THEMARTlANCHRONlCLES

RAYBRADBURY

CopyrightVoyager

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FirstpublishedinGreatBritainbyRupertHart-DavisLtd1951underthetitleTheSilverLocustsPantherBooks1977publicationalsoentitledTheSilverLocusts

Copyright©RayBradbury1951

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SourceISBN:9780007119622EbookEdition©SEPTEMBER2012ISBN:9780007496976

Version:2015–01–29

Dedication

ForMyWifeMargueritewithallmylove

Epigraph

‘Itisgoodtorenewone’swonder,’saidthephilosopher.‘Spacetravelhasagainmadechildrenofusall.’

ContentsCoverTitlePageCopyrightDedicationEpigraph

January1999ROCKETSUMMERFebruary1999YLLAAugust1999THESUMMERNIGHTAugust1999THEEARTHMENMarch2000THETAXPAYERApril2000THETHIRDEXPEDITIONJune2001–ANDTHEMOONBESTILLASBRIGHTAugust2001THESETTLERSDecember2001THEGREENMORNINGFebruary2002THELOCUSTSAugust2002NIGHTMEETINGOctober2002THESHORENovember2002THEFIREBALLOONSFebruary2003INTERIMApril2003THEMUSICIANSJune2003WAYUPINTHEMIDDLEOFTHEAIR2004–05THENAMINGOFNAMESAugust2005THEOLDONESSeptember2005THEMARTIANNovember2005THELUGGAGESTORENovember2005THEOFFSEASONNovember2005THEWATCHERSDecember2005THESILENTTOWNSApril2026THELONGYEARSAugust2026THEREWILLCOMESOFTRAINSOctober2026THEMILLION-YEARPICNIC

KeepReadingAbouttheAuthorAlsobytheAuthor

AboutthePublisher

JANUARY1999

RocketSummer

OneminuteitwasOhiowinter,withdoorsclosed,windowslocked,thepanesblind with frost, icicles fringing every roof, children skiing on slopes,housewiveslumberinglikegreatblackbearsintheirfursalongtheicystreets.Andthenalongwaveofwarmthcrossedthesmalltown.Afloodingseaof

hotair;itseemedasifsomeonehadleftabakerydooropen.Theheatpulsedamongthecottagesandbushesandchildren.Theiciclesdropped,shattering,tomelt.Thedoorsflewopen.Thewindowsflewup.Thechildrenworkedofftheir wool clothes. The housewives shed their bear disguises. The snowdissolvedandshowedlastsummer’sancientgreenlawns.Rocketsummer.Thewordspassedamongthepeopleintheopenair,airing

houses.Rocketsummer.Thewarmdesert air changing the frost patternsonthewindows,erasingtheartwork.Theskisandsledssuddenlyuseless.Thesnow,fallingfromthecoldskyuponthetown,turnedtoahotrainbeforeittouchedtheground.Rocketsummer.Peopleleanedfromtheirdrippingporchesandwatchedthe

reddeningsky.Therocketlayonthelaunchingfield,blowingoutpinkcloudsoffireand

ovenheat.Therocketstoodinthecoldwintermorning,makingsummerwitheverybreathof itsmightyexhausts.Therocketmadeclimates,andsummerlayforabriefmomentupontheland…

FEBRUARY1999

Ylla

They had a house of crystal pillars on the planet Mars by the edge of anemptysea,andeverymorningyoucouldseeMrsKeatingthegoldenfruitsthat grew from the crystal walls, or cleaning the house with handfuls ofmagnetic dust which, taking all dirt with it, blew away on the hot wind.Afternoons,whenthefossilseawaswarmandmotionless,andthewinetreesstood stiff in the yard, and the little distant Martian bone town was allenclosed,andnoonedriftedout theirdoors,youcouldseeMrKhimself inhisroom,readingfromametalbookwithraisedhieroglyphsoverwhichhebrushedhishand,asonemightplayaharp.Andfromthebook,ashisfingersstroked,avoicesang,asoftancientvoice,which told talesofwhentheseawas red steam on the shore and ancient men had carried clouds of metalinsectsandelectricspidersintobattle.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,fortencenturies.MrandMrsKwerenotold.Theyhad thefair,brownishskinof the true

Martian, theyellowcoineyes, the softmusicalvoices.Once theyhad likedpaintingpictureswith chemical fire, swimming in the canals in the seasonswhenthewinetreesfilledthemwithgreenliquors,andtalkingintothedawntogetherbythebluephosphorousportraitsinthespeaking-room.Theywerenothappynow.ThismorningMrsKstoodbetweenthepillars,listeningtothedesertsands

heat,meltintoyellowwax,andseeminglyrunonthehorizon.Somethingwasgoingtohappen.Shewaited.ShewatchedtheblueskyofMarsasifitmightatanymomentgripinon

itself,contract,andexpelashiningmiracledownuponthesand.Nothinghappened.Tired of waiting, she walked through the misting pillars. A gentle rain

sprangfromtheflutedpillar-tops,coolingthescorchedair,fallinggentlyonher. On hot days it was like walking in a creek. The floors of the houseglitteredwithcoolstreams.Inthedistancesheheardherhusbandplayinghis

booksteadily,hisfingersnevertiredoftheoldsongs.Quietlyshewishedhemightonedayagainspendasmuchtimeholdingandtouchingherlikealittleharpashedidhisincrediblebooks.Butno.Sheshookherhead,animperceptible,forgivingshrug.Hereyelids

closed softly down upon her golden eyes. Marriage made people old andfamiliar,whilestillyoung.She layback inachair thatmoved to takehershapeevenasshemoved.

Sheclosedhereyestightlyandnervously.Thedreamoccurred.Herbrownfingers trembled,cameup,graspedat theair.Amoment later

shesatup,startled,gasping.Sheglanced about swiftly, as if expecting someone there before her. She

seemeddisappointed;thespacebetweenthepillarswasempty.Her husband appeared in a triangular door. ‘Did you call?’ he asked

irritably.‘No!’shecried.‘IthoughtIheardyoucryout.’‘DidI?Iwasalmostasleepandhadadream!’‘Inthedaytime?Youdon’toftendothat.’She sat as if struck in the face by the dream. ‘How strange, how very

strange,’shemurmured.‘Thedream.’‘Oh?’Heevidentlywishedtoreturntohisbook.‘Idreamedaboutaman.’‘Aman?’‘Atallman,sixfootoneinchtall.’‘Howabsurd;agiant,amisshapengiant.’‘Somehow’–she tried thewords– ‘he lookedall right. Inspiteofbeing

tall.Andhehad–oh,Iknowyou’llthinkitsilly–hehadblueeyes!’‘Blueeyes!Gods!’criedMrK.‘What’llyoudreamnext?Isupposehehad

blackhair?’‘Howdidyouguess?’Shewasexcited.‘Ipickedthemostunlikelycolour,’herepliedcoldly.‘Wellblackitwas!’shecried.‘Andhehadaverywhiteskin;oh,hewas

mostunusual!Hewasdressedinastrangeuniformandhecamedownoutoftheskyandspokepleasantlytome.’Shesmiled.‘Outofthesky;whatnonsense!’‘Hecameinametal thingthatglitteredinthesun,’sheremembered.She

