yes!"
"Another drink, Garrett. Here, hold your glass steady."
"My lord, you _have_ an imagination, haven't you?"
They stood and watched five others die, one in the mouth
of a dragon, the others thrown off into the black tarn, sinking
and vanishing.
"Would you like to see what we have planned for you?"
asked Stendahl.
"Certainly," said Garrett. "What's the difference? We'll
blow the whole damn thing up, anyway. You're nasty."
"Come along then. This way."
And he led Garrett down into the floor, through numerous
passages and down again upon spiral stairs into the earth, into
the catacombs.
"What do you want to show me down here?" said Garrett.
"Yourself killed."
"A duplicate?"
"Yes. And also something else."
"What?"
"The Amontillado," said Stendahl, going ahead with a
blazing lantern which he held high. Skeletons froze half out
of coffin lids. Garrett held his hand to his nose, his
face disgusted.
"The what?"
"Haven't you ever heard of the Amontillado?"
"No!"
"Don't you recognize this?" Stendahl pointed to a cell.
"Should I?"
"Or this?" Stendahl produced a trowel from under his
cape smiling.
"What's that thing?"
"Come," said Stendahl.
They stepped into the cell. In the dark, Stendahl affixed
the chains to the half-drunken man.
"For God's sake, what are you doing?" shouted Garrett,
rattling about.
"I'm being ironic. Don't interrupt a man in the midst of
being ironic, it's not polite. There!"
"You've locked me in chains!"
"So I have."
"What are you going to do?"
"Leave you here."
"You're joking."
"A very good joke."
"Where's my duplicate? Don't we see him killed?"
"There's no duplicate."
"But the _others!_"
"The others are dead. The ones you saw killed were the
real people. The duplicates, the robots, stood by and watched."
Garrett said nothing.
"Now you're supposed to say, 'For the love of God,
Montresor!'" said Stendahl. "And I will reply, 'Yes, for the
love of God.' Won't you say it? Come on. Say it."
"You fool."
"Must I coax you? Say it. Say 'For the love of God,
Montresor!'"
"I won't, you idiot. Get me out of here." He was sober
now.
"Here. Put this on." Stendahl tossed in something that
belled and rang.
"What is it?"
"A cap and bells. Put it on and I might let you out."
"Stendahl!"
"Put it on, I said!"
Garrett obeyed. The bells tinkled.
"Don't you have a feeling that this has all happened
before?" inquired Stendahl, setting to work with trowel and
mortar and brick now.
"What're you doing?"
"Walling you in. Here's one row. Here's another."
"You're insane!"
"I won't argue that point."
"You'll be prosecuted for this!"
He tapped a brick and placed it on the wet mortar,
humming.
Now there was a thrashing and pounding and a crying out
from within the darkening place. The bricks rose higher.
"More thrashing, please," said Stendahl. "Let's make it a good
show."
"Let me out, let me out!"
There was one last brick to shove into place. The
screaming was continuous.
"Garrett?" called Stendahl softly. Garrett silenced
himself. "Garrett," said Stendahl, "do you know why I've done
this to you? Because you burned Mr. Poe's books without really
reading them. You took other people's advice that they needed
burning. Otherwise you'd have realized what I was going to do
to you when we came down here a moment ago. Ignorance is fatal,
Mr. Garrett."
Garrett was silent.
"I want this to be perfect," said Stendahl, holding his
lantern up so its light penetrated in upon the slumped figure.
"Jingle your bells softly." The bells rustled. "Now, if you'll
please say, 'For the love of God, Monstresor,' I might let
you free."
The man's face came up in the light. There was a
hesitation. Then grotesquely the man said, "For the love of
God, Montresor."
"Ah," said Stendahl, eyes closed. He shoved the last brick
into place and mortared it tight. "_Requiescat in pace_,
dear friend."
He hastened from the catacomb.
In the seven rooms the sound of a midnight clock brought
everything to a halt.
The Red Death appeared.
Stendahl turned for a moment at the door to watch. And
then he ran out of the great House, across the moat, to where
a helicopter waited.
"Ready, Pikes?"
"Ready."
"There it goes!"
They looked at the great House, smiling. It began to crack
down the middle, as with an earthquake, and as Stendahl watched
the magnificent sight he heard Pikes reading behind him in a
low, cadenced voice:
"'. . . my brain reeled as I saw the mighty walls
rushing asunder--there was a long tumultuous shouting sound
like the voice of a thousand waters--and the deep and dank tarn
at my feet closed sullenly and silently over the fragments of
the House of Usher.'"
The helicopter rose over the steaming lake and flew into
the west.

August 2005: THE OLD ONES

And what more natural than that, at last, the old people
come to Mars, following in the trail left by the loud
frontiersmen, the aromatic sophisticates, and the professional
travelers and romantic lecturers in search of new grist.
And so the dry and crackling people, the people who spent
their time listening to their hearts and feeling their pulses
and spooning syrups into their wry mouths, these people who
once had taken chair cars to California in November and
third-class steamers to Italy in April, the dried-apricot
people, the mummy people, came at last to Mars. . . .

September 2005: THE MARTIAN

The blue mountains lifted into the rain and the rain fell
down into the long canals and old LaFarge and his wife came out
of their house to watch.
"First rain this season," LaFarge pointed out.
"It's good," said his wife.
"Very welcome."
They shut the door. Inside, they warmed their hands at
a fire. They shivered. In the distance, through the window,
they saw rain gleaming on the sides of the rocket which had
brought them from Earth.
"There's only one thing," said LaFarge, looking at his
hands.
"What's that?" asked his wife.
"I wish we could have brought Tom with us."
"Oh, now, Lafe!"
"I won't start again; I'm sorry."
"We came here to enjoy our old age in peace, not to think
of Tom. He's been dead so long now, we should try to forget him
and everything on Earth."
"You're right," he said, and turned his hands again to
the heat. He gazed into the fire. "I won't speak of it any
more. It's just I miss driving out to Green Lawn Park every
Sunday to put flowers on his marker. It used to be our
only excursion."
The blue rain fell gently upon the house.
At nine o'clock they went to bed and lay quietly, hand
in hand, he fifty-five, she sixty, in the raining darkness.
"Anna?" he called softly.
"Yes?" she replied.
"Did you hear something?"
They both listened to the rain and the wind.
"Nothing," she said.
"Someone whistling," he said.
"No, I didn't hear it."
"I'm going to get up to see anyhow."
He put on his robe and walked through the house to the
front door. Hesitating, he pulled the door wide, and rain fell
cold upon his face. The wind blew.
In the dooryard stood a small figure.
Lightning cracked the sky, and a wash of white color
illumined the face looking in at old LaFarge there in the
doorway.
"Who's there?" called LaFarge, trembling.
No answer.
"Who is it? What do you want!"
Still not a word.
He felt very weak and tired and numb. "Who are you?" he
cried.
His wife entered behind him and took his arm. "Why are
you shouting?"
"A small boy's standing in the yard and won't answer me,"
said the old man, trembling. "He looks like Tom!"
"Come to bed, you're dreaming."
"But he's there; see for yourself."
He pulled the door wider to let her see. The cold wind
blew and the thin rain fell upon the soil and the figure stood
looking at them with distant eyes. The old woman held to
the doorway.
"Go away!" she said, waving one hand. "Go away!"
"Doesn't it look like Tom?" asked the old man.
The figure did not move.
"I'm afraid," said the old woman. "Lock the door and come
to bed. I won't have anything to do with it."
She vanished, moaning to herself, into the bedroom.
The old man stood with the wind raining coldness on his
hands.
"Tom," he called softly. "Tom, if that's you, if by some
chance it is you, Tom, I'll leave the door unlatched. And if
you're cold and want to come in to warm yourself, just come
in later and lie by the hearth; there's some fur rugs there."
He shut but did not lock the door.
His wife felt him return to bed, and shuddered. "It's
a terrible night. I feel so old," she said, sobbing.
"Hush, hush," he gentled her, and held her in his arms.
"Go to sleep."
After a long while she slept.
And then, very quietly, as he listened, he heard the front
door open, the rain and wind come in, the door shut. He heard
soft footsteps on the hearth and a gentle breathing. "Tom," he
said to himself,
Lightning struck in the sky and broke the blackness apart.
In the morning the sun was very hot.
Mr. LaFarge opened the door into the living room and
glanced all about, quickly.
The hearthrugs were empty.
LaFarge sighed. "I'm getting old," he said.
He went out to walk to the canal to fetch a bucket of
clear water to wash in. At the front door he almost knocked
young Tom down carrying in a bucket already filled to the brim.
"Good morning, Father!"
"Morning Tom." The old man fell aside. The young
boy, barefooted, hurried across the room, set the bucket down,
and turned, smiling. "It's a fine day!"
"Yes, it is," said the old man incredulously. The boy
acted as if nothing was unusual. He began to wash his face with
the water.
The old man moved forward. "Tom, how did you get here?
You're alive?"
"Shouldn't I be?" The boy glanced up.
"But, Tom, Green Lawn Park, every Sunday, the flowers and
. . ." LaFarge had to sit down. The boy came and stood before
him and took his hand. The old man felt of the fingers, warm
and firm. "You're really here, it's not a dream?"
"You _do_ want me to be here, don't you?" The boy seemed
worried.
"Yes, yes, Tom!"
"Then why ask questions? Accept me!"
"But your mother; the shock . . ."
"Don't worry about her. During the night I sang to both
of you, and you'll accept me more because of it, especially
her. I know what the shock is. Wait till she comes, you'll
see." He laughed, shaking his head of coppery, curled hair. His
eyes were very blue and clear.
"Good morning, Lafe, Tom." Mother came from the bedroom,
putting her hair up into a bun. "Isn't it a fine day?"
Tom turned to laugh in his father's face. "You see?"
They ate a very good lunch, all three of them, in the
shade behind the house. Mrs. LaFarge had found an old bottle
of sunflower wine she had put away, and they all had a drink
of that. Mr. LaFarge had never seen his wife's face so bright.
If there was any doubt in her mind about Tom, she didn't voice
it. It was completely natural thing to her. And it was also
becoming natural to LaFarge himself.
While Mother cleared the dishes LaFarge leaned toward his
son and said confidentially, "How old are you now, Son?"
"Don't you know, Father? Fourteen, of course."
"Who are you, _really?_ You can't be Tom, but you
are _someone_. Who?"
"Don't." Startled, the boy put his hands to his face.
"You can tell me," said the old man. "I'll understand.
You're a Martian, aren't you? I've heard tales of the Martians;
nothing definite. Stories about how rare Martians are and when
they come among us they come as Earth Men. There's something
about you--you're Tom and yet you're not."
"Why can't you accept me and stop talking?" cried the boy.
His hands completely shielded his face. "Don't doubt, please
don't doubt me!" He turned and ran from the table.
"Tom, come back!"
But the boy ran off along the canal toward the distant
town.
"Where's Tom going?" asked Anna, returning for more
dishes. She looked at her husband's face. "Did you say
something to bother him?"
"Anna," he said, taking her hand. "Anna, do you remember
anything about Green Lawn Park, a market, and Tom having
pneumonia?"
"What _are_ you talking about?" She laughed.
"Never mind," he said quietly.
In the distance the dust drifted down after Tom had run
along the canal rim.

At five in the afternoon, with the sunset, Tom returned.
He looked doubtfully at his father. "Are you going to ask
me anything?" he wanted to know.
"No questions," said LaFarge.
The boy smiled his white smile. "Swell."
"Where've you been?"
"Near the town. I almost didn't come back. I was almost"--
the boy sought for a word--"trapped."
"How do you mean, 'trapped'?"
"I passed a small tin house by the canal and I was almost
made so I couldn't come back here ever again to see you. I
don't know how to explain it to you, there's no way, I can't
tell you, even _I_ don't know; it's strange, I don't want to
talk about it."
"We won't then. Better wash up, boy. Suppertime."
The boy ran.
Perhaps ten minutes later a boat floated down the serene
surface of the canal, a tall lank man with black hair poling
it along with leisurely drives of his arms. "Evening, Brother
LaFarge," he said, pausing at his task.
"Evening Saul, what's the word?"
"All kinds of words tonight. You know that fellow named
Nomland who lives down the canal in the tin hut?"
LaFarge stiffened. "Yes?"
"You know what sort of rascal he was?"
"Rumor had it he left Earth because he killed a man."
Saul leaned on his wet pole, gazing at LaFarge. "Remember
the name of the man he killed?"
"Gillings, wasn't it?"
"Right. Gillings. Well, about two hours ago Mr. Nomland
came running to town crying about how he had seen Gillings,
alive, here on Mars, today, this afternoon! He tried to get the
jail to lock him up safe. The jail wouldn't. So Nomland went
home, and twenty minutes ago, as I get the story, blew his
brains out with a gun. I just came from there."
"Well, well," said LaFarge.
"The darnedest things happen," said Saul. "Well, good
night, LaFarge."
"Good night."
The boat drifted on down the serene canal waters.
"Supper's hot," called the old woman.
Mr. LaFarge sat down to his supper and, knife in hand,
looked over at Tom. "Tom," he said, "what did you do this
afternoon?"
"Nothing," said Tom, his mouth full. "Why?"
"Just wanted to know." The old man tucked his napkin in.

At seven that night the old woman wanted to go to town.
"Haven't been there in months," she said. But Tom desisted.
"I'm afraid of the town," he said. "The people. I don't want to
go there."
"Such talk for a grown boy," said Anna. "I won't listen to
it. You'll come along. _I_ say so."
"Anna, if the boy doesn't want to . . ." started the old
man.
But there was no arguing. She hustled them into the
canalboat and they floated up the canal under the evening
stars, Tom lying on his back, his eyes closed; asleep or not,
there was no telling. The old man looked at him steadily,
wondering. Who is this, he thought, in need of love as much as
we? Who is he and what is he that, out of loneliness, he comes
into the alien camp and assumes the voice and face of memory
and stands among us, accepted and happy at last? From what
mountain, what cave, what small last race of people remaining
on this world when the rockets came from Earth? The old man
shook his head. There was no way to know. This, to all
purposes, was Tom.
The old man looked at the town ahead and did not like it,
but then he returned to thoughts of Tom and Anna again and
he thought to himself: Perhaps this is wrong to keep Tom but
a little while, when nothing can come of it but trouble and
sorrow, but how are we to give up the very thing we've wanted,
no matter if it stays only a day and is gone, making the
emptiness emptier, the dark nights darker, the rainy nights
wetter? You might as well force the food from our mouths as
take this one from us.
And he looked at the boy slumbering so peacefully at the
bottom of the boat. The boy whimpered with some dream. "The
people," he murmured in his sleep. "Changing and changing.
The trap."
"There, there, boy." LaFarge stroked the boy's soft curls
and Tom ceased.