closedhereyestoshapeitagain.‘Idreamedtherewastheskyandsomethingsparkled likeacoin thrown into theair, andsuddenly itgrew largeand felldownsoftlytoland,alongsilvercraft,roundandalien.Andadooropenedin

thesideofthesilverobjectandthistallmansteppedout.’‘Ifyouworkedharderyouwouldn’thavethesesillydreams.’‘I ratherenjoyed it,’ she replied, lyingback. ‘Ineversuspectedmyselfof

such an imagination.Blackhair, blue eyes, andwhite skin!What a strangeman,andyet–quitehandsome.’‘Wishfulthinking.’‘You’reunkind.Ididn’tthinkhimuponpurpose;hejustcameinmymind

whileIdrowsed.Itwasn’t likeadream.Itwassounexpectedanddifferent.Helookedatmeandhesaid,“I’vecomefromthethirdplanetinmyship.MynameisNathanielYork—”’‘Astupidname;it’snonameatall,’objectedthehusband.‘Ofcourseit’sstupid,becauseit’sadream,’sheexplainedsoftly.‘Andhe

said,“Thisisthefirsttripacrossspace.Thereareonlytwoofusinourship,myselfandmyfriendBert.”’‘Anotherstupidname.’‘Andhesaid,“We’refromacityonEarth;that’sthenameofourplanet,”’

continuedMrsK.‘That’swhathesaid.“Earth”wasthenamehespoke.Andhe used another language. Somehow I understood him. With my mind.Telepathy,Isuppose.’MrKturnedaway.Shestoppedhimwithaword‘Yll?’shecalledquietly.

‘Doyoueverwonderif–well,iftherearepeoplelivingonthethirdplanet?’‘The third planet is incapable of supporting life,’ stated the husband

patiently. ‘Our scientists have said there’s far too much oxygen in theiratmosphere.’‘But wouldn’t it be fascinating if there were people?And they travelled

throughspaceinsomesortofship?’‘Really, Ylla, you know how I hate this emotional wailing. Let’s get on

withourwork.’

Itwaslateinthedaywhenshebegansingingthesongasshemovedamongthewhisperingpillarsofrain.Shesangitoverandoveragain.‘What’sthatsong?’snappedherhusbandatlast,walkingintositatthefire

table.‘Idon’tknow.’Shelookedup,surprisedatherself.Sheputherhandtoher

mouth,unbelieving.Thesunwassetting.Thehousewasclosingitselfin,likeagiantflower,withthepassingoflight.Awindblewamongthepillars;thefire table bubbled its fierce pool of silver lava. Thewind stirred her russethair,crooningsoftlyinherears.Shestoodsilentlylookingoutintothegreatsallowdistancesofseabottom,asifrecallingsomething,heryelloweyessoftandmoist.‘“Drinktomeonlywiththineeyes,andIwillpledgewithmine,”’

shesang,softly,quietly,slowly.‘“Orleaveakissbutinthecup,andI’llnotlook forwine.” ’Shehummednow,moving her hands in thewind ever solightly,hereyesshut.Shefinishedthesong.Itwasverybeautiful.‘Neverheardthatsongbefore.Didyoucomposeit?’heinquired,hiseyes

sharp.‘No. Yes. No, I don’t know, really!’ She hesitated wildly. ‘I don’t even

knowwhatthewordsare;they’reanotherlanguage!’‘Whatlanguage?’She dropped portions of meat numbly into the simmering lava. ‘I don’t

know.’Shedrewthemeatforthamomentlater,cooked,servedonaplateforhim.‘It’sjustacrazythingImadeup,Iguess.Idon’tknowwhy.’Hesaidnothing.Hewatchedherdrownmeatsinthehissingfirepool.The

sunwasgone.Slowly,slowlythenightcameintofilltheroom,swallowingthepillarsandbothofthem,likeadarkwinepouredtotheceiling.Onlythesilverlava’sglowlittheirfaces.Shehummedthestrangesongagain.Instantlyheleapedfromhischairandstalkedangrilyfromtheroom.

Later,inisolation,hefinishedsupper.Whenhearosehestretched,glancedather,andsuggested,yawning,‘Let’s

taketheflamebirdstotowntonighttoseeanentertainment.’‘Youdon’tmeanit?’shesaid.‘Areyoufeelingwell?’‘What’ssostrangeaboutthat?’‘Butwehaven’tgoneforanentertainmentinsixmonths!’‘Ithinkit’sagoodidea.’‘Suddenlyyou’resosolicitous,’shesaid.‘Don’ttalkthatway,’herepliedpeevishly.‘Doyouordoyounotwantto

go?’Shelookedoutatthepaledesert.Thetwinwhitemoonswererising.Cool

water ran softly abouther toes.Shebegan to tremble just the least bit.Shewantedverymuchtositquietlyhere,soundless,notmovinguntil this thingoccurred,thisthingexpectedallday,thisthingthatcouldnotoccurbutmight.Adriftofsongbrushedthroughhermind.‘I—’‘Doyougood,’heurged.‘Comealongnow.’‘I’mtired,’shesaid.‘Someothernight.’‘Here’syourscarf.’Hehandedheraphial.Wehaven’tgoneanywhere in

months.’‘Exceptyou,twiceaweektoXiCity.’Shewouldn’tlookathim.

‘Business,’hesaid.‘Oh?’Shewhisperedtoherself.Fromthephialaliquidpoured,turnedtobluemist,settledaboutherneck,

quivering.

The flame birds waited, like a bed of coals, glowing on the cool smoothsands.Thewhitecanopyballoonedonthenightwind,flappingsoftly,tiedbyathousandgreenribbonstothebirds.Yllalaidherselfbackinthecanopyand,atawordfromherhusband,the

birdsleaped,burning,towardsthedarksky.Theribbonstautened,thecanopylifted. The sand slid whining under; the blue hills drifted by, drifted by,leavingtheirhomebehind,therainingpillars,thecagedflowers,thesingingbooks, the whispering floor creeks. She did not look at her husband. Sheheardhimcryingout to thebirds as they rosehigher, like ten thousandhotsparkles, somany red-yellow fireworks in the heavens, tugging the canopylikeaflowerpetal,burningthroughthewind.Shedidn’twatchthedead,ancientbone-chesscitiesslideunder,ortheold

canals filledwith emptiness anddreams.Past dry rivers anddry lakes theyflew,likeashadowofthemoon,likeatorchburning.Shewatchedonlythesky.Thehusbandspoke.Shewatchedthesky.‘DidyouhearwhatIsaid?’‘What?’Heexhaled.‘Youmightpayattention.’‘Iwasthinking.’‘Ineverthoughtyouwereanature-lover,butyou’recertainlyinterestedin

theskytonight,’hesaid.‘It’sverybeautiful.’‘Iwasfiguring,’saidthehusbandslowly.‘IthoughtI’dcallHulletonight.

I’dliketotalktohimaboutusspendingsometime,oh,onlyaweekorso,intheBlueMountains.It’sjustanidea—’‘TheBlueMountains!’Sheheldtothecanopyrimwithonehand,turning

swiftlytowardshim.‘Oh,it’sjustasuggestion.’‘Whendoyouwanttogo?’sheasked,trembling.‘Ithoughtwemightleavetomorrowmorning.Youknow,anearlystartand

allthat,’hesaidverycasually.‘Butwenevergothisearlyintheyear!’‘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’twe?’Shetookabreath,waited,andthenreplied,‘No.’‘What?’Hiscrystartledthebirds.Thecanopyjerked.‘No,’shesaidfirmly.‘It’ssettled.Iwon’tgo.’Helookedather.Theydidnotspeakafterthat.Sheturnedaway.Thebirdsflewon,tenthousandfirebrandsdownthewind.

Inthedawnthesun,throughthecrystalpillars,meltedthefogthatsupportedYllaassheslept.Allnightshehadhungabovethefloor,buoyedbythesoftcarpetingofmist thatpouredfromthewallswhenshelaydowntorest.Allnightshehadsleptonthissilentriver,likeaboatuponasoundlesstide.Nowthefogburnedaway,themistlevellowereduntilshewasdepositedupontheshoreofwakening.Sheopenedhereyes.Herhusbandstoodoverher.Helookedasifhehadstoodthereforhours,

watching.Shedidnotknowwhy,butshecouldnotlookhimintheface.‘You’vebeendreamingagain!’hesaid.‘Youspokeoutandkeptmeawake.

Ireallythinkyoushouldseeadoctor.’‘I’llbeallright.’‘Youtalkedalotinyoursleep!’‘DidI?’Shestartedup.Dawnwascoldintheroom.Agreylightfilledherasshelaythere;‘Whatwasyourdream?’Shehadtothinkamomenttoremember.‘Theship.Itcamefromthesky

again,andthetallmansteppedoutandtalkedwithme,tellingmelittlejokes,laughing,anditwaspleasant.’MrKtouchedapillar.Fountsofwarmwaterleaptup,steaming;thechill

vanishedfromtheroom.MrK’sfacewasimpassive.‘Andthen,’shesaid,‘thisman,whosaidhisstrangenamewasNathaniel

York,toldmeIwasbeautifuland–andkissedme.’‘Ha!’criedthehusband,turningviolentlyaway,hisjawworking.‘It’sonlyadream.’Shewasamused.‘Keepyoursilly,femininedreamstoyourself!’‘You’re acting like a child.’ She lapsed back upon the few remaining

remnantsofchemicalmist.Afteramomentshelaughedsoftly.‘Ithoughtofsomemoreofthedream,’sheconfessed.‘Well,whatisit,whatisit?’heshouted.‘Yll,you’resobadtempered.’‘Tellme!’hedemanded. ‘Youcan’t keep secrets fromme!’His facewas

darkandrigidashestoodoverher.‘I’veneverseenyouthisway,’shereplied,halfshocked,halfentertained.

‘AllthathappenedwasthisNathanielYorkpersontoldme–well,hetoldmethathe’dtakemeawayintohisship,intotheskywithhim,andtakemebacktohisplanetwithhim.It’sreallyquiteridiculous.’‘Ridiculous, is it!’ he almost screamed. ‘You shouldhaveheardyourself,

fawning on him, talking to him, singing with him, oh gods, all night; youshouldhaveheardyourself!’‘Yll!’‘When’shelanding?Where’shecomingdownwithhisdamnedship?’‘Yll,loweryourvoice.’‘Voicebedamned!’Hebentstifflyoverher.‘Andinthisdream’–heseized

herwrist–‘didn’ttheshiplandoverinGreenValley,didn’tit?Answerme!’‘Why,yes—’‘Anditlandedthisafternoon,didn’tit?’hekeptather.‘Yes,yes,Ithinkso,yes,butonlyinadream!’‘Well’–heflungherhandawaystiffly–‘it’sgoodyou’retruthful!Iheard

everywordyousaid inyoursleep.Youmentionedthevalleyand the time.’Breathing hard, he walked between the pillars like a man blinded by alightning bolt. Slowly his breath returned. She watched him as if he werequiteinsane.Shearosefinallyandwenttohim.‘Yll,’shewhispered.‘I’mallright.’‘You’resick.’‘No.’Heforcedatiredsmile.‘Justchildish.Forgiveme,darling.’Hegave

heraroughpat.‘Toomuchworklately.I’msorry.IthinkI’llliedownawhile—’‘Youweresoexcited.’‘I’mall rightnow.Fine.’Heexhaled. ‘Let’s forget it.Say, Ihearda joke

aboutUelyesterday,Imeanttotellyou.Whatdoyousayyoufixbreakfast,I’lltellthejoke,andlet’snottalkaboutallthis.’‘Itwasonlyadream.’‘Ofcourse.’Hekissedhercheekmechanically.‘Onlyadream.’

Atnoonthesunwashighandhotandthehillsshimmeredinthelight.‘Aren’tyougoingtotown?’askedYlla.‘Town?’heraisedhisbrowsfaintly.‘Thisisthedayyoualwaysgo.’Sheadjustedaflower-cageonitspedestal.

Theflowersstirred,openingtheirhungryyellowmouths.Heclosedhisbook.‘No.It’stoohot,andit’slate.’‘Oh.’Shefinishedhertaskandmovedtowardsthedoor.

‘Well,I’llbebacksoon.’‘Waitaminute!Whereareyougoing?’Shewasinthedoorswiftly.‘OvertoPao’s.Sheinvitedme!’‘Today?’‘Ihaven’tseenherinalongtime.It’sonlyalittleway.’‘OverinGreenValley,isn’tit?’‘Yes,justawalk,notfar,IthoughtI’d—’Shehurried.‘I’m sorry, really sorry,’ he said, running to fetch her back, looking very

concernedabouthisforgetfulness.‘Itslippedmymind.IinvitedDrNlleoutthisafternoon.’‘DrNlle!’Sheedgedtowardsthedoor.Hecaughtherelbowanddrewhersteadilyin.‘Yes.’‘ButPao—’‘Paocanawait,Ylla.WemustentertainNlle.’‘Justforafewminutes—’‘No,Ylla.’‘No?’Heshookhishead.‘No.Besides,it’saterriblylongwalktoPao’s.Allthe

wayoverthroughGreenValleyandthenpastthebigcanalanddown,isn’tit?Andit’llbevery,veryhot,andDrNllewouldbedelightedtoseeyou.Well?’Shedidnotanswer.Shewanted tobreakandrun.Shewanted tocryout.

Butsheonlysatinthechair,turningherfingersoverslowly,staringatthemexpressionlessly,trapped.‘Ylla?’hemurmured.‘Youwillbehere,won’tyou?’‘Yes,’shesaidafteralongtime.‘I’llbehere.’‘Allafternoon?’Hervoicewasdull.‘Allafternoon.’

LateinthedayDrNllehadnotputinanappearance.Ylla’shusbanddidnotseemoverlysurprised.Whenitwasquitelatehemurmuredsomething,wenttoacloset,anddrewforthanevilweapon,alongyellowishtubeendinginabellows and trigger. He turned, and upon his face was a mask, hammeredfrom silver metal, expressionless, the mask that he always wore when hewished to hide his feelings, the mask which curved and hollowed soexquisitely tohis thin cheeks andchin andbrow.Themaskglinted, andheheld the evilweapon inhishands, considering it. It hummedconstantly, aninsect hum. From it hordes of golden bees could be flung out with a highshriek.Golden,horridbees that stung,poisoned,and fell lifeless, like seedsonthesand.‘Whereareyougoing?’sheasked.