LaFarge helped wife and son from the boat.
"Here we are!" Anna smiled at all the lights, listening to
the music from the drinking houses, the pianos, the
phonographs, watching people, arm in arm, striding by in the
crowded streets.
"I wish I was home," said Tom.
"You never talked that way before," said the mother. "You
always liked Saturday nights in town."
"Stay close to me," whispered Tom. "I don't want to
get trapped."
Anna overheard. "Stop talking that way; come along!"
LaFarge noticed that the boy held his hand. LaFarge
squeezed it. "I'll stick with you, Tommy-boy." He looked at
the throngs coming and going and it worried him also. "We won't
stay long."
"Nonsense, we'll spend the evening," said Anna.
They crossed a street, and three drunken men careened into
them. There was much confusion, a separation, a wheeling about,
and then LaFarge stood stunned.
Tom was gone.
"Where is he?" asked Anna irritably. "Him always running
off alone any chance he gets. Tom!" she called.
Mr. LaFarge hurried through the crowd, but Tom was gone.
"He'll come back; he'll be at the boat when we leave,"
said Anna certainly, steering her husband back toward
the motion-picture theater. There was a sudden commotion in
the crowd, and a man and woman rushed by LaFarge. He recognized
them. Joe Spaulding and his wife. They were gone before he
could speak to them.
Looking back anxiously, he purchased the tickets for
the theater and allowed his wife to draw him into the unwelcome
darkness.

Tom was not at the landing at eleven o'clock. Mrs. LaFarge
turned very pale.
"Now, Mother," said LaFarge, "don't worry. I'll find him.
Wait here."
"Hurry back." Her voice faded into the ripple of the
water.
He walked through the night streets, hands in pockets.
All about, lights were going out one by one. A few people were
still leaning out their windows, for the night was warm, even
though the sky still held storm clouds from time to time among
the stars. As he walked he recalled the boy's constant
references to being trapped, his fear of crowds and cities.
There was no sense in it, thought the old man tiredly. Perhaps
the boy was gone forever, perhaps he had never been. LaFarge
turned in at a particular alley, watching the numbers.
"Hello there, LaFarge."
A man sat in his doorway, smoking a pipe.
"Hello, Mike."
"You and your woman quarrel? You out walking it off?"
"No. Just walking."
"You look like you lost something. Speaking of lost
things," said Mike, "somebody got found this evening. You know
Joe Spaulding? You remember his daughter Lavinia?"
"Yes." LaFarge was cold. It all seemed a repeated dream,
He knew which words would come next.
"Lavinia came home tonight," said Mike, smoking. "You
recall, she was lost on the dead sea bottoms about a month ago?
They found what they thought was her body, badly deteriorated,
and ever since the Spaulding family's been no good. Joe went
around saying she wasn't dead, that wasn't really her body.
Guess he was right Tonight Lavinia showed up."
"Where?" LaFarge felt his breath come swiftly, his
heart pounding.
"On Main Street. The Spauldings were buying tickets for
a show. And there, all of a sudden, in the crowd, was Lavinia.
Must have been quite a scene. She didn't know them first off.
They followed her half down a street and spoke to her. Then
she remembered."
"Did you see her?"
"No, but I heard her singing. Remember how she used to
sing 'The Bonnie Banks of Loch Lomond'? I heard her trilling
out for her father a while ago over there in their house. It
was good to hear; her such a beautiful girl. A shame, I
thought, her dead; and now with her back again it's fine. Here
now, you look weak yourself. Better come in for a spot of
whisky. . . ."
"Thanks, no, Mike." The old man moved away. He heard Mike
say good night and did not answer, but fixed his eyes upon
the two-story building where rambling clusters of crimson
Martian flowers lay upon the high crystal roof. Around back,
above the garden, was a twisted iron balcony, and the windows
above were lighted. It was very late, and still he thought
to himself: What will happen to Anna if I don't bring Tom home
with me? This second shock, this second death, what will it do
to her? Will she remember the first death, too, and this dream,
and the sudden vanishing? Oh God, I've got to find Tom, or what
will come of Anna? Poor Anna, waiting there at the landing.
He paused and lifted his head. Somewhere above, voices bade
other soft voices good night, doors turned and shut, lights
dimmed, and a gentle singing continued. A moment later a girl
no more than eighteen, very lovely, came out upon the balcony.
LaFarge called up through the wind that was blowing.
The girl turned and looked down. "Who's there?" she cried.
"It's me," said the old man, and, realizing this reply to
be silly and strange, fell silent, his lips working. Should he
call out, "Tom, my son, this is your father"? How to speak to
her? She would think him quite insane and summon her parents.
The girl bent forward in the blowing light. "I know you,"
she replied softly. "Please go; there's nothing you can do."
"You've got to come back!" It escaped LaFarge before he
could prevent it.
The moonlit figure above drew into shadow, so there was
no identity, only a voice. "I'm not your son any more," it
said. "We should never have come to town."
"Anna's waiting at the landing!"
"I'm sorry," said the quiet voice. "But what can I do?
I'm happy here, I'm loved, even as you loved me. I am what I
am, and I take what can be taken; too late now, they've caught
me."
"But Anna, the shock to her. Think of that."
"The thoughts are too strong in this house; it's like
being imprisoned. I can't change myself back."
"You are Tom, you _were_ Tom, weren't you? You aren't
joking with an old man; you're not really Lavinia Spaulding?"
"I'm not anyone, I'm just myself; wherever I am, I
am something, and now I'm something you can't help."
"You're not safe in the town. It's better out on the canal
where no one can hurt you," pleaded the old man.
"That's true." The voice hesitated. "But I must consider
these people now. How would they feel if, in the morning, I was
gone again, this time for good? Anyway, the mother knows what
I am; she guessed, even as you did. I think they all guessed
but didn't question. You don't question Providence. If you
can't have the reality, a dream is just as good. Perhaps I'm
not their dead one back, but I'm something almost better to
them; an ideal shaped by their minds. I have a choice of
hurting them or your wife."
"They're a family of five. They can stand your loss
better!"
"Please," said the voice. "I'm tired."
The old man's voice hardened. "You've got to come. I can't
let Anna be hurt again. You're our son. You're my son, and
you belong to us."
"No, please!" The shadow trembled.
"You don't belong to this house or these people!"
"No, don't do this to me!"
"Tom, Tom, Son, listen to me. Come back, slip down the
vines, boy. Come along, Anna's waiting; we'll give you a good
home, everything you want." He stared and stared upward,
willing it to be.
The shadows drifted, the vines rustled.
At last the quiet voice said, "All right, Father."
"Tom!"
In the moonlight the quick figure of a boy slid down
through the vines. LaFarge put up his arms to catch him.
The room lights above flashed on. A voice issued from one
of the grilled windows. "Who's down there?"
"Hurry, boy!"
More lights, more voices. "Stop, I have a gun! Vinny, are
you all right?" A running of feet.
Together the old man and the boy ran across the garden.
A shot sounded. The bullet struck the wall as they slammed
the gate.
"Tom, you that way; I'll go here and lead them off! Run to
the canal; I'll meet you there in ten minutes, boy!"
They parted.
The moon hid behind a cloud. The old man ran in darkness.
"Anna, I'm here!"
The old woman helped him, trembling, into the boat.
"Where's Tom?"
"He'll be here in a minute," panted LaFarge.
They turned to watch the alleys and the sleeping town.
Late strollers were still out: a policeman, a night watchman,
a rocket pilot, several lonely men coming home from some
nocturnal rendezvous, four men and women issuing from a
bar, laughing. Music played dimly somewhere.
"Why doesn't he come?" asked the old woman.
"He'll come, he'll come." But LaFarge was not certain.
Suppose the boy had been caught again, somehow, someway, in
his travel down to the landing, running through the midnight
streets between the dark houses. It was a long run, even for
a young boy. But he should have reached here first.
And now, far away, along the moonlit avenue, a figure ran.
LaFarge cried out and then silenced himself, for also far
away was another sound of voices and running feet. Lights
blazed on in window after window. Across the open plaza leading
to the landing, the one figure ran. It was not Tom; it was only
a running shape with a face like silver shining in the light of
the globes dustered about the plaza. And as it rushed nearer,
nearer, it became more familiar, until when it reached the
landing it was Tom! Anna flung up her hands. LaFarge hurried
to cast off. But already it was too late.
For out of the avenue and across the silent plaza now came
one man, another, a woman, two other men, Mr. Spaulding,
all running. They stopped, bewildered. They stared about,
wanting to go back because this could be only a nightmare, it
was quite insane. But they came on again, hesitantly, stopping,
starting.
It was too late. The night, the event, was over. LaFarge
twisted the mooring rope in his fingers. He was very cold
and lonely. The people raised and put down their feet in
the moonlight, drifting with great speed, wide-eyed, until
the crowd, all ten of them, halted at the landing. They peered
wildly down into the boat. They cried out.
"Don't move, LaFarge!" Spaulding had a gun.
And now it was evident what had happened. Tom flashing
through the moonlit streets, alone, passing people. A policeman
seeing the figure dart past. The policeman pivoting, staring at
the face, calling a name, giving pursuit "_You_, stop!" Seeing
a criminal face. All along the way, the same thing, men here,
women there, night watchmen, rocket pilots. The swift figure
meaning everything to them, all identities, all persons, all
names. How many different names had been uttered in the last
five minutes? How many different faces shaped over Tom's face,
all wrong?
All down the way the pursued and the pursuing, the dream
and the dreamers, the quarry and the hounds. All down the way
the sudden revealment, the flash of familiar eyes, the cry of
an old, old name, the remembrances of other times, the
crowd multiplying. Everyone leaping forward as, like an
image reflected from ten thousand mirrors, ten thousand eyes,
the running dream came and went, a different face to those
ahead, those behind, those yet to be met, those unseen.
And here they all are now, at the boat, wanting the dream
for their own, just as we want him to be Tom, not Lavinia
or William or Roger or any other, thought LaFarge. But it's all
done now. The thing has gone too far.
"Come up, all of you!" Spaulding ordered them.
Tom stepped up from the boat. Spaulding seized his wrist.
"You're coming home with me. I _know_."
"Wait," said the policeman. "He's my prisoner. Name's
Dexter; wanted for murder."
"No!" a woman sobbed. "It's my husband! I guess I know
my husband!"
Other voices objected. The crowd moved in.
Mrs. LaFarge shielded Tom. "This is my son; you have no
right to accuse him of anything. We're going home right now!"
As for Tom, he was trembling and shaking violently. He
looked very sick. The crowd thickened about him, putting out
their wild hands, seizing and demanding.
Tom screamed.
Before their eyes he changed. He was Tom and James and a
man named Switchman, another named Butterfield; he was the town
mayor and the young girl Judith and the husband William and the
wife Clarisse. He was melting wax shaping to their minds.
They shouted, they pressed forward, pleading. He screamed,
threw out his hands, his face dissolving to each demand. "Tom!"
cried LaFarge. "Alice!" another. "William!" They snatched
his wrists, whirled him about, until with one last shriek of
horror he fell.
He lay on the stones, melted wax cooling, his face all
faces, one eye blue, the other golden, hair that was brown,
red, yellow, black, one eyebrow thick, one thin, one hand
large, one small.
They stood over him and put their fingers to their mouths.
They bent down.
"He's dead," someone said at last.
It began to rain.
The rain fell upon the people, and they looked up at the
sky.
Slowly, and then more quickly, they turned and walked away
and then started running, scattering from the scene. In a
minute the place was desolate. Only Mr. and Mrs. LaFarge
remained, looking down, hand in hand, terrified.
The rain fell upon the upturned, unrecognizable face.
Anna said nothing but began to cry.
"Come along home, Anna, there's nothing we can do," said
the old man.
They climbed down into the boat and went back along the
canal in the darkness. They entered their house and lit a small
fire and warmed their hands, They went to bed and lay together,
cold and thin, listening to the rain returned to the roof above
them.
"Listen," said LaFarge at midnight. "Did you hear
something?"
"Nothing, nothing."
"I'll go look anyway."
He fumbled across the dark room and waited by the outer
door for a long time before he opened it.
He pulled the door wide and looked out.
Rain poured from the black sky upon the empty dooryard,
into the canal and among the blue mountains.
He waited five minutes and then softly, his hands wet, he
shut and bolted the door.

November 2005: THE LUGGAGE STORE

It was a very remote thing, when the luggage-store
proprietor heard the news on the night radio, received all the
way from Earth on a light-sound beam. The proprietor felt how
remote it was.
There was going to be a war on Earth.
He went out to peer into the sky.
Yes, there it was. Earth, in the evening heavens,
following the sun into the hills. The words on the radio and
that green star were one and the same.
"I don't believe it," said the proprietor.
"It's because you're not there," said Father Peregrine,
who had stopped by to pass the time of evening.
"What do you mean, Father?"
"It's like when I was a boy," said Father Peregrine. "We
heard about wars in China. But we never believed them. It was
too far away. And there were too many people dying. It
was impossible. Even when we saw the motion pictures we didn't
believe it. Well, that's how it is now. Earth is China. It's so
far away it's unbelievable. It's not here. You can't touch it.
You can't even see it. All you see is a green light. Two
billion people living on that light? Unbelievable! War? We
don't hear the explosions."
"We will," said the proprietor. "I keep thinking about
all those people that were going to come to Mars this week.
What was it? A hundred thousand or so coming up in the next
month or so. What about _them_ if the war starts?"
"I imagine they'll turn back. They'll be needed on Earth."
"Well," said the proprietor, "I'd better get my luggage
dusted off. I got a feeling there'll be a rush sale here any
time."
"Do you think everyone now on Mars will go back to Earth
if this _is_ the Big War we've all been expecting for years?"
"It's a funny thing, Father, but yes, I think we'll _all_
go back. I know, we came up here to get away from
things--politics, the atom bomb, war, pressure groups,
prejudice, laws--I know. But it's still home there. You wait
and see. When the first bomb drops on America the people up
here'll start thinking. They haven't been here long enough.
A couple years is all. If they'd been here forty years, it'd
be different, but they got relatives down there, and their
home towns. Me, I can't believe in Earth any more; I can't
imagine it much. But I'm old. I don't count. I might stay on
here."
"I doubt it."
"Yes, I guess you're right."
They stood on the porch watching the stars. Finally
Father Peregrine pulled some money from his pocket and handed
it to the proprietor. "Come to think of it, you'd better give
me a new valise. My old one's in pretty bad condition. . . ."

November 2005: THE OFF SEASON

Sam Parkhill motioned with the broom, sweeping away the
blue Martian sand.
"Here we are," he said. "Yes, sir, look at that!" He
pointed. "Look at that sign. SAM'S HOT DOGS! Ain't that
beautiful, Elma?"
"Sure, Sam," said his wife.
"Boy, what a change for me. If the boys from the Fourth
Expedition could see me now. Am I glad to be in business myself
while all the rest of them guys're off soldiering around still.
We'll make thousands, Elma, thousands."
His wife looked at him for a long time, not speaking.
"Whatever happened to Captain Wilder?" she asked finally.
"That captain that killed that guy who thought he was going to
kill off every other Earth Man, what was his name?"
"Spender, that nut. He was too damn particular. Oh,
Captain Wilder? He's off on a rocket to Jupiter, I hear. They
kicked him upstairs. I think he was a little batty about Mars
too. Touchy, you know. He'll be back down from Jupiter and
Pluto in about twenty years if he's lucky. That's what he gets
for shooting off his mouth. And while he's freezing to death,
look at me, look at this place!"
This was a crossroads where two dead highways came and
went in darkness. Here Sam Parkhill had flung up this riveted
aluminum structure, garish with white light, trembling with
jukebox melody.
He stooped to fix a border of broken glass he had placed
on the footpath. He had broken the glass from some old Martian
buildings in the hills. "Best hot dogs on two worlds! First man
on Mars with a hot-dog stand! The best onions and chili and
mustard! You can't say I'm not alert. Here's the main highways,
over there is the dead city and the mineral deposits. Those
trucks from Earth Settlement 101 will have to pass here
twenty-four hours a day! Do I know my locations, or don't I?"
His wife looked at her fingernails.
"You think those ten thousand new-type work rockets will
come through to Mars?" she said at last.
"In a month," he said loudly. "Why you look so funny?"
"I don't trust those Earth people," she said. "I'll
believe it when I see them ten thousand rockets arrive with the
one hundred thousand Mexicans and Chinese on them."
"Customers." He lingered on the word. "One hundred
thousand hungry people."
"If," said his wife slowly, watching the sky, "there's
no atomic war. I don't trust no atom bombs. There's so many of
them on Earth now, you never can tell."
"Ah," said Sam, and went on sweeping.
From the corners of his eyes he caught a blue flicker.
Something floated in the air gently behind him. He heard his
wife say, "Sam. A friend of yours to see you."
Sam whirled to see the mask seemingly floating in the
wind.
"So you're back again!" And Sam held his broom like a
weapon.
The mask nodded. It was cut from pale blue glass and was
fitted above a thin neck; under which were blowing loose robes
of thin yellow silk. From the silk two mesh silver bands
appeared. The mask mouth was a slot from which musical sounds
issued now as the robes, the mask, the hands increased to
a height, decreased.
"Mr. Parkhill, I've come back to speak to you again," the
voice said from behind the mask.
"I thought I told you I don't want you near here!" cried
Sam. "Go on, I'll give you the Disease!"
"I've already had the Disease," said the voice. "I was one
of the few survivors. I was sick a long time."
"Go on and hide in the hills, that's where you belong,
that's where you've been. Why you come on down and bother me?
Now, all of a sudden. Twice in one day."
"We mean you no harm."
"But I mean you harm!" said Sam, backing up. "I don't
like strangers. I don't like Martians. I never seen one before.
It ain't natural. All these years you guys hide, and all of
a sudden you pick on me. Leave me alone."
"We come for an important reason," said the blue mask.
"If it's about this land, it's mine. I built this hot-dog
stand with my own hands."
"In a way it _is_ about the land."
"Look here," said Sam. "I'm from New York City. Where I
come from there's ten million others just like me. You Martians
are a couple dozen left, got no cities, you wander around in
the hills, no leaders, no laws, and now you come tell me about
this land. Well, the old got to give way to the new. That's the
law of give and take. I got a gun here. After you left this
morning I got it out and loaded it."
"We Martians are telepathic," said the cold blue mask. "We
are in contact with one of your towns across the dead sea. Have
you listened on your radio?"
"My radio's busted."
"Then you don't know. There's big news. It concerns
Earth--"
A silver hand gestured. A bronze tube appeared in it.
"Let me show you this."
"A gun," cried Sam Parkhill.
An instant later he had yanked his own gun from his hip
holster and fired into the mist, the robe, the blue mask.
The mask sustained itself a moment. Then, like a small
circus tent pulling up its stakes and dropping soft fold on
fold, the silks rustled, the mask descended, the silver claws
tinkled on the stone path. The mask lay on a small huddle of
silent white bones and material.
Sam stood gasping.
His wife swayed over the huddled pile.
"That's no weapon," she said, bending down. She picked up
the bronze tube. "He was going to show you a message. It's
all written out in snake-script, all the blue snakes. I can't
read it. Can you?"
"No, that Martian picture writing, it wasn't anything. Let
it go!" Sam glanced hastily around. "There may be others! We've
got to get him out of sight. Get the shovel!"
"What're you going to do?"
"Bury him, of course!"
"You shouldn't have shot him."
"It was a mistake. Quick!"
Silently she fetched him the shovel.
At eight o'clock he was back sweeping the front of the
hotdog stand self-consciously. His wife stood, arms folded, in
the bright doorway.
"I'm sorry what happened," he said. He looked at her, then
away. "You know it was purely the circumstances of Fate."
"Yes," said his wife.
"I hated like hell to see him take out that weapon."
"What weapon?"
"Well, I thought it was one! I'm sorry, I'm sorry! How
many times do I say it!"
"Ssh," said Elma, putting one finger to her lips. "Ssh."
"I don't care," he said. "I got the whole Earth
Settlements, Inc., back of me!" He snorted. "These Martians
won't dare--"
"Look," said Elma.
He looked out onto the dead sea bottom. He dropped his
broom. He picked it up and his mouth was open, a little free
drop of saliva flew on the air, and he was suddenly shivering.
"Elma, Elma, Elma!" he said.
"Here they come," said Elma.
Across the ancient sea floor a dozen tall, blue-sailed
Martian sand ships floated, like blue ghosts, like blue smoke.
"Sand ships! But there aren't any more, Elma, no more
sand ships."
"Those seem to be sand ships," she said.
"But the authorities confiscated all of them! They broke
them up, sold some at auction! I'm the only one in this whole
damn territory's got one and knows how to run one."
"Not any more," she said, nodding at the sea.
"Come on, let's get out of here!"
"Why?" she asked slowly, fascinated with the Martian
vessels.
"They'll kill me! Get in our truck, quick!"
Elma didn't move.
He had to drag her around back of the stand where the
two machines stood, his truck, which he had used steadily until
a month ago, and the old Martian sand ship which he had bid for
at auction, smiling, and which, during the last three weeks, he
had used to carry supplies back and forth over the glassy sea
floor. He looked at his truck now and remembered. The engine
was out on the ground; he had been puttering with it for two
days.
"The truck don't seem to be in running condition," said
Elma.
"The sand ship. Get in!"
"And let you drive me in a sand ship? Oh no."
"Get in! I can do it!"
He shoved her in, jumped in behind her, and flapped the
tiller, let the cobalt sail up to take the evening wind.
The stars were bright and the blue Martian ships were
skimming across the whispering sands. At first his own ship
would not move, then he remembered the sand anchor and yanked
it in.
"There!"
The wind hurled the sand ship keening over the dead sea
bottom, over long-buried crystals, past upended pillars,
past deserted docks of marble and brass, past dead white chess
cities, past purple foothills, into distance. The figures of
the Martian ships receded and then began to pace Sam's ship.
"Guess I showed them, by God!" cried Sam. "I'll report to
the Rocket Corporation. They'll give me protection! I'm pretty
quick."
"They could have stopped you if they wanted," Elma said
tiredly. "They just didn't bother."
He laughed. "Come off it. Why should they let me get off?
No, they weren't quick enough, is all."
"Weren't they?" Elma nodded behind him.
He did not turn. He felt a cold wind blowing. He was
afraid to turn. He felt something in the seat behind him,
something as frail as your breath on a cold morning something
as blue as hickory-wood smoke at twilight, something like old
white lace, something like a snowfall, something like the icy
rime of winter on the brittle sedge.
There was a sound as of a thin plate of glass
broken--laughter. Then silence. He turned.
The young woman sat at the tiller bench quietly. Her
wrists were thin as icicles, her eyes as clear as the moons and
as large, steady and white. The wind blew at her and, like an
image on cold water, she rippled, silk standing out from her
frail body in tatters of blue rain.
"Go back," she said.
"No." Sam was quivering, the fine, delicate fear-quivering
of a hornet suspended in the air, undecided between fear and
hate. "Get off my ship!"
"This isn't your ship," said the vision. "It's old as
our world. It sailed the sand seas ten thousand years ago when
the seas were whispered away and the docks were empty, and you
came and took it, stole it. Now turn it around, go back to
the crossroad place. We have need to talk with you. Something
important has happened."
"Get off my ship!" said Sam. He took a gun from his
holster with a creak of leather. He pointed it carefully. "Jump
off before I count three or--"
"Don't!" cried the girl. "I won't hurt you. Neither will
the others. We came in peace!"
"One," said Sam.
"Sam!" said Elma.
"Listen to me," said the girl.
"Two," said Sam firmly, cocking the gun trigger.
"Sam!" cried Elma.
"Three," said Sam.
"We only--" said the girl.
The gun went off.
In the sunlight, snow melts, crystals evaporate into a
steam, into nothing. In the firelight, vapors dance and vanish.
In the core of a volcano, fragile things burst and disappear.
The girl, in the gunfire, in the heat, in the concussion,
folded like a soft scarf, melted like a crystal figurine. What
was left of her, ice, snowflake, smoke, blew away in the wind.
The tiller seat was empty.
Sam holstered his gun and did not look at his wife.
"Sam," she said after a minute more of traveling,
whispering over the moon-colored sea of sand, "stop the ship."
He looked at her and his face was pale. "No, you don't.
Not after all this time, you're not pulling out on me."
She looked at his hand on his gun. "I believe you would,"
she said. "You actually would."
He jerked his head from side to side, hand tight on the
tiller bar. "Elma, this is crazy. We'll be in town in a minute,
we'll be okay!"
"Yes," said his wife, lying back cold in the ship.
"Elma, listen to me."
"There's nothing to hear, Sam."
"Elma!"
They were passing a little white chess city, and in
his frustration, in his rage, he sent six bullets crashing
among the crystal towers. The city dissolved in a shower of
ancient glass and splintered quartz. It fell away like carved
soap, shattered. It was no more. He laughed and fired again,
and one last tower, one last chess piece, took fire, ignited,
and in blue flinders went up to the stars.
"I'll show them! I'll show everybody!"
"Go ahead, show us, Sam." She lay in the shadows.
"Here comes another city!" Sam reloaded his gun. "Watch me
fix it!"
The blue phantom ships loomed up behind them, drawing
steadily apace. He did not see them at first. He was only aware
of a whistling and a high windy screaming, as of steel on sand,
and it was the sound of the sharp razor prows of the sand
ships preening the sea bottoms, their red pennants, blue
pennants unfurled. In the blue light ships were blue dark
images, masked men, men with silvery faces, men with blue stars
for eyes, men with carved golden ears, men with tinfoil cheeks
and ruby-studded lips, men with arms folded, men following
him, Martian men.
One, two, three. Sam counted. The Martian ships closed in.
"Elma, Elma, I can't hold them all off!"
Elma did not speak or rise from where she had slumped.
Sam fired his gun eight times. One of the sand ships fell
apart, the sail, the emerald body, the bronze hull points,
the moon-white tiller, and all the separate images in it. The
masked men, all of them, dug into the sand and separated out
into orange and then smoke-flame.
But the other ships closed in.
"I'm outnumbered, Elma!" he cried. "They'll kill me!"
He threw out the anchor. It was no use. The sail fluttered
down, folding unto itself, sighing. The ship stopped. The
wind stopped. Travel stopped. Mars stood still as the majestic
vessels of the Martians drew around and hesitated over him.
"Earth man," a voice called from a high seat somewhere.
A silverine mask moved. Ruby-rimmed lips glittered with the
words.
"I didn't do anything!" Sam looked at all the faces,
one hundred in all, that surrounded him. There weren't many
Martians left on Mars--one hundred, one hundred and fifty, all
told. And most of them were here now, on the dead seas, in
their resurrected ships, by their dead chess cities, one of
which had just fallen like some fragile vase hit by a pebble.
The silverine masks glinted.
"It was all a mistake," he pleaded, standing out of his
ship, his wife slumped behind him in the deeps of the hold,
like a dead woman. "I came to Mars like any honest enterprising
businessman. I took some surplus material from a rocket that
crashed and I built me the finest little stand you ever saw
right there on that land by the crossroads--you know where it
is. You've got to admit it's a good job of building." Sam
laughed, staring around. "And that Martian--I know he was a
friend of yours--came. His death was an accident, I assure you.
All I wanted to do was have a hot-dog stand, the only one on
Mars, the first and most important one. You understand how it
is? I was going to serve the best darned hot dogs there, with
chili and onions and orange juice."
The silver masks did not move. They burned in the
moonlight. Yellow eyes shone upon Sam. He felt his stomach
clench in, wither, become a rock. He threw his gun in the sand.
"I give up."
"Pick up your gun," said the Martians in chorus.
"What?"
"Your gun." A jeweled hand waved from the prow of a blue
ship. "Pick it up. Put it away."
Unbelieving he picked up the gun.
"Now," said the voice, "turn your ship and go back to
your stand."
"Now?"
"Now," said the voice. "We will not harm you. You ran
away before we were able to explain. Come."