‘What?’Helistenedtothebellows,totheevilhum.‘IfDrNlleislate,I’llbedamnedifI’llwait.Iamgoingouttohuntabit.I’llbeback.Youbesuretostayrightherenow,won’tyou?’Thesilvermaskglimmered.‘Yes.’‘AndtellDrNlleI’llreturn.Justhunting.’Thetriangulardoorclosed.Hisfootstepsfadeddownthehill.Shewatchedhimwalkingthroughthesunlightuntilhewasgone.Thenshe

resumedher taskswith themagneticdustsand thenewfruits tobepluckedfromthecrystalwalls.Sheworkedwithenergyanddispatch,butonoccasiona numbness took hold of her and she caught herself singing that odd andmemorablesongandlookingoutbeyondthecrystalpillarsatthesky.Sheheldherbreathandstoodverystill,waiting.Itwascomingnearer.Atanymomentitmighthappen.Itwas like those dayswhen you heard a thunderstorm coming and there

wasthewaitingsilenceandthenthefaintestpressureoftheatmosphereastheclimateblewoverthelandinshiftsandshadowsandvapours.Andthechangepressed at your ears and you were suspended in the waiting time of thecomingstorm.Youbegantotremble.Theskywasstainedandcoloured;thecloudswerethickened;themountainstookonanirontaint.Thecagedflowersblewwithfaintsighsofwarning.Youfeltyourhairstirsoftly.Somewhereinthehousethevoice-clocksang.‘Time,time,time,time…’eversogently,nomorethanwatertappingonvelvet.And then the storm. The electric illumination, the engulfments of dark

washandsoundingblackfelldown,shuttingin,forever.That’showitwasnow.Astormgathered,yettheskywasclear.Lightning

wasexpected,yettherewasnocloud.Yllamoved through thebreathlesssummer-house.Lightningwouldstrike

from the skyany instant; therewouldbea thunder-clap, abollof smoke, asilence,footstepsonthepath,araponthecrystallinedoor,andherrunningtoanswer…CrazyYlla!shescoffed.Whythinkthesewildthingswithyouridlemind?Andthenithappened.Therewasawarmthasofagreatfirepassingintheair.Awhirling,rushing

sound.Agleaminthesky,ofmetal.Yllacriedout.Runningthroughthepillars,sheflungwideadoor.Shefacedthehills.But

bythistimetherewasnothing.Shewas about to race down the hill when she stopped herself. Shewas

supposedtostayhere,gonowhere.Thedoctorwascomingtovisit,andher

husbandwouldbeangryifsheranoff.Shewaitedinthedoor,breathingrapidly,herhandout.ShestrainedtoseeovertowardsGreenValley,butsawnothing.Sillywoman.Shewentinside.Youandyourimagination,shethought.That

wasnothingbutabird,aleaf,thewind,orafishinthecanal.Sitdown.Rest.Shesatdown.Ashotsounded.Veryclearly,sharply,thesoundoftheevilinsectweapon.Herbodyjerkedwithit.It came froma longwayoff.Oneshot.The swifthummingdistantbees.

Oneshot.Andthenasecondshot,preciseandcold,andfaraway.Herbodywincedagainandforsomereasonshestartedup,screamingand

screaming, and neverwanting to stop screaming. She ran violently throughthehouseandoncemorethrewwidethedoor.Theechoesweredyingaway,away.Gone.Shewaitedintheyard,herfacepale,forfiveminutes.Finally,with slowsteps,herheaddown, shewanderedabout thepillared

rooms,layingherhandtothings,herlipsquivering,untilfinallyshesataloneinthedarkeningwine-room,waiting.Shebegantowipeanamberglasswiththehemofherscarf.Andthen,fromfaroff,thesoundoffootstepscrunchingonthethin,small

rocks.Sheroseuptostandinthecentreofthequietroom.Theglassfellfromher

fingers,smashingtobits.Thefootstepshesitatedoutsidethedoor.Shouldshespeak?Shouldshecryout.‘Comein,oh,comein’?Shewentforwardafewpaces.Thefootstepswalkeduptheramp.Ahandtwistedthedoorlatch.Shesmiledatthedoor.Thedooropened.Shestoppedsmiling.Itwasherhusband.Hissilvermaskgloweddully.Heenteredtheroomandlookedatherforonlyamoment.Thenhesnapped

theweaponbellowsopen,crackedouttwodeadbees,heardthemspatonthefloorastheyfell,steppedonthem,andplacedtheemptybellows-guninthecorner of the room as Ylla bent down and tried, over and over, with nosuccess,topickupthepiecesoftheshatteredglass.‘Whatwereyoudoing?’sheasked.‘Nothing,’hesaidwithhisbackturned.Heremovedthemask.‘Butthegun–Iheardyoufireit.Twice.’

‘Justhunting.Onceinawhileyouliketohunt.DidDrNllearrive?’‘No.’‘Wait a minute.’ He snapped his fingers disgustedly. ‘Why, I remember

now.Hewassupposedtovisitustomorrowafternoon.Howstupidofme.’Theysatdowntoeat.Shelookedatherfoodanddidnotmoveherhands.

‘What’swrong?’heaskedher,not lookingup fromdippinghismeat in thebubblinglava.‘Idon’tknow.I’mnothungry,’shesaid.‘Whynot?’‘Idon’tknow;I’mjustnot.’Thewindwas rising across the sky; the sunwas going down.The room

wassmallandsuddenlycold.‘I’vebeentryingtoremember,’shesaidinthesilentroom,acrossfromher

cold,erect,golden-eyedhusband.‘Rememberwhat?’Hesippedhiswine.Thatsong.Thatfineandbeautifulsong.’Sheclosedhereyesandhummed,

but it was not the song. ‘I’ve forgotten it. And, somehow, I don’t want toforgetit.It’ssomethingIwantalwaystoremember.’Shemovedherhandsasiftherhythmmighthelphertorememberallofit.Thenshelaybackinherchair.‘Ican’tremember.’Shebegantocry.‘Whyareyoucrying?’heasked.‘Idon’tknow,Idon’tknow,butIcan’thelpit.I’msadandIdon’tknow

why,IcryandIdon’tknowwhy,butI’mcrying.’Herheadwasinherhands;hershouldersmovedagainandagain.‘You’llbeallrighttomorrow,’hesaid.Shedidnot lookup at him; she lookedonly at the emptydesert and the

verybrightstarscomingoutnowontheblacksky,andfarawaytherewasasound ofwind rising and canalwaters stirring cold in the long canals. Sheshuthereyes,trembling.‘Yes,’shesaid.‘I’llbeallrighttomorrow.’