Now the great ships turned as lightly as moon thistles.
Their wing-sails flapped with a sound of soft applause on the
air, The masks were coruscating, turning, firing the shadows.
"Elma!" Sam tumbled into the ship. "Get up, Elma. We're
going back." He was excited. He almost gibbered with relief.
"They aren't going to hurt me, kill me, Elma. Get up, honey,
get up."
"What--what?" Elma blinked around and slowly, as the ship
was sent into the wind again, she helped herself, as in a
dream, back up to a seat and slumped there like a sack of
stones, saying no more.
The sand slid under the ship. In half an hour they were
back at the crossroads, the ships planted, all of them out of
the ships.
The Leader stood before Sam and Elma, his mask beaten
of polished bronze, the eyes only empty slits of endless
blue-black, the mouth a slot out of which words drifted into
the wind.
"Ready your stand," said the voice. A diamond-gloved hand
waved. "Prepare the viands, prepare the foods, prepare the
strange wines, for tonight is indeed a great night!"
"You mean," said Sam, "you'll let me stay on here?"
"Yes."
"You're not mad at me?"
The mask was rigid and carved and cold and sightless.
"Prepare your place of food," said the voice softly. "And
take this."
"What is it?"
Sam blinked at the silver-foil scroll that was handed him,
upon which, in hieroglyph, snake figures danced.
"It is the land grant to all of the territory from the
silver mountains to the blue hills, from the dead salt sea
there to the distant valleys of moonstone and emerald," said
the Leader.
"M-mine?" said Sam, incredulous.
"Yours."
"One hundred thousand miles of territory?"
"Yours."
"Did you hear that, Elma?"
Elma was sitting on the ground, leaning against the
aluminum hot-dog stand, eyes shut.
"But why, why--why are you giving me all this?" asked
Sam, trying to look into the metal slots of the eyes.
"That is not all. Here." Six other scrolls were produced.
The names were declared, the territories announced.
"Why, that's half of Mars! I own half of Mars!" Sam
rattled the scrolls in his fists. He shook them at Elma, insane
with laughing. "Elma, did you hear?"
"I heard," said Elma, looking at the sky.
She seemed to be watching for something. She was becoming
a little more alert now.
"Thank you, oh, thank you," said Sam to the bronze mask.
"Tonight is the night," said the mask. "You must be
ready."
"I will be. What it is--a surprise? Are the rockets coming
through earlier than we thought, a month earlier from Earth?
All ten thousand rockets, bringing the settlers, the miners,
the workers and their wives, all hundred thousand of them?
Won't that be swell, Elma? You see, I told you. I told you,
that town there won't always have just one thousand people in
it. There'll be fifty thousand more coming, and the month after
that a hundred thousand more, and by the end of the year five
million Earth Men. And me with the only hot-dog stand staked
out on the busiest highway to the mines!"
The mask floated on the wind. "We leave you. Prepare. The
land is yours."
In the blowing moonlight, like metal petals of some
ancient flower, like blue plumes, like cobalt butterflies
immense and quiet, the old ships turned and moved over the
shifting sands, the masks beaming and glittering, until the
last shine, the last blue color, was lost among the hills.
"Elma, why did they do it? Why didn't they kill me? Don't
they know anything? What's wrong with them? Elma, do
you understand?" He shook her shoulder. "I own half of Mars!"
She watched the night sky, waiting.
"Come on," he said. "We've got to get the place fixed. All
the hot dogs boiling, the buns warm, the chili cooking, the
onions peeled and diced, the relish laid out, the napkins in
the dips, the place spotless! Hey!" He did a little wild dance,
kicking his heels. "Oh boy, I'm happy; yes, sir, I'm happy,"
he sang off key. "This is my lucky day!"
He boiled the hot dogs, cut the buns, sliced the onions in
a frenzy.
"Just think, that Martian said a surprise. That can only
mean one thing, Elma. Those hundred thousand people coming in
ahead of schedule, tonight, of all nights! We'll be flooded!
We'll work long hours for days, what with tourists riding
around seeing things, Elma. Think of the money!"
He went out and looked at the sky. He didn't see anything.
"In a minute, maybe," he said, snuffing the cool
air gratefully, arms up, beating his chest. "Ah!"
Elma said nothing. She peeled potatoes for French fries
quietly, her eyes always on the sky.
"Sam," she said half an hour later. "There it is. Look."
He looked and saw it.
Earth.
It rose full and green, like a fine-cut stone, above the
hills.
"Good old Earth," he whispered lovingly. "Good old
wonderful Earth. Send me your hungry and your starved.
Something something--how does that poem go? Send me your
hungry, old Earth. Here's Sam Parkhill, his hot dogs all
boiled, his chili cooking, everything neat as a pin. Come on,
you Earth, send me your rocket!"
He went out to look at his place. There it sat, perfect as
a fresh-laid egg on the dead sea bottom, the only nucleus of
light and warmth in hundreds of miles of lonely wasteland. It
was like a heart beating alone in a great dark body. He felt
almost sorrowful with pride, gazing at it with wet eyes.
"It sure makes you humble," he said among the cooking
odors of wieners, warm buns, rich butter. "Step up," he invited
the various stars in the sky. "Who'll be the first to buy?"
"Sam," said Elma.
Earth changed in the black sky.
It caught fire.
Part of it seemed to come apart in a million pieces, as if
a gigantic jigsaw had exploded. It burned with an unholy
dripping glare for a minute, three times normal size, then
dwindled.
"What was that?" Sam looked at the green fire in the sky.
"Earth," said Elma, holding her hands together.
"That can't be Earth, that's not Earth! No, that ain't
Earth! It can't be."
"You mean it couldn't be Earth," said Elma, looking at
him. "That just isn't Earth. No, that's not Earth; is that what
you mean?"
"Not Earth--oh no, it _couldn't_ be," he wailed.
He stood there, his hands at his sides, his mouth open,
his eyes wide and dull, not moving.
"Sam." She called his name. For the first time in days her
eyes were bright. "Sam?"
He looked up at the sky.
"Well," she said. She glanced around for a minute or so
in silence. Then briskly she flapped a wet towel over her
arm. "Switch on more lights, turn up the music, open the
doors, There'll be another batch of customers along in about
a million years. Gotta be ready, yes, sir."
Sam did not move.
"What a swell spot for a hot-dog stand," she said. She
reached over and picked a toothpick out of a jar and put it
between her front teeth. "Let you in on a little secret, Sam,"
she whispered, leaning toward him. "This looks like it's going
to be an off season."

November 2005: THE WATCHERS

They all came out and looked at the sky that night. They
left their suppers or their washing up or their dressing for
the show and they came out upon their now-not-quite-as-new
porches and watched the green star of Earth there. It was a
move without conscious effort; they all did it, to help
them understand the news they had heard on the radio a moment
before. There was Earth and there the coming war, and there
hundreds of thousands of mothers or grandmothers or fathers
or brothers or aunts or uncles or cousins. They stood on the
porches and tried to believe in the existence of Earth, much
as they had once tried to believe in the existence of Mars; it
was a problem reversed. To all intents and purposes, Earth now
was dead; they had been away from it for three or four years.
Space was an anesthetic; seventy million miles of space numbed
you, put memory to sleep, depopulated Earth, erased the past,
and allowed these people here to go on with their work. But
now, tonight, the dead were risen, Earth was reinhabited,
memory awoke, a million names were spoken: What was so-and-so
doing tonight on Earth? What about this one and that one? The
people on the porches glanced sidewise at each other's faces.
At nine o'clock Earth seemed to explode, catch fire, and
burn.
The people on the porches put up their hands as if to beat
the fire out.
They waited.
By midnight the fire was extinguished. Earth was still
there. There was a sigh, like an autumn wind, from the porches.
"We haven't heard from Harry for a long time."
"He's all right."
"We should send a message to Mother."
"She's all right."
"_Is_ she?"
"Now, don't worry."
"Will she be all right, do you think?"
"Of course, of course; now come to bed."
But nobody moved. Late dinners were carried out onto the
night lawns and set upon collapsible tables, and they picked
at these slowly until two o'clock and the light-radio message
flashed from Earth. They could read the great Morse-code
flashes which flickered like a distant firefly:

AUSTRALIAN CONTINENT ATOMIZED IN PREMATURE
EXPLOSION OF ATOMIC STOCKPILE. LOS ANGELES,
LONDON BOMBED. WAR. COME HOME. COME HOME.
COME HOME.

They stood up from their tables.
COME HOME. COME HOME. COME HOME.
"Have you heard from your brother Ted this year?"
"You know. With mail rates five bucks a letter to Earth,
I don't write much."
COME HOME.
"I've been wondering about Jane; you remember Jane, my
kid sister?"
COME HOME.
At three in the chilly morning the luggage-store
proprietor glanced up. A lot of people were coming down the
street.
"Stayed open late on purpose. What'll it be, mister?"
By dawn the luggage was gone from his shelves.

December 2005: THE SILENT TOWNS

There was a little white silent town on the edge of the
dead Martian sea. The town was empty. No one moved in it.
Lonely lights burned in the stores all day. The shop doors were
wide, as if people had run off without using their keys.
Magazines, brought from Earth on the silver rocket a month
before, fluttered, untouched, burning brown, on wire racks
fronting the silent drugstores.
The town was dead. Its beds were empty and cold. The only
sound was the power hum of electric lines and dynamos, still
alive, all by themselves. Water ran in forgotten bathtubs,
poured out into living rooms, onto porches, and down through
little garden plots to feed neglected flowers. In the dark
theaters, gum under the many seats began to harden with
tooth impressions still in it.
Across town was a rocket port. You could still smell the
hard, scorched smell where the last rocket blasted off when it
went back to Earth. If you dropped a dime in the telescope
and pointed it at Earth, perhaps you could see the big war
happening there. Perhaps you could see New York explode. Maybe
London could be seen, covered with a new kind of fog. Perhaps
then it might be understood why this small Martian town
is abandoned. How quick was the evacuation? Walk in any store,
bang the NO SALE key. Cash drawers jump out, all bright and
jingly with coins. That war on Earth must be very bad. . . .
Along the empty avenues of this town, now whistling
softly, kicking a tin can ahead of him in deepest
concentration, came a tall, thin man. His eyes glowed with a
dark, quiet look of loneliness. He moved his bony hands in
his pockets, which were tinkling with new dimes. Occasionally
he tossed a dime to the ground. He laughed temperately, doing
this, and walked on, sprinkling bright dimes everywhere.
His name was Walter Gripp. He had a placer mine and a
remote shack far up in the blue Martian hills and he walked to
town once every two weeks to see if he could marry a quiet
and intelligent woman. Over the years he had always returned to
his shack, alone and disappointed. A week ago, arriving in
town, he had found it this way!
That day he had been so surprised that he rushed to
a delicatessen, flung wide a case, and ordered a triple-decker
beef sandwich.
"Coming up!" he cried, a towel on his arm.
He flourished meats and bread baked the day before, dusted
a table, invited himself to sit, and ate until he had to go
find a soda fountain, where he ordered a bicarbonate. The
druggist, being one Walter Gripp, was astoundingly polite and
fizzed one right up for him!
He stuffed his jeans with money, all he could find. He
loaded a boy's wagon with ten-dollar bills and ran
lickety-split through town. Reaching the suburbs, he suddenly
realized how shamefully silly he was. He didn't need money. He
rode the ten-dollar bills back to where he'd found them,
counted a dollar from his own wallet to pay for the sandwiches,
dropped it in the delicatessen till, and added a quarter tip.
That night he enjoyed a hot Turkish bath, a succulent
filet carpeted with delicate mushrooms, imported dry sherry,
and strawberries in wine. He fitted himself for a new blue
flannel suit, and a rich gray Homburg which balanced oddly atop
his gaunt head. He slid money into a juke box which played
"That Old Gang of Mine." He dropped nickels in twenty boxes all
over town. The lonely streets and the night were full of the
sad music of "That Old Gang of Mine" as he walked, tall and
thin and alone, his new shoes clumping softly, his cold hands
in his pockets.
But that was a week past. He slept in a good house on
Mars Avenue, rose mornings at nine, bathed, and idled to town
for ham and eggs. No morning passed that he didn't freeze a ton
of meats, vegetables, and lemon cream pies, enough to last
ten years, until the rockets came back from Earth, if they ever
came.
Now, tonight, he drifted up and down, seeing the wax women
in every colorful shop window, pink and beautiful. For the
first time he knew how dead the town was. He drew a glass of
beer and sobbed gently.
"Why," he said, "I'm all _alone_."
He entered the Elite Theater to show himself a film,
to distract his mind from his isolation. The theater was
hollow, empty, like a tomb with phantoms crawling gray and
black on the vast screen. Shivering, he hurried from the
haunted place.
Having decided to return home, he was striking down the
middle of a side street, almost running, when he heard the
phone.
He listened.
"Phone ringing in someone's house."
He proceeded briskly.
"Someone should answer that phone," he mused.
He sat on a curb to pick a rock from his shoe, idly.
"Someone!" he screamed, leaping. "Me! Good lord, what's
wrong with me!" he shrieked. He whirled. Which house? That one!
He raced over the lawn, up the steps, into the house, down
a dark hall.
He yanked up the receiver.
"Hello!" he cried.
_Buzzzzzzzzz_.
"Hello, hello!"
They had hung up.
"Hello!" he shouted, and banged the phone. "You stupid
idiot!" he cried to himself. "Sitting on that curb, you fool!
Oh, you damned and awful fool!" He squeezed the phone. "Come
on, ring again! Come _on!_"
He had never thought there might be others left on Mars.
In the entire week he had seen no one. He had figured that all
other towns were as empty as this one.
Now, staring at this terrible little black phone, he
trembled. Interlocking dial systems connected every town on
Mars. From which of thirty cities had the call come?
He didn't know.
He waited. He wandered to the strange kitchen, thawed some
iced huckleberries, ate them disconsolately.
"There wasn't anyone on the other end of that call,"
he murmured. "Maybe a pole blew down somewhere and the phone
rang by itself."
But hadn't he heard a click, which meant someone had hung
up far away?
He stood in the hall the rest of the night. "Not because
of the phone," he told himself. "I just haven't anything else
to do."
He listened to his watch tick.
"She won't phone back," he said. "She won't _ever_ call
a number that didn't answer. She's probably dialing other
houses in town right _now!_ And here I sit--Wait a minute!"
He laughed. "Why do I keep saying 'she'?"
He blinked. "It could as easily be a 'he,' couldn't it?"
His heart slowed. He felt very cold and hollow.
He wanted very much for it to be a "she."
He walked out of the house and stood in the center of
the early, dim morning street.
He listened. Not a sound. No birds. No cars. Only his
heart beating. Beat and pause and beat again. His face ached
with strain. The wind blew gently, oh so gently, flapping his
coat.
"Sh," he whispered. "_Listen_."
He swayed in a slow cirde, turning his head from one
silent house to another.
She'll phone more and more numbers, he thought. It must be
a woman. Why? Only a woman would call and call. A man wouldn't.
A man's independent. Did I phone anyone? No! Never thought of
it. It must be a woman. It _has_ to be, by God!
Listen.
Far away, under the stars, a phone rang.
He ran. He stopped to listen. The ringing, soft. He ran a
few more steps. Louder. He raced down an alley. Louder still!
He passed six houses, six more. Much louder! He chose a house
and its door was locked.
The phone rang inside.
"Damn you!" He jerked the doorknob.
The phone screamed.
He heaved a porch chair through a parlor window, leaped
in after it.
Before he even touched the phone, it was silent.
He stalked through the house then and broke mirrors, tore
down drapes, and kicked in the kitchen stove.
Finally, exhausted, he picked up the thin directory which
listed every phone on Mars. Fifty thousand names.
He started with number one.
Amelia Ames. He dialed her number in New Chicago, one
hundred miles over the dead sea.
No answer.
Number two lived in New New York, five thousand miles
across the blue mountains.
No answer.
He called three, four, five, six, seven, eight, his
fingers jerking, unable to grip the receiver.
A woman's voice answered, "Hello?"
Walter cried back at her, "Hello, oh lord, hello!"
"This is a recording," recited the woman's voice. "Miss
Helen Arasumian is not home. Will you leave a message on the
wire spool so she may call you when she returns? Hello? This is
a recording. Miss Arasumian is not home. Will you leave
a message--"
He hung up.
He sat with his mouth twitching.
On second thought he redialed that number.
"When Miss Helen Arasumian comes home," he said, "tell her
to go to hell."

He phoned Mars Junction, New Boston, Arcadia, and
Roosevelt City exchanges, theorizing that they would be logical
places for persons to dial from; after that he contacted local
city halls and other public institutions in each town. He
phoned the best hotels. Leave it to a woman to put herself up
in luxury.
Suddenly he stopped, clapped his hands sharply together,
and laughed. Of course! He checked the directory and dialed
a long-distance call through to the biggest beauty parlor in
New Texas City. If ever there was a place where a woman would
putter around, patting mud packs on her face and sitting under
a drier, it would be a velvet-soft, diamond-gem beauty parlor!
The phone rang. Someone at the other end lifted the
receiver.
A woman's voice said, "Hello?"
"If this is a recording," announced Walter Gripp, "I'll
come over and blow the place up."
"This isn't a record," said the woman's voice. "Hello!
Oh, hello, there _is_ someone alive! Where _are_ you?" She gave
a delighted scream.
Walter almost collapsed. "_You!_' He stood up jerkily,
eyes wild. "Good lord, what luck, what's your name?"
"Genevieve Selsor!" She wept into the receiver. "Oh, I'm
so glad to hear from you, whoever you are!"
"Walter Gripp!"
"Walter, hello, Walter!"
"Hello, Genevieve!"
"Walter. It's such a nice name. Walter, Walter!"
"Thank you."
"Walter, where _are_ you?"
Her voice was so kind and sweet and fine. He held the
phone tight to his ear so she could whisper sweetly into it.
He felt his feet drift off the floor. His cheeks burned.
"I'm in Marlin Village," he said. "I--"
Buzz.
"Hello?" he said.
Buzz.
He jiggled the hook. Nothing.
Somewhere a wind had blown down a pole. As quickly as she
had come, Genevieve Selsor was gone.
He dialed, but the line was dead.
"I know where she is, anyway." He ran out of the house.
The sun was rising as he backed a bettle-car from the
stranger's garage, filled its backseat with food from the
house, and set out at eighty miles an hour down the highway,
heading for New Texas City. A thousand miles, he thought.
Genevieve Selsor, sit tight, you'll hear from me!
He honked his horn on every turn out of town.
At sunset, after an impossible day of driving, he pulled
to the roadside, kicked off his tight shoes, laid himself out
in the seat, and slid the gray Homburg over his weary eyes.
His breathing became slow and regular. The wind blew and the
stars shone gently upon him in the new dusk. The Martian
mountains lay all around, millions of years old. Starlight
glittered on the spires of a little Martian town, no bigger
than a game of chess, in the blue hills.
He lay in the half-place between awakeness and dreams.
He whispered. Genevieve. _Oh, Genevieve, sweet Genevieve_, he
sang softly, _the years may come, the years may go. But
Genevieve, sweet Genevieve_. . . . . There was a warmth in him.
He heard her quiet sweet cool voice singing. _Hello, oh, hello,
Walter! This is no record. Where are you, Walter, where are
you?_
He sighed, putting up a hand to touch her in the
moonlight. Long dark hair shaking in the wind; beautiful, it
was. And her lips like red peppermints. And her cheeks like
fresh-cut wet roses. And her body like a clear vaporous mist,
while her soft cool sweet voice crooned to him once more the
words to the old sad song, _Oh, Genevieve, sweet Genevieve,
the years may come, the years may go_ . . .
He slept.

He reached New Texas City at midnight.
He halted before the Deluxe Beauty Salon, yelling.
He expected her to rush out, all perfume, all laughter.
Nothing happened.
"She's asleep." He walked to the door. "Here I am!" he
called. "Hello, Genevieve!"
The town lay in double moonlit silence. Somewhere a wind
flapped a canvas awning.
He swung the glass door wide and stepped in.
"Hey!" He laughed uneasily. "Don't hide! I know you're
here!"
He searched every booth.
He found a tiny handkerchief on the floor. It smelled so
good he almost lost his balance. "Genevieve," he said.
He drove the car through the empty streets but saw
nothing. "If this is a practical joke . . ."
He slowed the car. "Wait a minute. We were cut off. Maybe
_she_ drove to Marlin Village while I was driving here! She
probably took the old Sea Road. We missed each other during the
day. How'd she know I'd come get her? I didn't _say_ I would.
And she was so afraid when the phone died that she rushed to
Marlin Village to find me! And here I am, by God, what a fool
_I_ am!"
Giving the horn a blow, he shot out of town.
He drove all night. He thought, What if she isn't in
Marlin Village waiting, when I arrive?
He wouldn't think of that. She _must_ be there. And he
would run up and hold her and perhaps even kiss her, once, on
the lips.
_Genevieve, sweet Genevieve_, he whistled, stepping it up
to one hundred miles an hour.

Marlin Village was quiet at dawn. Yellow lights were
still burning in several stores, and a juke box that had
played steadily for one hundred hours finally, with a crackle
of electricity, ceased, making the silence complete. The sun
warmed the streets and warmed the cold and vacant sky.
Walter turned down Main Street, the car lights still
on, honking the horn a double toot, six times at one corner,
six times at another. He peered at the store names. His face
was white and tired, and his hands slid on the sweaty steering
wheel.
"Genevieve!" he called in the empty street.
The door to a beauty salon opened.
"Genevieve!" He stopped the car.
Genevieve Selsor stood in the open door of the salon as he
ran across the street. A box of cream chocolates lay open in
her arms. Her fingers, cuddling it, were plump and pallid. Her
face, as he stepped into the light, was round and thick, and
her eyes were like two immense eggs stuck into a white mess
of bread dough. Her legs were as big around as the stumps of
trees, and she moved with an ungainly shuffle. Her hair was
an indiscriminate shade of brown that had been made and remade,
it appeared, as a nest for birds. She had no lips at all
and compensated this by stenciling on a large red, greasy mouth
that now popped open in delight, now shut in sudden alarm. She
had plucked her brows to thin antenna lines.
Walter stopped. His smile dissolved. He stood looking at
her.
She dropped her candy box to the sidewalk.
"Are you--Genevieve Selsor?" His ears rang.
"Are you Walter Griff?" she asked.
"Gripp."
"Gripp," she corrected herself.
"How do you do," he said with a restrained voice.
"How do you do." She shook his hand.
Her fingers were sticky with chocolate.

"Well," said Walter Gripp.
"What?" asked Genevieve Selsor.
"I just said, 'Well,'" said Walter.
"Oh."
It was nine o'clock at night. They had spent the
day picnicking, and for supper he had prepared a filet mignon
which she didn't like because it was too rare, so he broiled
it some more and it was too much broiled or fried or something.
He laughed and said, "We'll see a movie!" She said okay and put
her chocolaty fingers on his elbow. But all she wanted to see
was a fifty-year-old film of Clark Gable. "Doesn't he just kill
you?" She giggled. "Doesn't he _kill_ you, now?" The film
ended. "Run it off again," she commanded. "Again?" he asked.
"Again," she said. And when he returned she snuggled up and put
her paws all over him. "You're not quite what I expected, but
you're nice," she admitted. "Thanks," he said, swallowing. "Oh,
that Gable," she said, and pinched his leg. "Ouch," he said.
After the film they went shopping down the silent streets.
She broke a window and put on the brightest dress she could
find. Dumping a perfume bottle on her hair, she resembled
a drowned sheep dog. "How old are you?" he inquired. "Guess."
Dripping, she led him down the street. "Oh, thirty," he said.
"Well," she announced stiffly, "I'm only twenty-seven, so
there!
"Here's another candy store!" she said. "Honest, I've led
the life of Reilly since everything exploded. I never liked
my folks, they were fools. They left for Earth two months ago.
I was supposed to follow on the last rocket, but I stayed on;
you know why?"
"Why?"
"Because everyone picked on me. So I stayed where I could
throw perfume on myself all day and drink ten thousand malts
and eat candy without people saying, 'Oh, that's full of
calories!' So here I _am!_"
"Here you are." Walter shut his eyes.
"It's getting late," she said, looking at him.
"Yes."
"I'm tired," she said.
"Funny. I'm wide awake."
"Oh," she said.
"I feel like staying up all night," he said. "Say, there's
a good record at Mike's. Come on, I'll play it for you."
"I'm tired." She glanced up at him with sly, bright eyes.
"I'm very alert," he said. "Strange."
"Come back to the beauty shop," she said. "I want to show
you something."
She took him in through the glass door and walked him over
to a large white box. "When I drove from Texas City," she said,
"I brought this with me." She untied the pink ribbon. "I
thought: Well, here I am, the only lady on Mars, and here is
the only man, and, well . . ." She lifted the lid and folded
back crisp layers of whispery pink tissue paper. She gave it
a pat. "There."
Walter Gripp stared.
"What is it?" he asked, beginning to tremble.
"Don't you know, silly? It's all lace and all white and
all fine and everything."
"No, I don't know what it is."
"It's a wedding dress, silly!"
"Is it?" His voice cracked.
He shut his eyes. Her voice was still soft and cool and
sweet, as it had been on the phone. But when he opened his eyes
and looked at her . . .
He backed up. "How nice," he said.
"Isn't it?"
"Genevieve." He glanced at the door.
"Yes?"
"Genevieve, I've something to tell you."
"Yes?" She drifted toward him, the perfume smell thick
about her round white face.
"The thing I have to say to you is . . ." he said.
"Yes?"
"Good-by!"
And he was out the door and into his car before she could
scream.
She ran and stood on the curb as he swung the car about.
"Walter Griff, come back here!" she wailed, flinging up
her arms.
"Gripp," he corrected her.
"Gripp!" she shouted.
The car whirled away down the silent street, regardless of
her stompings and shriekings. The exhaust from it fluttered
the white dress she crumpled in her plump hands, and the stars
shone bright, and the car vanished out onto the desert and away
into blackness.

He drove all night and all day for three nights and days.
Once he thought he saw a car following, and he broke into
a shivering sweat and took another highway, cutting off across
the lonely Martian world, past little dead cities, and he drove
and drove for a week and a day, until he had put ten thousand
miles between himself and Marlin Village. Then he pulled into
a small town named Holtville Springs, where there were some
tiny stores he could light up at night and restaurants to sit
in, ordering meals. And he's lived there ever since, with two
deep freezes packed with food to last him one hundred years,
and enough cigars to last ten thousand days, and a good bed
with a soft mattress.
And when once in a while over the long years the phone
rings--he doesn't answer.

April 2026: THE LONG YEARS

Whenever the wind came through the sky, he and his small
family would sit in the stone hut and warm their hands over a
wood fire. The wind would stir the canal waters and almost blow
the stars out of the sky, but Mr. Hathaway would sit contented
and talk to his wife, and his wife would reply, and he would
speak to his two daughters and his son about the old days on
Earth, and they would all answer neatly.
It was the twentieth year after the Great War. Mars was
a tomb, planet. Whether or not Earth was the same was a matter
for much silent debate for Hathaway and his family on the
long Martian nights.
This night one of the violent Martian dust storms had come
over the low Martian graveyards, blowing through ancient towns
and tearing away the plastic walls of the newer, American-built
city that was melting down into the sand, desolated.
The storm abated. Hathaway went out into the cleared
weather to see Earth burning green on the windy sky. He put his
hand up as one might reach to adjust a dimly burning globe in
the ceiling of a dark room. He looked across the long-dead
sea bottoms. Not another living thing on this entire planet,
he thought. Just myself. And _them_. He looked back within the
stone hut.
What was happening on Earth now? He had seen no visible
sign of change in Earth's aspect through his thirty-inch
telescope. Well, he thought, I'm good for another twenty years
if I'm careful. Someone might come. Either across the dead seas
or out of space in a rocket on a little thread of red flame.
He called into the hut, "I'm going to take a walk."
"All right," his wife said.
He moved quietly down through a series of ruins. "Made in
New York," he read from a piece of metal as he passed. "And
all these things from Earth will be gone long before the old
Martian towns." He looked toward the fifty-centuries-old
village that lay among the blue mountains.
He came to a solitary Martian graveyard, a series of
small hexagonal stones on a hill swept by the lonely wind.
He stood looking down at four graves with crude wooden
crosses on them, and names. Tears did not come to his eyes.
They had dried long ago.
"Do you forgive me for what I've done?" he asked of
the crosses. "I was very much alone. You do understand, don't
you?"
He returned to the stone hut and once more, just before
going in, shaded his eyes, searching the black sky.
"You keep waiting and waiting and looking," he said, "and
one night, perhaps--"
There was a tiny red flame on the sky.
He stepped away from the light of the hut.
"--and you look _again_," he whispered.
The tiny red flame was still there.
"It wasn't there last night," he whispered.
He stumbled and fell, picked himself up, ran behind the
hut, swiveled the telescope, and pointed it at the sky.
A minute later, after a long wild staring, he appeared in
the low door of the hut. The wife and the two daughters and the
son turned their heads to him. Finally he was able to speak
"I have good news," he said. "I have looked at the sky.
A rocket is coming to take us all home. It will be here in the
early morning."
He put his hands down and put his head into his hands and
began to cry gently.
He burned what was left of New New York that morning at
three.
He took a torch and moved into the plastic city and with
the flame touched the walls here or there. The city bloomed up
in great tosses of heat and light. It was a square mile
of illumination, big enough to be seen out in space. It would
beckon the rocket down to Mr. Hathaway and his family.
His heart beating rapidly with.pain, he returned to the
hut. "See?" He held up a dusty bottle into the light. "Wine
I saved, just for tonight. I knew that some day someone would
find us! We'll have a drink to celebrate!"
He poured five glasses full.
"It's been a long time," he said, gravely looking into
his drink. "Remember the day the war broke? Twenty years and
seven months ago. And all the rockets were called home from
Mars. And you and I and the children were out in the mountains,
doing archaeological work, research on the ancient surgical
methods of the Martians. We ran our horses, almost killing
them, remember? But we got here to the city a week late.
Everyone was gone. America had been destroyed; every rocket had
left without waiting for stragglers, remember, remember? And
it turned out we were the _only_ ones left? Lord, Lord, how
the years pass. I couldn't have stood it without you here, all
of you. I'd have killed myself without you. But with you, it
was worth waiting. Here's to us, then." He lifted his glass.
"And to our long wait together." He drank.
The wife and the two daughters and the son raised their
glasses to their lips.
The wine ran down over the chins of all four of them.