AUGUST1999

TheSummerNight

Inthestonegalleriesthepeopleweregatheredinclustersandgroupsfilteringupintoshadowsamongthebluehills.Asofteveninglightshoneoverthemfrom thestarsand the luminousdoublemoonsofMars.Beyond themarbleamphitheatre,indarknessesanddistances,laylittletownsandvillas;poolsofsilverwaterstoodmotionlessandcanalsglitteredfromhorizontohorizon.Itwas an evening in summer upon the placid and temperate planetMars.Upanddowngreenwine-canals, boats asdelicate asbronze flowersdrifted. Inthe long and endless dwellings that curved like tranquil snakes across thehills, lovers lay idlywhispering in coolnightbeds.The last children ran intorchlitalleys,goldspidersintheirhandsthrowingoutfilmsofweb.Hereorthere a late supper was prepared in tables where lava bubbled silvery andhushed.IntheamphitheatresofahundredtownsonthenightsideofMarsthebrownMartian people with gold coin eyes were leisurely met to fix theirattention upon stages where musicians made a serene music flow up likeblossomscentonthestillair.Upononestageawomansang.Theaudiencestirred.She stopped singing. She put her hand to her throat. She nodded to the

musicians,andtheybeganagain.Themusiciansplayedandshesang,andthistimetheaudiencesighedand

satforward,afewofthemenstoodupinsurprise,andawinterchillmovedthroughtheamphitheatre.For itwasanoddandafrighteningandastrangesong thiswoman sang.She tried to stop thewords fromcomingoutof herlips,butthewordswerethese:

‘Shewalksinbeauty,likethenightOfcloudlessclimesandstarryskies;

Andallthat’sbestofdarkandbrightMeetinheraspectandhereyes…’

Thesingerclaspedherhandstohermouth.Shestood,bewildered.‘Whatwordsarethose?’askedthemusicians.

‘Whatsongisthat?’‘Whatlanguageisthat!’Andwhentheyblewagainupontheirgoldenhornsthestrangemusiccame

forthandpassedslowlyovertheaudience,whichnowtalkedaloudandstoodup.‘What’swrongwithyou?’themusiciansaskedeachother.‘Whattuneisthatyouplayed?’‘Whattunedidyouplay?’Thewomanweptandranfromthestage.Andtheaudiencemovedoutof

theamphitheatre.Andallaround thenervous townsofMarsasimilar thinghadhappened.Acoldnesshadcome,likewhitesnowfallingontheair.Intheblackalleys,underthetorches,thechildrensang:

‘—Butwhenshegotthere,thecupboardwasbare,Andsoherpoordoghadnone!’

‘Children!’voicescried.‘Whatwasthatrhyme?Wheredidyoulearnit?’‘Wejustthoughtofit,allofasudden.It’sjustwordswedon’tunderstand.’Doors slammed. The streetswere deserted.Above the blue hills a green

starrose.Allover thenightsideofMars loversawoketo listen to their lovedones

wholayhumminginthedarkness.‘Whatisthattune?’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’swrong?Adream?’‘Somethingterriblewillhappeninthemorning.’‘Nothingcanhappen,alliswellwithus.’Ahystericalsobbing.‘Itiscomingnearerandnearerandnearer!’‘Nothingcanhappentous.Whatcould?Sleepnow.Sleep.’ItwasquietinthedeepmorningofMars,asquietasacoolandblackwell,

with stars shining in the canal waters, and, breathing in every room, thechildrencurledwiththeirspidersinclosedhands,theloversarminarm,themoonsgone,thetorchescold,thestoneamphitheatresdeserted.Theonlysound,justbeforedawn,wasanightwatchman,farawaydowna

lonelystreet,walkingalonginthedarkness,hummingaverystrangesong…

AUGUST1999

TheEarthMen

Whoeverwasknockingatthedoordidn’twanttostop.MrsTttthrewthedooropen.‘Well?’‘YouspeakEnglish!’Themanstandingtherewasastounded.‘IspeakwhatIspeak,’shesaid.‘It’swonderfulEnglish!’Themanwas inuniform.Therewere threemen

withhim,inagreathurry,allsmiling,alldirty.‘Whatdoyouwant?’demandedMrsTtt.‘You are aMartian!’ Theman smiled. ‘Theword is not familiar to you

certainly.It’sanEarthexpression.’Henoddedathismen.‘WearefromEarth.I’mCaptainWilliams.We’ve landedonMarswithin thehour.Hereweare,theSecondExpedition!TherewasaFirstExpedition,butwedon’tknowwhathappenedtoit.Buthereweare,anyway.AndyouarethefirstMartianwe’vemet!’‘Martian?’Hereyebrowswentup.‘What I mean to say is, you live on the fourth planet from the sun.

Correct?’‘Elementary,’shesnapped,eyeingthem.‘Andwe’–hepressedhischubbypinkhand tohischest– ‘weare from

Earth.Right,men?’‘Right,sir!’Achorus.‘ThisistheplanetTyrr,’shesaid,‘ifyouwanttousethepropername.’‘Tyrr,Tyrr.’Thecaptainlaughedexhaustedly.‘Whatafinename!But,my

goodwoman,howisityouspeaksuchperfectEnglish?’‘I’mnotspeaking,I’mthinking,’shesaid.‘Telepathy!Goodday!’Andshe

slammedthedoor.Amomentlatertherewasthatdreadfulmanknockingagain.Shewhippedthedooropen.‘Whatnow?’shewondered.Themanwasstillthere,tryingtosmile,lookingbewildered.Heputouthis

hands.‘Idon’tthinkyouunderstand—’‘What?’shesnapped.Themangazedatherinsurprise.‘We’refromEarth!’‘Ihaven’ttime,’shesaid.‘I’vealotofcookingtodayandthere’scleaning

and sewing and all. You evidently wish to seeMr Ttt; he’s upstairs in hisstudy.’‘Yes,’saidtheEarthManconfusedly,blinking.‘Byallmeans,letusseeMr

Ttt.’‘He’sbusy.’Sheslammedthedooragain.Thistimetheknockonthedoorwasmostimpertinentlyloud.‘Seehere!’criedthemanwhenthedoorwasthrustopenagain.Hejumped

inasiftosurpriseher.‘Thisisnowaytotreatvisitors!’‘All overmy clean floor!’ she cried. ‘Mud!Get out! If you come inmy

house,washyourbootsfirst.’Themanlookedindismayathismuddyboots.‘This,’hesaid,‘isnotime

fortrivialities.Ithink,’hesaid,‘weshouldbecelebrating.’Helookedatherforalongtimeasiflookingmightmakeherunderstand.‘Ifyou’vemademycrystalbunsfall in theoven,’sheexclaimed,‘I’llhit

youwithapieceofwood!’Shepeeredintoalittlehotoven.Shecameback,red,steamy-faced.Hereyesweresharpyellow,herskinwassoftbrown,shewasthinandquickasaninsect.Hervoicewasmetallicandsharp.‘Waithere.I’llseeifIcanletyouhaveamomentwithMrTtt.Whatwasyourbusiness?’Themanswore luridly,as ifshe’dhithishandwithahammer. ‘Tellhim

we’refromEarthandit’sneverbeendonebefore!’‘Whathasn’t?’Sheputherbrownhandup.‘Nevermind.I’llbeback.’Thesoundofherfeetflutteredthroughthestonehouse.Outside,theimmenseblueMartianskywashotandstillaswarmdeepsea-

water. TheMartian desert lay broiling like a prehistoricmud-pot,waves ofheat risingandshimmering.Therewasa small rocket-ship reclininguponahilltopnearby.Largefootprintscamefromtherockettothedoorofthisstonehouse.Nowtherewasasoundofquarrellingvoicesupstairs.Themenwithinthe

doorstaredatoneanother,shiftingontheirboots,twiddlingtheirfingers,andholding on to their hip-belts.Amans voice shouted upstairs. Thewoman’svoicereplied.AfterfifteenminutestheEarthMenbeganwalkinginandoutofthekitchendoor,withnothingtodo.‘Cigarette?’saidoneofthemen.Somebodygotoutapacketandtheylitup.Theypuffedlowstreamsofpale

white smoke. They adjusted their uniforms, fixed their collars. The voicesupstairscontinued tomutterandchant.The leaderof themen lookedathiswatch.‘Twenty-fiveminutes,’hesaid.‘Iwonderwhatthey’reuptoupthere.’He

wenttoawindowandlookedout.‘Hotday,’saidoneofthemen.