By morning the city was blowing in great black soft flakes
across the sea bottom. The fire was exhausted, but it had
served its purpose; the red spot on the sky grew larger.
From the stone hut came the rich brown smell of
baked gingerbread. His wife stood over the table, setting down
the hot pans of new bread as Hathaway entered. The two
daughters were gently sweeping the bare stone floor with stiff
brooms, and the son was polishing the silverware.
"We'll have a huge breakfast for them," laughed Hathaway.
"Put on your best clothes!"
He hurried across his land to the vast metal storage shed.
Inside was the cold-storage unit and power plant he had
repaired and restored with his efficient, small, nervous
fingers over the years, just as he had repaired clocks,
telephones, and spool recorders in his spare time. The shed was
full of things he had built, some senseless mechanisms the
functions of which were a mystery even to himself now as he
looked upon them.
From the deep freeze he fetched rimed cartons of beans
and strawberries, twenty years old. Lazarus come forth, he
thought, and pulled out a cool chicken.
The air was full of cooking odors when the rocket landed.
Like a boy, Hathaway raced down the hill. He stopped
once because of a sudden sick pain in his chest. He sat on a
rock to regain his breath, then ran all the rest of the way.
He stood in the hot atmosphere generated by the fiery
rocket. A port opened. A man looked down.
Hathaway shielded his eyes and at last said, "Captain
Wilder!"
"Who is it?" asked Captain Wilder, and jumped down and
stood there looking at the old man. He put his hand out. "Good
lord, it's Hathaway!"
"That's right." They looked into each other's faces.
"Hathaway, from my old crew, from the Fourth Expedition."
"It's been a long time, Captain."
"Too long. It's good to see you."
"I'm old," said Hathaway simply.
"I'm not young myself any more. I've been out to Jupiter
and Saturn and Neptune for twenty years."
"I heard they had kicked you upstairs so you wouldn't
interfere with colonial policy here on Mars." The old man
looked around. "You've been gone so long you don't know
what's happened--"
Wilder said, "I can guess. We've circled Mars twice. Found
only one other man, name of Walter Gripp, about ten thousand
miles from here, We offered to take him with us, but he said
no. The last we saw of him he was sitting in the middle of
the highway in a rocking chair, smoking a pipe, waving to us.
Mars is pretty well dead, not even a Martian alive. What about
Earth?"
"You know as much as I do. Once in a while I get the Earth
radio, very faintly. But it's always in some other language.
I'm sorry to say I only know Latin. A few words come through.
I take it most of Earth's a shambles, but the war goes on. Are
you going back, sir?"
"Yes. We're curious, of course. We had no radio contact so
far out in space. We'll want to see Earth, no matter what."
"You'll take us with you?"
The captain started. "Of course, your wife, I remember
her. Twenty-five years ago, wasn't it? When they opened First
Town and you quit the service and brought her up here. And
there were children--"
"My son and two daughters."
"Yes, I remember. They're here?"
"Up at our hut. There's a fine breakfast waiting all of
you up the hill. Will you come?"
"We would be honored, Mr. Hathaway." Captain Wilder called
to the rocket, "Abandon ship!"

They walked up the hill, Hathaway and Captain Wilder,
the twenty crew members following taking deep breaths of the
thin, cool morning air. The sun rose and it was a good day.
"Do you remember Spender, Captain?"
"I've never forgotten him."
"About once a year I walk up past his tomb. It looks like
he got his way at last. He didn't want us to come here, and
I suppose he's happy now that we've all gone away."
"What about--what was his name?--Parkhill, Sam Parkhill?"
"He opened a hot-dog stand."
"It sounds just _like_ him."
"And went back to Earth the next week for the war."
Hathaway put his hand to his chest and sat down abruptly upon
a boulder, "I'm sorry. The excitement. Seeing you again after
all these years. Have to rest." He felt his heart pound. He
counted the beats. It was very bad.
"We've a doctor," said Wilder. "Excuse me, Hathaway, I
know you are one, but we'd better check you with our own--"
The doctor was summoned.
"I'll be all right," insisted Hathaway. "The waiting,
the excitement." He could hardly breathe. His lips were blue.
"You know," he said as the doctor placed a stethoscope to him,
"it's as if I kept alive all these years just for this day, and
now you're here to take me back to Earth, I'm satisfied and I
can just lie down and quit."
"Here." The doctor handed him a yellow pellet. "We'd
better let you rest."
"Nonsense. Just let me sit a moment. It's good to see all
of you. Good to hear new voices again."
"Is the pellet working?"
"Fine. Here we go!"
They walked on up the hill.

"Alice, come see who's here!"
Hathaway frowned and bent into the hut. "Alice, did you
hear?"
His wife appeared. A moment later the two daughters, tall
and gracious, came out, followed by an even taller son.
"Alice, you remember Captain Wilder?"
She hesitated and looked at Hathaway as if for
instructions and then smiled. "Of course, Captain Wilder!"
"I remember, we had dinner together the night before I
took off for Jupiter, Mrs. Hathaway."
She shook his hand vigorously. "My daughters, Marguerite
and Susan. My son, John. You remember the captain, surely?"
Hands were shaken amid laughter and much talk.
Captain Wilder sniffed the air. "Is that _gingerbread?_"
"Will you have some?"
Everyone moved. Folding tables were hurried out while hot
foods were rushed forth and plates and fine damask napkins and
good silverware were laid. Captain Wilder stood looking first
at Mrs. Hathaway and then at her son and her two tall,
quiet-moving daughters. He looked into their faces as they
darted past and he followed every move of their youthful hands
and every expression of their wrinkleless faces. He sat upon
a chair the son brought. "How old are you, John?"
The son replied, "Twenty-three."
Wilder shifted his silverware clumsily. His face was
suddenly pale. The man next to him whispered, "Captain Wilder,
that can't be right."
The son moved away to bring more chairs.
"What's that, Williamson?"
"I'm forty-three myself, Captain. I was in school the same
time as young John Hathaway there, twenty years ago. He says
he's only twenty-three now; he only _looks_ twenty-three. But
that's wrong. He should be forty-two, at least. What's it mean,
sir?"
"I don't know."
"You look kind of sick, sir."
"I don't feel well. The daughters, too, I saw them twenty
years or so ago; they haven't changed, not a wrinkle. Will you
do me a favor? I want you to run an errand, Williamson. I'll
tell you where to go and what to check. Late in the breakfast,
slip away. It should take you only ten minutes. The place isn't
far from here. I saw it from the rocket as we landed."
"Here! What are you talking about so seriously?" Mrs.
Hathaway ladled quick spoons of soup into their bowls. "Smile
now; we're all together, the trip's over, and it's like home!"
"Yes." Captain Wilder laughed. "You certainly look very
well and young Mrs. Hathaway!"
"Isn't that like a man!"
He watched her drift away, drift with her pink face warm,
smooth as an apple, unwrinkled and colorful. She chimed her
laugh at every joke, she tossed salads neatly, never once
pausing for breath. And the bony son and curved daughters
were brilliantly witty, like their father, telling of the long
years and their secret life, while their father nodded proudly
to each.
Williamson slipped off down the hill.
"Where's _he_ going?" asked Hathaway.
"Checking the rocket," said Wilder. "But, as I was
saying, Hathaway, there's nothing on Jupiter, nothing at all
for men. That includes Saturn and Pluto." Wilder talked
mechanically, not hearing his words, thinking only of
Williamson running down the hill and climbing back to tell what
he had found.
"Thanks." Marguerite Hathaway was filling his water
glass. Impulsively he touched her arm. She did not even mind.
Her flesh was warm and soft.
Hathaway, across the table, paused several times, touched
his chest with his fingers, painfully, then went on listening
to the murmuring talk and sudden loud chattering, glancing now
and again with concern at Wilder, who did not seem to like
chewing his gingerbread.
Williamson returned. He sat picking at his food until
the captain whispered aside to him, "Well?"
"I found it, sir."
"And?"
Williamson's cheeks were white. He kept his eyes on
the laughing people. The daughters were smiling gravely and the
son was telling a joke. Williamson said, "I went into
the graveyard."
"The four crosses were there?"
"The four crosses were there, sir. The names were still
on them. I wrote them down to be sure." He read from a white
paper: "Alice, Marguerite, Susan, and John Hathaway. Died
of unknown virus. July 2007."
"Thank you, Williamson." Wilder closed his eyes.
"Nineteen years ago, sir," Williamson's hand trembled.
"Yes."
"Then who are _these!_"
"I don't know."
"What are you going to do?"
"I don't know that either."
"Will we tell the other men?"
"Later. Go on with your food as if nothing happened."
"I'm not very hungry now, sir."
The meal ended with wine brought from the rocket. Hathaway
arose. "A toast to all of you; it's good to be with friends
again. And to my wife and children, without whom I couldn't
have survived alone. It is only through their kindness in
caring for me that I've lived on, waiting for your arrival."
He moved his wineglass toward his family, who looked
back self-consciously, lowering their eyes at last as everyone
drank.
Hathaway drank down his wine..He did not cry out as he
fell forward onto the table and slipped to the ground. Several
men eased him to rest. The doctor bent to him and listened.
Wilder touched the doctor's shoulder. The doctor looked up and
shook his head. Wilder knelt and took the old man's hand.
"Wilder?" Hathaway's voice was barely audible. "I spoiled
the breakfast."
"Nonsense."
"Say good-by to Alice and the children for me."
"Just a moment, I'll call them."
"No, no, don't!" gasped Hathaway. "They wouldn't
understand. I wouldn't want them to understand! Don't!"
Wilder did not move.
Hathaway was dead.
Wilder waited for a long time. Then he arose and walked
away from the stunned group around Hathaway. He went to
Alice Hathaway, looked into her face, and said, "Do you know
what has just happened?"
"Something about my husband?"
"He's just passed away; his heart," said Wilder, watching
her.
"I'm sorry," she said.
"How do you feel?" he asked.
"He didn't want us to feel badly. He told us it would
happen one day and he didn't want us to cry. He didn't teach
us how, you know. He didn't want us to know. He said it was
the worst thing that could happen to a man to know how to be
lonely and know how to be sad and then to cry. So we're not to
know what crying is, or being sad."
Wilder glanced at her hands, the soft warm hands and the
fine manicured nails and the tapered wrists. He saw her
slender, smooth white neck and her intelligent eyes. Finally
he said, "Mr. Hathaway did a fine job on you and your
children."
"He would have liked to hear you say that. He was so proud
of us. After a while he even forgot that he had made us. At the
end he loved and took us as his real wife and children. And, in
a way, we _are_."
"You gave him a good deal of comfort."
"Yes, for years on end we sat and talked. He so much loved
to talk. He liked the stone hut and the open fire. We could
have lived in a regular house in the town, but he liked it up
here, where he could be primitive if he liked, or modern if
he liked. He told me all about his laboratory and the things he
did in it. He wired the entire dead American town below with
sound speakers. When he pressed a button the town lit up and
made noises as if ten thousand people lived in it. There
were airplane noises and car noises and the sounds of people
talking. He would sit and light a cigar and talk to us, and
the sounds of the town would come up to us, and once in awhile
the phone would ring and a recorded voice would ask Mr.
Hathaway scientific and surgical questions and he would answer
them. With the phone ringing and us here and the sounds of the
town and his cigar, Mr. Hathaway was quite happy. There's only
one thing he couldn't make us do," she said. "And that was to
grow old. He got older every day, but we stayed the same. I
guess he didn't mind. I guess he wanted us this way."
"We'll bury him down in the yard where the other four
crosses are. I think he would like that."
She put her hand on his wrist, lightly. "I'm sure he
would."
Orders were given. The family followed the little
procession down the hill. Two men carried Hathaway on a
covered stretcher. They passed the stone hut and the storage
shed where Hathaway, many years before, had begun his work.
Wilder paused within the workshop door.
How would it be, he wondered, to live on a planet with a
wife and three children and have them die, leaving you alone
with the wind and silence? What would a person do? Bury them
with crosses in the graveyard and then come back up to the
workshop and, with all the power of mind and memory and
accuracy of finger and genius, put together, bit by bit, all
those things that were wife, son, daughter. With an entire
American city below from which to draw needed supplies,
a brilliant man might do anything.
The sound of their footsteps was muffled in the sand. At
the graveyard, as they turned in, two men were already spading
out the earth.

They returned to the rocket in the late afternoon.
Williamson nodded at the stone hut. "What are we going to
do about _them?_"
"I don't know," said the captain.
"Are you going to turn them off?"
"Off?" The captain looked faintly surprised. "It never
entered my mind."
"You're not taking them back with us?"
"No, it would be useless."
"You mean you're going to leave them here, like _that_,
as they _are!_"
The captain handed Williamson a gun. "If you can do
anything about this, you're a better man than I."
Five minutes later Williamson returned from the hut,
sweating. "Here, take your gun. I understand what you mean now.
I went in the hut with the gun. One of the daughters smiled at
me. So did the others, The wife offered me a cup of tea. Lord,
it'd be murder!"
Wilder nodded. "There'll never be anything as fine as
them again. They're built to last; ten, fifty, two hundred
years. Yes, they've as much right to--to life as you or I or
any of us." He knocked out his pipe. "Well, get aboard. We're
taking off. This city's done for, we'll not be using it."
It was late in the day. A cold wind was rising. The men
were aboard. The captain hesitated. Williamson said, "Don't
tell me you're going back to say--good-by---to them?"
The captain looked at Williamson coldly. "None of
your business."
Wilder strode up toward the hut through the darkening
wind. The men in the rocket saw his shadow lingering in
the stone-hut doorway. They saw a woman's shadow. They saw
the captain shake her hand.
Moments later he came running back to the rocket.

On nights when the wind comes over the dead sea bottoms
and through the hexagonal graveyard, over four old crosses and
one new one, there is a light burning in the low stone hut, and
in that hut, as the wind roars by and the dust whirls and the
cold stars burn, are four figures, a woman, two daughters, a
son, tending a low fire for no reason and talking and laughing.
Night after night for every year and every year, for no
reason at all, the woman comes out and looks at the sky, her
hands up, for a long moment, looking at the green burning of
Earth, not knowing why she looks, and then she goes back and
throws a stick on the fire, and the wind comes up and the dead
sea goes on being dead.

August 2026: THERE WILL COME SOFT RAINS

In the living room the voice-clock sang, _Tick-tock,
seven o'clock, time to get up, time to get up, seven o'clock!_
as if it were afraid that nobody would. The morning house lay
empty. The clock ticked on, repeating and repeating its sounds
into the emptiness. _Seven-nine, breakfast time, seven-nine!_
In the kitchen the breakfast stove gave a hissing sigh
and ejected from its warm interior eight pieces of perfectly
browned toast, eight eggs sunnyside up, sixteen slices of
bacon, two coffees, and two cool glasses of milk.
"Today is August 4, 2026," said a second voice from the
kitchen ceiling, "in the city of Allendale, California."
It repeated the date three times for memory's sake. "Today is
Mr. Featherstone's birthday. Today is the anniversary of
Tilita's marriage. Insurance is payable, as are the water, gas,
and light bills."
Somewhere in the walls, relays clicked, memory tapes
glided under electric eyes.
_Eight-one, tick-tock, eight-one o'clock, off to school,
off to work, run, run, eight-one!_ But no doors slammed, no
carpets took the soft tread of rubber heels. It was raining
outside. The weather box on the front door sang quietly: "Rain,
rain, go away; rubbers, raincoats for today . . ." And the
rain tapped on the empty house, echoing.
Outside, the garage chimed and lifted its door to reveal
the waiting car. After a long wait the door swung down again.
At eight-thirty the eggs were shriveled and the toast was
like stone. An aluminum wedge scraped them into the sink, where
hot water whirled them down a metal throat which digested
and flushed them away to the distant sea. The dirty dishes
were dropped into a hot washer and emerged twinkling dry.
_Nine-fifteen_, sang the clock, _time to clean_.
Out of warrens in the wall, tiny robot mice darted. The
rooms were acrawl with the small cleaning animals, all rubber
and metal. They thudded against chairs, whirling their
mustached runners, kneading the rug nap, sucking gently at
hidden dust. Then, like mysterious invaders, they popped into
their burrows. Their pink electric eyes faded. The house was
clean.
_Ten o'clock_. The sun came out from behind the rain. The
house stood alone in a city of rubble and ashes. This was the
one house left standing. At night the ruined city gave off
a radioactive glow which could be seen for miles.
_Ten-fifteen_. The garden sprinklers whirled up in golden
founts, filling the soft morning air with scatterings
of brightness, The water pelted windowpanes, running down
the charred west side where the house had been burned evenly
free of its white paint. The entire west face of the house
was black, save for five places. Here the silhouette in paint
of a man mowing a lawn. Here, as in a photograph, a woman bent
to pick flowers. Still farther over, their images burned on
wood in one titanic instant, a small boy, hands flung into the
air; higher up, the image of a thrown ball, and opposite him
a girl, hands raised to catch a ball which never came down.
The five spots of paint--the man, the woman, the children,
the ball--remained. The rest was a thin charcoaled layer.
The gentle sprinkler rain filled the garden with falling
light.
Until this day, how well the house had kept its peace.
How carefully it had inquired, "Who goes there? What's
the password?" and, getting no answer from lonely foxes and
whining cats, it had shut up its windows and drawn shades in
an old-maidenly preoccupation with self-protection which
bordered on a mechanical paranoia.
It quivered at each sound, the house did. If a sparrow
brushed a window, the shade snapped up. The bird, startled,
flew off! No, not even a bird must touch the house!
The house was an altar with ten thousand attendants, big,
small, servicing, attending, in choirs. But the gods had gone
away, and the ritual of the religion continued senselessly,
uselessly.
_Twelve noon_.
A dog whined, shivering, on the front porch.
The front door recognized the dog voice and opened. The
dog, once huge and fleshy, but now gone to bone and covered
with sores, moved in and through the house, tracking mud.
Behind it whirred angry mice, angry at having to pick up mud,
angry at inconvenience.
For not a leaf fragment blew under the door but what the
wall panels flipped open and the copper scrap rats flashed
swiftly out. The offending dust, hair, or paper, seized
in miniature steel jaws, was raced back to the burrows. There,
down tubes which fed into the cellar, it was dropped into
the sighing vent of an incinerator which sat like evil Baal in
a dark corner.
The dog ran upstairs, hysterically yelping to each door,
at last realizing, as the house realized, that only silence
was here.
It sniffed the air and scratched the kitchen door. Behind
the door, the stove was making pancakes which filled the house
with a rich baked odor and the scent of maple syrup.
The dog frothed at the mouth, lying at the door, sniffing,
its eyes turned to fire. It ran wildly in circles, biting at
its tail, spun in a frenzy, and died. It lay in the parlor for
an hour.
_Two o'clock_, sang a voice.
Delicately sensing decay at last, the regiments of mice
hummed out as softly as blown gray leaves in an electrical
wind.
_Two-fifteen_.
The dog was gone.
In the cellar, the incinerator glowed suddenly and a whirl
of sparks leaped up the chimney.
_Two thirty-five_.
Bridge tables sprouted from patio walls. Playing cards
fluttered onto pads in a shower of pips. Martinis manifested on
an oaken bench with egg-salad sandwiches. Music played.
But the tables were silent and the cards untouched.
At four o'clock the tables folded like great butterflies
back through the paneled walls.

_Four-thirty_.
The nursery walls glowed.
Animals took shape: yellow giraffes, blue lions, pink
antelopes, lilac panthers cavorting in crystal substance. The
walls were glass. They looked out upon color and fantasy.
Hidden films clocked through well-oiled sprockets, and the
walls lived. The nursery floor was woven to resemble a crisp,
cereal meadow. Over this ran aluminum roaches and iron
crickets, and in the hot still air butterflies of delicate
red tissue wavered among the sharp aroma of animal spoors!
There was the sound like a great matted yellow hive of bees
within a dark bellows, the lazy bumble of a purring lion. And
there was the patter of okapi feet and the murmur of a fresh
jungle rain, like other hoofs, falling upon the summer-starched
grass. Now the walls dissolved into distances of parched weed,
mile on mile, and warm endless sky. The animals drew away into
thorn brakes and water holes.
It was the children's hour.

_Five o'clock_. The bath filled with clear hot water.
_Six, seven, eight o'clock_. The dinner dishes manipulated
like magic tricks, and in the study a _click_. In the metal
stand opposite the hearth where a fire now blazed up warmly,
a cigar popped out, half an inch of soft gray ash on it,
smoking, waiting.
_Nine o'clock_. The beds warmed their hidden circuits,
for nights were cool here.
_Nine-five_. A voice spoke from the study ceiling:
"Mrs. McClellan, which poem would you like this evening?"
The house was silent.
The voice said at last, "Since you express no preference,
I shall select a poem at random." Quiet music rose to back
the voice. "Sara Teasdale. As I recall, your favorite. . . .

"_There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;

And frogs in the pools singing at night,
And wild plum trees in tremulous white;

Robins will wear their feathery fire,
Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;

And not one will know of the war, not one
Will care at last when it is done.

Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree,
If mankind perished utterly;

And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn
Would scarcely know that we were gone_."

The fire burned on the stone hearth and the cigar fell
away into a mound of quiet ash on its tray. The empty chairs
faced each other between the silent walls, and the music
played.

At ten o'clock the house began to die.
The wind blew. A falling tree bough crashed through the
kitchen window. Cleaning solvent, bottled, shattered over the
stove. The room was ablaze in an instant!
"Fire!" screamed a voice. The house lights flashed, water
pumps shot water from the ceilings. But the solvent spread on
the linoleum, licking eating under the kitchen door, while
the voices took it up in chorus: "Fire, fire, fire!"
The house tried to save itself. Doors sprang tightly shut,
but the windows were broken by the heat and the wind blew and
sucked upon the fire.
The house gave ground as the fire in ten billion angry
sparks moved with flaming ease from room to room and then up
the stairs. While scurrying water rats squeaked from the
walls, pistoled their water, and ran for more. And the wall
sprays let down showers of mechanical rain.
But too late. Somewhere, sighing, a pump shrugged to a
stop. The quenching rain ceased. The reserve water supply which
had filled baths and washed dishes for many quiet days was
gone.
The fire crackled up the stairs. It fed upon Picassos
and Matisses in the upper halls, like delicacies, baking off
the oily flesh, tenderly crisping the canvases into black
shavings.
Now the fire lay in beds, stood in windows, changed the
colors of drapes!
And then, reinforcements.
From attic trapdoors, blind robot faces peered down with
faucet mouths gushing green chemical.
The fire backed off, as even an elephant must at the sight
of a dead snake. Now there were twenty snakes whipping over
the floor, killing the fire with a clear cold venom of green
froth.
But the fire was clever. It had sent flames outside the
house, up through the attic to the pumps there. An explosion!
The attic brain which directed the pumps was shattered into
bronze shrapnel on the beams.
The fire rushed back into every closet and felt of the
clothes hung there.
The house shuddered, oak bone on bone, its bared skeleton
cringing from the heat, its wire, its nerves revealed as if
a surgeon had torn the skin off to let the red veins and
capillaries quiver in the scalded air. Help, help! Fire! Run,
run! Heat snapped mirrors like the brittle winter ice. And
the voices wailed Fire, fire, run, run, like a tragic nursery
rhyme, a dozen voices, high, low, like children dying in a
forest, alone, alone. And the voices fading as the wires popped
their sheathings like hot chestnuts. One, two, three, four,
five voices died.
In the nursery the jungle burned. Blue lions roared,
purple giraffes bounded off. The panthers ran in cirdes,
changing color, and ten million animals, running before the
fire, vanished off toward a distant steaming river. . . .
Ten more voices died. In the last instant under the
fire avalanche, other choruses, oblivious, could be heard
announcing the time, playing music, cutting the lawn
by remote-control mower, or setting an umbrella frantically out
and in the slamming and opening front door, a thousand
things happening, like a clock shop when each clock strikes the
hour insanely before or after the other, a scene of maniac
confusion, yet unity; singing, screaming, a few last cleaning
mice darting bravely out to carry the horrid ashes away! And
one voice, with sublime disregard for the situation, read
poetry aloud in the fiery study, until all the film spools
burned, until all the wires withered and the circuits cracked.
The fire burst the house and let it slam flat down,
puffing out skirts of spark and smoke.
In the kitchen, an instant before the rain of fire and
timber, the stove could be seen making breakfasts at
a psychopathic rate, ten dozen eggs, six loaves of toast,
twenty dozen bacon strips, which, eaten by fire, started the
stove working again, hysterically hissing!
The crash. The attic smashing into kitchen and parlor.
The parlor into cellar, cellar into sub-cellar. Deep freeze,
armchair, film tapes, circuits, beds, and all like skeletons
thrown in a cluttered mound deep under.
Smoke and silence. A great quantity of smoke.
Dawn showed faintly in the east. Among the ruins, one wall
stood alone. Within the wall, a last voice said, over and over
again and again, even as the sun rose to shine upon the heaped
rubble and steam:
"Today is August 5, 2026, today is August 5, 2026, today
is . . ."

October 2026: THE MILLION-YEAR PICNIC

Somehow the idea was brought up by Mom that perhaps the
whole family would enjoy a fishing trip. But they weren't Mom's
words; Timothy knew that. They were Dad's words, and Mom used
them for him somehow.
Dad shuffled his feet in a clutter of Martian pebbles
and agreed. So immediately there was a tumult and a shouting,
and very quickly the camp was tucked into capsules and
containers, Mom slipped into traveling jumpers and blouse,
Dad stuffed his pipe full with trembling hands, his eyes on
the Martian sky, and the three boys piled yelling into
the motorboat, none of them really keeping an eye on Mom and
Dad, except Timothy.
Dad pushed a stud. The water boat sent a humming sound up
into the sky. The water shook back and the boat nosed ahead,
and the family cried, "Hurrah!"
Timothy sat in the back of the boat with Dad, his small
fingers atop Dad's hairy ones, watching the canal twist,
leaving the crumbled place behind where they had landed in
their small family rocket all the way from Earth. He remembered
the night before they left Earth, the hustling and hurrying
the rocket that Dad had found somewhere, somehow, and the talk
of a vacation on Mars. A long way to go for a vacation, but
Timothy said nothing because of his younger brothers. They came
to Mars and now, first thing, or so they said, they were
going fishing.
Dad had a funny look in his eyes as the boat went
up-canal. A look that Timothy couldn't figure. It was made
of strong light and maybe a sort of relief. It made the deep
wrinkles laugh instead of worry or cry.
So there went the cooling rocket, around a bend, gone.
"How far are we going?" Robert splashed his hand. It
looked like a small crab jumping in the violet water.
Dad exhaled. "A million years."
"Gee," said Robert.
"Look, kids." Mother pointed one soft long arm. "There's
a dead city."
They looked with fervent anticipation, and the dead city
lay dead for them alone, drowsing in a hot silence of summer
made on Mars by a Martian weatherman.
And Dad looked as if he was pleased that it was dead.
It was a futile spread of pink rocks sleeping on a rise
of sand, a few tumbled pillars, one lonely shrine, and then
the sweep of sand again. Nothing else for miles. A white desert
around the canal and a blue desert over it.
Just then a bird flew up. Like a stone thrown across a
blue pond, hitting, falling deep, and vanishing.
Dad got a frightened look when he saw it. "I thought it
was a rocket."
Timothy looked at the deep ocean sky, trying to see Earth
and the war and the ruined cities and the men killing each
other since the day he was born. But he saw nothing. The war
was as removed and far off as two flies battling to the death
in the arch of a great high and silent cathedral. And just
as senseless.
William Thomas wiped his forehead and felt the touch of
his son's hand on his arm, like a young tarantula, thrilled.
He beamed at his son. "How goes it, Timmy?"
"Fine, Dad."
Timothy hadn't quite figured out what was ticking inside
the vast adult mechanism beside him. The man with the immense
hawk nose, sunburnt, peeling--and the hot blue eyes like agate
marbles you play with after school in summer back on Earth, and
the long thick columnar legs in the loose riding breeches.
"What are you looking at so hard, Dad?"
"I was looking for Earthian logic, common sense,
good government, peace, and responsibility."
"All that up there?"
"No. I didn't find it. It's not there any more. Maybe
it'll never be there again. Maybe we fooled ourselves that it
was ever there."
"Huh?"
"See the fish," said Dad, pointing.