‘Yeah,’ said someoneelse in the slowwarm timeofearlyafternoon.Thevoiceshadfadedtoamurmurandwerenowsilent.Therewasnotasoundinthehouse.Allthemencouldhearwastheirownbreathing.Anhourof silencepassed. ‘Ihopewedidn’t causeany trouble,’ said the

captain.Hewentandpeeredintotheliving-room.Mrs Tttwas there,watering some flowers that grew in the centre of the

room.‘IknewIhadforgottensomething,’shesaidwhenshesawthecaptain.She

walkedouttothekitchen.‘I’msorry.’Shehandedhimaslipofpaper.‘MrTttismuch toobusy.’She turned tohercooking. ‘Anyway, it’snotMrTttyouwant tosee; it’sMrAaa.Take thatpaperover to thenext farm,by thebluecanal,andMrAaa’lladviseyouaboutwhateveritisyouwanttoknow.’‘We don’twant to know anything,’ objected the captain, pouting out his

thicklips.‘Wealreadyknowit.’‘Youhavethepaper,whatmoredoyouwant?’sheaskedhimstraightoff.

Andshewouldsaynomore.‘Well,’ said the captain, reluctant to go. He stood as if waiting for

something.HelookedlikeachildstaringatanemptyChristmastree.‘Well,’hesaidagain.‘Comeon,men.’Thefourmensteppedoutintothehot,silentday.

Halfanhourlater,MrAaa,seatedinhislibrarysippingabitofelectricfirefromametalcup,heardthevoicesoutsideinthestonecauseway.Heleanedoverthewindowsillandgazedatthefouruniformedmenwhosquintedupathim.‘AreyouMrAaa?’theycalled.‘Iam.’‘MrTttsentustoseeyou!’shoutedthecaptain.‘Whydidhedothat?’askedMrAaa.‘Hewasbusy!’‘Well, that’s a shame,’ saidMr Aaa sarcastically. ‘Does he think I have

nothingelsetodobutentertainpeoplehe’stoobusytobotherwith?’‘That’snottheimportantthing,sir,’shoutedthecaptain.‘Well,itistome.Ihavemuchreadingtodo.MrTttisinconsiderate.This

is not the first time he has been this thoughtless ofme. Stopwaving yourhands,sir,untilIfinish.Andpayattention.PeopleusuallylistentomewhenItalk.Andyou’lllistencourteouslyorIwon’ttalkatall.’Uneasily the fourmen in the court shifted and opened theirmouths, and

oncethecaptain,theveinsonhisfacebulging,showedafewlittletearsinhiseyes.

‘Now,’ lectured Mr Aaa, ‘do you think it fair of Mr Ttt to be so ill-mannered?’The fourmen gazed up through the heat. The captain said, ‘We’re from

Earth!’‘Ithinkitveryungentlemanlyofhim,’broodedMrAaa.‘Arocketship.Wecameinit.Overthere!’‘Notthefirsttime.Ttt’sbeenunreasonable,youknow.’‘AllthewayfromEarth.’‘Why,forhalfamind,I’dcallhimupandtellhimoff.’‘Justthefourofus;myselfandthesethreemen,mycrew.’‘I’llcallhimup;yes,that’swhatI’lldo!’‘Earth.Rocket.Men.Trip.Space.’‘Callhimandgivehimagoodlashing!’criedMrAaa.Hevanishedlikea

puppetfromastage.Foraminutetherewereangryvoicesbackandforthoversome weird mechanism or other. Below, the captain and his crew glancedlonginglybackat theirprettyrocketship lyingon thehillside,sosweetandlovelyandfine.MrAaajerkedupinthewindow,wildlytriumphant.‘Challengedhimtoa

duel,bythegods!Aduel!’‘MrAaa–’thecaptainstartedalloveragain,quietly.‘I’llshoothimdead,doyouhear!’‘MrAaa,I’dliketotellyou.Wecamesixtymillionmiles.’MrAaaregardedthecaptainforthefirsttime.‘Where’dyousayyouwere

from?’Thecaptain flashed awhite smile.Aside tohismenhewhispered, ‘Now

we’regettingsomeplace!’ToMrAaahecalled,‘Wetravelledsixtymillionmiles.FromEarth!’Mr Aaa yawned. ‘That’s only fifty million miles this time of year.’ He

pickedupafrightful-lookingweapon.‘Well,Ihavetogonow.Justtakethatsillynote,thoughIdon’tknowwhatgoodit’lldoyou,andgooverthathillintothelittletownofIoprandtellMrIiiallaboutit.He’sthemanyouwantto see. NotMr Ttt, he’s an idiot; I’m going to kill him. Not me, becauseyou’renotinmylineofwork.’‘Lineofwork,lineofwork!’bleatedthecaptain.‘Doyouhavetobeina

certainlineofworktowelcomeEarthMen?’‘Don’tbesilly,everyoneknows that!’MrAaarusheddownstairs. ‘Good-

bye!’Anddownthecausewayheraced,likeapairofwildcalipers.The four travellers stood shocked. Finally the captain said, ‘We’ll find

someoneyetwho’lllistentous.’‘Maybe we could go out and come in again,’ said one of the men in a

drearyvoice. ‘Maybeweshould takeoffand landagain.Give themtime toorganizeaparty.’‘Thatmightbeagoodidea,’murmuredthetiredcaptain.Thelittletownwasfullofpeopledriftinginandoutofdoors,sayinghello

tooneanother,wearinggoldmasksandbluemasksandcrimsonmasks forpleasant variety, masks with silver lips and bronze eyebrows, masks thatsmiledormasksthatfrowned,accordingtotheowners’dispositions.The four men, wet from their long walk, paused and asked a little girl

whereMrIii’shousewas.‘There,’Thechildnoddedherhead.The captain got eagerly, carefully down on one knee, looking into her

sweetyoungface.‘Littlegirl,Iwanttotalktoyou.’Heseatedheronhiskneeandfoldedhersmallbrownhandsneatlyinhis

ownbig ones, as if ready for a bedtime storywhich hewas shaping in hismindslowlyandwithagreatpatienthappinessindetails.‘Well,here’show it is, littlegirl.Sixmonthsagoanother rocket came to

Mars. There was a man named York in it, and his assistant. Whateverhappened to them, we don’t know. Maybe they crashed. They came in arocket. So did we. You should see it! A big rocket! So we’re the SecondExpedition,followinguptheFirst.AndwecameallthewayfromEarth…’Thelittlegirldisengagedonehandwithoutthinkingaboutit,andclapped

anexpressionlessgoldenmaskoverherface.Thenshepulledforthagoldenspidertoyanddroppedittothegroundwhilethecaptaintalkedon.Thetoyspiderclimbedbackuptoherkneeobediently,whileshespeculateduponitcoolly through the slits of her emotionlessmask and the captain shook hergentlyandurgedhisstoryuponher.‘We’reEarthMen,’hesaid.‘Doyoubelieveme?’‘Yes.’ The little girl peeped at theway shewaswiggling her toes in the

dust.‘Fine.’ The captain pinched her arm, a little bitwith joviality, a little bit

withmeanness together to lookathim.‘Webuiltourownrocketship.Doyoubelievethat?’Thelittlegirlduginhernosewithafinger.‘Yes.’‘And–takeyourfingeroutofyournose,littlegirl–Iamthecaptain,and

—’‘Never before in history has anybody come across space in a big rocket

ship,’recitedthelittlecreature,eyesshut.‘Wonderful!Howdidyouknow?’‘Oh,telepathy.’Shewipedacasualfingeronherknee.‘Well,aren’tyoujusteversoexcited?criedthecaptain.‘Aren’tyouglad?’