There rose a soprano clamor from all three boys as they
rocked the boat in arching their tender necks to see. They
_oohed_ and _ahed_. A silver ring fish floated by them,
undulating, and closing like an iris, instantly, around
food partides, to assimilate them.
Dad looked at it. His voice was deep and quiet.
"Just like war. War swims along, sees food, contracts.
A moment later--Earth is gone."
"William," said Mom.
"Sorry," said Dad.
They sat still and felt the canal water rush cool, swift,
and glassy. The only sound was the motor hum, the glide of
water, the sun expanding the air.
"When do we see the Martians?" cried Michael.
"Quite soon, perhaps," said Father. "Maybe tonight."
"Oh, but the Martians are a dead race now," said Mom.
"No, they're not. I'll show you some Martians, all right,"
Dad said presently.
Timothy scowled at that but said nothing. Everything was
odd now. Vacations and fishing and looks between people.
The other boys were already engaged making shelves of
their small hands and peering under them toward the seven-foot
stone banks of the canal, watching for Martians.
"What do they look like?" demanded Michael.
"You'll know them when you see them." Dad sort of laughed,
and Timothy saw a pulse beating time in his cheek.
Mother was slender and soft, with a woven plait of
spungold hair over her head in a tiara, and eyes the color of
the deep cool canal water where it ran in shadow, almost
purple, with flecks of amber caught in it. You could see
her thoughts swimming around in her eyes, like fish--some
bright, some dark, some fast, quick, some slow and easy,
and sometimes, like when she looked up where Earth was, being
nothing but color and nothing else. She sat in the boat's prow,
one hand resting on the side lip, the other on the lap of her
dark blue breeches, and a line of sunburnt soft neck showing
where her blouse opened like a white flower.
She kept looking ahead to see what was there, and, not
being able to see it clearly enough, she looked backward toward
her husband, and through his eyes, reflected then, she saw what
was ahead; and since he added part of himself to this
reflection, a determined firmness, her face relaxed and she
accepted it and she turned back, knowing suddenly what to look
for.
Timothy looked too. But all he saw was a straight pencil
line of canal going violet through a wide shallow valley penned
by low, eroded hills, and on until it fell over the sky's edge.
And this canal went on and on, through cities that would have
rattled like beetles in a dry skull if you shook them. A
hundred or two hundred cities dreaming hot summer-day dreams
and cool summer-night dreams . . .
They had come millions of miles for this outing--to fish.
But there had been a gun on the rocket. This was a vacation.
But why all the food, more than enough to last them years and
years, left hidden back there near the rocket? Vacation. Just
behind the veil of the vacation was not a soft face of
laughter, but something hard and bony and perhaps terrifying.
Timothy could not lift the veil, and the two other boys were
busy being ten and eight years old, respectively.
"No Martians yet. Nuts." Robert put his V-shaped chin on
his hands and glared at the canal.
Dad had brought an atomic radio along, strapped to his
wrist. It functioned on an old-fashioned principle: you held
it against the bones near your ear and it vibrated singing
or talking to you. Dad listened to it now. His face looked like
one of those fallen Martian cities, caved in, sucked. dry,
almost dead.
Then he gave it to Mom to listen. Her lips dropped open.
"What--" Timothy started to question, but never finished
what he wished to say.
For at that moment there were two titanic, marrow-jolting
explosions that grew upon themselves, followed by a half dozen
minor concussions.
Jerking his head up, Dad notched the boat speed
higher immediately. The boat leaped and jounced and spanked.
This shook Robert out of his funk and elicited yelps of
frightened but esctatic joy from Michael, who clung to Mom's
legs and watched the water pour by his nose in a wet torrent.
Dad swerved the boat, cut speed, and ducked the craft into
a little branch canal and under an ancient, crumbling stone
wharf that smelled of crab flesh. The boat rammed the wharf
hard enough to throw them all forward, but no one was hurt, and
Dad was already twisted to see if the ripples on the canal
were enough to map their route into hiding. Water lines went
across, lapped the stones, and rippled back to meet each
other, settling, to be dappled by the sun. It all went away.
Dad listened. So did everybody.
Dad's breathing echoed like fists beating against the cold
wet wharf stones. In the shadow, Mom's cat eyes just watched
Father for some clue to what next.
Dad relaxed and blew out a breath, laughing at himself.
"The rocket, of course. I'm getting jumpy. The rocket."
Michael said, "What happened, Dad, what happened?"
"Oh, we just blew up our rocket, is all," said Timothy,
trying to sound matter-of-fact. "I've heard rockets blown
up before. Ours just blew."
"Why did we blow up our rocket?" asked Michael. "Huh,
Dad?"
"It's part of the game, silly!" said Timothy.
"A game!" Michael and Robert loved the word.
"Dad fixed it so it would blow up and no one'd know where
we landed or went! In case they ever came looking, see?"
"Oh boy, a secret!"
"Scared by my own rocket," admitted Dad to Mom. "I _am_
nervous. It's silly to think there'll ever be any more rockets.
Except _one_, perhaps, if Edwards and his wife get through
with _their_ ship."
He put his tiny radio to his ear again. After two mintes
he dropped his hand as you would drop a rag.
"It's over at last," he said to Mom. "The radio just went
off the atomic beam. Every other world station's gone. They
dwindled down to a couple in the last few years. Now the
air's completely silent. It'll probably remain silent."
"For how long?" asked Robert.
"Maybe--your great-grandchildren will hear it again," said
Dad. He just sat there, and the children were caught in the
center of his awe and defeat and resignation and acceptance.
Finally he put the boat out into the canal again, and
they continued in the direction in which they had originally
started.
It was getting late. Already the sun was down the sky, and
a series of dead cities lay ahead of them.
Dad talked very quietly and gently to his sons. Many times
in the past he had been brisk, distant, removed from them, but
now he patted them on the head with just a word and they felt
it.
"Mike, pick a city."
"What, Dad?"
"Pick a city, Son. Any one of these cities we pass."
"All right," said Michael. "How do I pick?"
"Pick the one you like the most. You, too, Robert and Tim.
Pick the city you like best."
"I want a city with Martians in it," said Michael.
"You'll have that," said Dad. "I promise." His lips were
for the children, but his eyes were for Mom.
They passed six cities in twenty minutes. Dad didn't
say anything more about the explosions; he seemed much
more interested in having fun with his sons, keeping them
happy, than anything else.
Michael liked the first city they passed, but this was
vetoed because everyone doubted quick first judgments. The
second city nobody liked. It was an Earth Man's settlement,
built of wood and already rotting into sawdust. Timothy liked
the third city because it was large. The fourth and fifth were
too small and the sixth brought acclaim from everyone, induding
Mother, who joined in the Gees, Goshes, and Look-at-thats!
There were fifty or sixty huge structures still standing,
streets were dusty but paved, and you could see one or two
old centrifugal fountains still pulsing wetly in the plazas.
That was the only life--water leaping in the late sunlight.
"This is the city," said everybody.
Steering the boat to a wharf, Dad jumped out.
"Here we are. This is ours. This is where we live from now
on!"
"From now on?" Michael was incredulous. He stood up,
looking, and then turned to blink back at where the rocket used
to be. "What about the rocket? What about Minnesota?"
"Here," said Dad.
He touched the small radio to Michael's blond head.
"Listen."
Michael listened.
"Nothing," he said.
"That's right. Nothing. Nothing at all any more. No
more Minneapolis, no more rockets, no more Earth."
Michael considered the lethal revelation and began to
sob little dry sobs.
"Wait a moment," said Dad the next instant. "I'm giving
you a lot more in exchange, Mike!"
"What?" Michael held off the tears, curious, but quite
ready to continue in case Dad's further revelation was
as disconcerting as the original.
"I'm giving you this city, Mike. It's yours."
"Mine?"
"For you and Robert and Timothy, all three of you, to own
for yourselves."
Timothy bounded from the boat "Look, guys, all for _us!_
All of _that!_" He was playing the game with Dad, playing it
large and playing it well. Later, after it was all over and
things had settled, he could go off by himself and cry for
ten minutes. But now it was still a game, still a family
outing, and the other kids must be kept playing.
Mike jumped out with Robert. They helped Mom.
"Be careful of your sister," said Dad, and nobody knew
what he meant until later.
They hurried into the great pink-stoned city, whispering
among themselves, because dead cities have a way of making you
want to whisper, to watch the sun go down.
"In about five days," said Dad quietly, "I'll go back down
to where our rocket was and collect the food hidden in the
ruins there and bring it here; and I'll hunt for Bert Edwards
and his wife and daughters there."
"Daughters?" asked Timothy. "How many?"
"Four."
"I can see that'll cause trouble later." Mom nodded
slowly.
"Girls." Michael made a face like an ancient Martian stone
image. "Girls."
"Are they coming in a rocket too?"
"Yes. If they make it. Family rockets are made for travel
to the Moon, not Mars. We were lucky we got through."
"Where did you get the rocket?" whispered Timothy, for
the other boys were running ahead.
"I saved it. I saved it for twenty years, Tim. I had it
hidden away, hoping I'd never have to use it. I suppose I
should have given it to the government for the war, but I
kept thinking about Mars. . . ."
"And a picnic!"
"Right. This is between you and me. When I saw everything
was finishing on Earth, after I'd waited until the last moment,
I packed us up. Bert Edwards had a ship hidden, too, but we
decided it would be safer to take off separately, in case
anyone tried to shoot us down."
"Why'd you blow up the rocket, Dad?"
"So we can't go back, ever. And so if any of those evil
men ever come to Mars they won't know we're here."
"Is that why you look up all the time?"
"Yes, it's silly. They won't follow us, ever. They haven't
anything to follow with. I'm being too careful, is all."
Michael came running back. "Is this really _our_ city,
Dad?"
"The whole darn planet belongs to us, kids. The whole
darn planet."
They stood there, King of the Hill, Top of the Heap, Ruler
of All They Surveyed, Unimpeachable Monarchs and Presidents,
trying to understand what it meant to own a world and how big
a world really was.
Night came quickly in the thin atmosphere, and Dad left
them in the square by the pulsing fountain, went down to the
boat, and came walking back carrying a stack of paper in his
big hands.
He laid the papers in a clutter in an old courtyard and
set them afire. To keep warm, they crouched around the blaze
and laughed, and Timothy saw the little letters leap like
frightened animals when the flames touched and engulfed them.
The papers crinkled like an old man's skin, and the cremation
surrounded innumerable words:
"GOVERNMENT BONDS; Business Graph, 1999; Religious
Prejudice: An Essay; The Science of Logistics; Problems of
the Pan-American Unity; Stock Report for July 3, 1998; The
War Digest . . ."
Dad had insisted on bringing these papers for this
purpose. He sat there and fed them into the fire, one by one,
with satisfaction, and told his children what it all meant.
"It's time I told you a few things. I don't suppose it
was fair, keeping so much from you. I don't know if you'll
understand, but I have to talk, even if only part of it gets
over to you."
He dropped a leaf in the fire.
"I'm burning a way of life, just like that way of life
is being burned clean of Earth right now. Forgive me if I talk
like a politician. I am, after all, a former state governor,
and I was honest and they hated me for it. Life on Earth never
settled down to doing anything very good. Science ran too far
ahead of us too quickly, and the people got lost in a
mechanical wilderness, like children making over pretty things,
gadgets, helicopters, rockets; emphasizing the wrong items,
emphasizing machines instead of how to run the machines. Wars
got bigger and bigger and finally killed Earth. That's what
the silent radio means. That's what we ran away from.
"We were lucky. There aren't any more rockets left. It's
time you knew this isn't a fishing trip at all. I put off
telling you. Earth is gone. Interplanetary travel won't be back
for centuries, maybe never. But that way of life proved itself
wrong and strangled itself with its own hands. You're young.
I'll tell you this again every day until it sinks in."
He paused to feed more papers to the fire.
"Now we're alone. We and a handful of others who'll land
in a few days. Enough to start over. Enough to turn away from
all that back on Earth and strike out on a new line--"
The fire leaped up to emphasize his talking. And then all
the papers were gone except one. All the laws and beliefs of
Earth were burnt into small hot ashes which soon would be
carried off inawind.
Timothy looked at the last thing that Dad tossed in the
fire. It was a map of the World, and it wrinkled and distorted
itself hotly and went--flimpf--and was gone like a warm,
black butterfly. Timothy turned away.
"Now I'm going to show you the Martians," said Dad. "Come
on, all of you. Here, Alice." He took her hand.
Michael was crying loudly, and Dad picked him up and
carried him, and they walked down through the ruins toward
the canal.
The canal. Where tomorrow or the next day their future
wives would come up in a boat, small laughing girls now, with
their father and mother.
The night came down around them, and there were stars.
But Timothy couldn't find Earth. It had already set. That
was something to think about.
A night bird called among the ruins as they walked. Dad
said, "Your mother and I will try to teach you. Perhaps we'll
fail. I hope not. We've had a good lot to see and learn from.
We planned this trip years ago, before you were born. Even if
there hadn't been a war we would have come to Mars, I think,
to live and form our own standard of living. It would have
been another century before Mars would have been really
poisoned by the Earth civilization. Now, of course--"
They reached the canal. It was long and straight and cool
and wet and reflective in the night.
"I've always wanted to see a Martian," said Michael.
"Where are they, Dad? You promised."
"There they are," said Dad, and he shifted Michael on
his shoulder and pointed straight down.
The Martians were there. Timothy began to shiver.
The Martians were there--in the canal--reflected in the
water. Timothy and Michael and Robert and Mom and Dad.
The Martians stared back up at them for a long, long
silent time from the rippling water. . . .

Origin: Рэй Брэдбери .RU
http://www.raybradbury.ru Ў http://www.raybradbury.ru
Рэй Брэдбери. Марсианские хроники (ENGL)