‘You just better go see Mr Iii right away.’ She dropped her toy to theground. ‘Mr Iii will like talking to you.’ She ran off, with the toy spiderscuttlingobedientlyafterher.The captain squatted there looking after herwith his hand out.His eyes

werewateryinhishead.Helookedathisemptyhands.Hismouthhungopen.Theotherthreemenstoodwiththeirshadowsunderthem.Theyspatonthestonestreet…

MrIiiansweredthedoor.Hewasonhiswaytoalecture,buthehadaminute,iftheywouldhurryinsideandtellhimwhattheydesired…‘Alittleattention,’saidthecaptain,red-eyedandtired.‘We’refromEarth,

we have a rocket, there are four of us, crew and captain,we’re exhausted,we’rehungry,we’d likeaplace to sleep.We’d like someone togiveus thekeytothecityorsomethinglikethat,andwe’dlikesomebodytoshakeourhands and say “Hooray” and say “Congratulations, old man!” That aboutsumsitup.’MrIiiwasatall,vaporous,thinmanwiththickblindbluecrystalsoverhis

yellowish eyes. He bent over his desk and brooded upon some papers,glancingnowandagainwithextremepenetrationathisguests.‘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,hereweare!Now!’Hehandedthepapersovercrisply.‘You’llhavetosignthesepapers,ofcourse.’‘Dowehavetogothroughallthisrigmarole?’MrIiigavehimathickglassylook.‘Yousayyou’refromEarth,don’tyou?

Well,thenthere’snothingforitbutyousign.’Thecaptainwrotehisname.‘Doyouwantmycrewtosignalso?’Mr Iii looked at the captain, looked at the three others, and burst into a

shoutofderision. ‘Them sign!Ho!Howmarvellous!Them,oh, them sign!’Tearssprangfromhiseyes.Heslappedhiskneeandbenttolethislaughterjerkoutofhisgapingmouth.Heheldhimselfupwiththedesk.‘Themsign!’Thefourmenscowled.‘What’sfunny?’‘Themsign!’sighedMrIii,weakwithhilarity.‘Soveryfunny.I’llhaveto

tell Mr Xxx about this!’ He examined the filled-out form, still laughing.‘Everything seems to be in order.’ He nodded. ‘Even the agreement foreuthanasiaiffinaldecisiononsuchastepisnecessary.’Hechuckled.‘Agreementforwhat?’‘Don’ttalk.Ihavesomethingforyou.Here,Takethiskey.’Thecaptainflushed.‘It’sagreathonour.’‘Notthekeytothecity,youfool!’snappedMrIii.‘JustakeytotheHouse.

Godownthatcorridor,unlockthebigdoor,andgoinsideandshutthedoortight.Youcanspendthenightthere.InthemorningI’llsendMrXxxtoseeyou.’Dubiouslythecaptaintookthekeyinhand.Hestoodlookingatthefloor.

Hismendidnotmove.Theyseemedtobeemptiedofalltheirbloodandtheirrocketfever.Theyweredraineddry.‘What is it?What’swrong?’ inquiredMr Iii. ‘What are youwaiting for?

Whatdoyouwant?’Hecameandpeeredupintothecaptain’sface,stooping.‘Outwithit,you!’‘Idon’tsupposeyoucouldeven—’suggestedthecaptain.‘Imean,thatis,

try to, or think about…’Hehesitated. ‘We’veworkedhard,we’ve comealongway,andmaybeyoucouldjustshakeourhandsandsay“Welldone!”doyou–think?’Hisvoicefaded.MrIiistuckouthishandstiffly.‘Congratulations!’Hesmiledacoldsmile.

‘Congratulations.’Heturnedaway.‘Imustgonow.Usethatkey.’Withoutnoticingthemagain,asiftheyhadmelteddownthroughthefloor,

MrIiimovedabouttheroompackingalittlemanuscriptcasewithpapers.Hewas in the roomanother fiveminutesbutneveragainaddressed thesolemnquartet that stood with heads down, their heavy legs sagging, the lightdwindling from their eyes.WhenMr Iiiwent out of the door hewas busylookingathisfingernails.…

They straggled along the corridor in the dull, silent afternoon light. Theycame to a large burnished silver door, and the silver key opened it. Theyentered,shutthedoor,andturned.Theywereinavastsunlithall.Menandwomensatattablesandstoodin

conversinggroups.Atthesoundofthedoortheyregardedthefouruniformedmen.OneMartiansteppedforward,bowing.‘IamMrUuu,’hesaid.‘And IamCaptainJonathanWilliams,ofNewYorkCity,onEarth,’ said

thecaptainwithoutemphasis.Immediatelythehallexploded!The rafters trembledwith 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. Theychargedaboutthehallsixtimes,sixtimesmakingafullandwonderfulcircuitoftheroom,jumping,bounding,singing.TheEarthMenweresostunnedthattheyrodethetopplingshouldersfora

fullminutebeforetheybegantolaughandshoutateachother:‘Hey!Thisismorelikeit!’

‘Thisisthelife!Boy!Yay!Yow!Whoopee!’Theywinkedtremendouslyateachother.Theyflunguptheirhandstoclap

theair.‘Hey!’‘Hooray!’saidthecrowd.TheysettheEarthMenonatable.Theshoutingdied.Thecaptainalmostbrokeintotears.‘Thankyou.It’sgood,it’sgood.’‘Tellusaboutyourselves,’suggestedMrUuu.Thecaptainclearedhisthroat.Theaudienceohedandahedasthecaptaintalked.Heintroducedhiscrew;

eachmadeasmallspeechandwasembarrassedbythethunderousapplause.MrUuuclappedthecaptain’sshoulder.‘It’sgoodtoseeanothermanfrom

Earth.IamfromEarthalso.’‘Howwasthatagain?’‘TherearemanyofusherefromEarth.’‘You?FromEarth?’Thecaptainstared.‘Butisthatpossible?Didyoucome

by rocket? Has space travel been going on for centuries?’ His voice wasdisappointed.‘What–whatcountryareyoufrom?’‘Tuiereol.Icamebythespiritofmybody,yearsago.’‘Tuiereol.’ The captain mouthed the word. ‘I don’t know that country.

What’sthisaboutspiritofbody?’‘AndMissRrroverhere,she’sfromEarthtoo,aren’tyou,MissRrr?’MissRrrnoddedandlaughedstrangely.‘AndsoisMrWwwandMrQqqandMrVvv!’‘I’mfromJupiter,’declaredoneman,preeninghimself.‘I’mfromSaturn,’saidanother,eyesglintingslyly.‘Jupiter,Saturn,’murmuredthecaptain,blinking.Itwasveryquietnow;thepeoplestoodaroundandsatatthetables,which

werestrangelyemptyforbanquettables.Theiryelloweyeswereglowing,andthereweredarkshadowsundertheircheekbones.Thecaptainnoticedforthefirsttimethattherewerenowindows;thelightseemedtopermeatethewalls.Therewasonlyonedoor.Thecaptainwinced.‘Thisisconfusing.WhereonEarthisthisTuiereol?IsitnearAmerica?’‘WhatisAmerica?’‘YouneverheardofAmerica!Yousayyou’refromEarthandyetyoudon’t

know!’MrUuudrewhimselfupangrily.‘Earthisaplaceofseasandnothingbut

seas.Thereisnoland.IamfromEarth,andknow.’‘Wait aminute.’ The captain sat back. ‘You look like a regularMartian.

Yelloweyes.Brownskin.’‘Earthisaplaceofalljungle,’saidMissRrrproudly.‘IamfromOrri,on

Earth,acivilizationbuiltofsilver!’NowthecaptainturnedhisheadfromandthentoMrUuuandthentoMr

WwwandMrZzzandMrNnnandMrHhhandMrBbb.Hesawtheiryelloweyeswaxingandwaning in the light, focusingandunfocusing.Hebegan toshiver.Finallyheturnedtohismenandregardedthemsombrely.‘Doyourealizewhatthisis?’‘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 attheireyes.Listentothem!’Nobodybreathed.Therewasonlya softwhitemoveofeyes in theclose

room.‘Now I understand’ – the captain’s voicewas far away – ‘why everyone

gaveusnotesandpasseduson,onefromtheother,untilwemetMrIii,whosentusdownacorridorwithakeytoopenadoorandshutadoor.Andhereweare…’‘Wherearewe,sir?’Thecaptainexhaled.‘Inaninsaneasylum.’

Itwasnight.The largehall layquiet anddimly illuminatedbyhidden lightsources in the transparentwalls. The four EarthMen sat around awoodentable, their bleak heads bent over their whispers. On the floor, men andwomenlayhuddled.Therewerelittlestirsinthedarkcorners,solitarymenorwomengesturingtheirhands.Everyhalf-houroneofthecaptain’smenwouldtrythesilverdoorandreturntothetable.‘Nothingdoing,sir.We’relockedinproper.’‘Theythinkwe’rereallyinsane,sir?’‘Quite.That’swhy therewas no hullabaloo towelcomeus.Theymerely

toleratedwhat,tothem,mustbeaconstantlyrecurringpsychoticcondition.’He gestured at the dark sleeping shapes all about them. ‘Paranoids, everysingleone!Whatawelcometheygaveus!Foramomentthere’–alittlefireroseanddiedinhiseyes–‘Ithoughtweweregettingourtruereception.Alltheyellingandsingingandspeeches.Prettynice,wasn’tit–whileitlasted?’‘Howlongwilltheykeepushere,sir?’‘Untilweprovewe’renotpsychotics.’‘Thatshouldbeeasy.’‘Ihopeso.’‘Youdon’tsoundverycertain,sir.’‘I’mnot.Lookinthatcorner.’Aman squatted alone in darkness.Out of hismouth issued a blue flame

whichturnedintotheroundshapeofasmallnakedwoman.Itflourishedontheairsoftlyinvapoursofcobaltlight,whisperingandsighing.The captain nodded at another corner. A woman stood there, changing.

First she was embedded in a crystal pillar, then she melted into a goldenstatue,finallyastaffofpolishedcedar,andbacktoawoman.All through the midnight hall people were juggling thin violent flames,

shifting,changing,fornight-timewasthetimeofchangeandaffliction.‘Magicians,sorcerers,’whisperedoneoftheEarthMen.‘No,hallucination.Theypasstheirinsanityoverintoussothatweseetheir

hallucinationstoo.Telepathy.Auto-suggestionandtelepathy.’‘Isthatwhatworriesyou,sir?’‘Yes. If hallucinations can appear this “real” to us, to anyone, if

hallucinationsarecatchingandalmostbelievable,it’snowondertheymistookus for psychotics. If that man can produce little blue fire women and thatwoman there melt into a pillar, how natural if normal Martians think weproduceourrocketshipwithourminds’.‘Oh,’saidhismenintheshadows.Aroundthem,inthevasthall,flamesleapedblue,flared,evaporated.Little

demonsof redsandranbetween the teethofsleepingmen.Womenbecameoilysnakes.Therewasasmellofreptilesandanimals.In themorning everyone stood around looking fresh, happy, and normal.

Therewerenoflamesordemonsintheroom.Thecaptainandhismenwaitedbythesilverdoor,hopingitwouldopen.MrXxxarrivedafter about fourhours.Theyhada suspicion thathehad

waitedoutsidethedoor,peeringinatthemforatleastthreehoursbeforehesteppedin,beckoned,andledthemtohissmalloffice.Hewasa jovial,smilingman, ifonecouldbelievethemaskhewore,for

upon it was painted not one smile, but three. Behind it, his voice was thevoiceofanotsosmilingpsychologist.‘Whatseemstobethetrouble?’‘Youthinkwe’reinsane,andwe’renot,’saidthecaptain.‘Contrarily,Idonotthinkallofyouareinsane.’Thepsychologistpointeda

little wand at the captain. ‘No. Just you, sir. The others are secondaryhallucinations.’Thecaptainslappedhisknee.‘Sothat’sit!That’swhyMrIiilaughedwhen

Isuggestedmymensignthepaperstoo!’‘Yes,MrIiitoldme.’Thepsychologistlaughedoutofthecarved,smiling

mouth. ‘Agood joke.Wherewas I?Secondary hallucinations, yes.Womencome to me with snakes crawling from their ears. When I cure them, thesnakesvanish.’‘We’llbegladtobecured.Gorightahead.’

MrXxx seemed surprised. ‘Unusual.Notmanypeoplewant tobe cured.Thecureisdrastic,youknow.’‘Cureahead!I’mconfidentyou’llfindwe’reallsane.’‘Letme 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 the hall are simpler forms. But once you’ve gone this far, Imust point out, with primary, secondary, auditory, olfactory, and labialhallucinations,aswellastactileandopticalfantasies,itisprettybadbusiness.Wehavetoresorttoeuthanasia.’Thecaptainleapedupwitharoar.‘Lookhere,we’vestoodquiteenough!

Testus,tapourknees,checkourhearts,exerciseus,askquestions!’‘Youarefreetospeak.’Thecaptainravedforanhour.Thepsychologistlistened.‘Incredible,’hemused.‘MostdetaileddreamfantasyI’veeverheard.’‘Goddamnit,we’llshowyoutherocketship!’screamedthecaptain.‘I’dliketoseeit.Canyoumanifestitinthisroom?’‘Oh,certainly.It’sinthatfileofyours,underR.’Mr Xxx peered seriously into his file. He went ‘Tsk’ and shut the file

solemnly.‘Whydidyoutellmetolook?Therocketisn’tthere.’‘Ofcoursenot,youidiot!Iwasjoking.Doesaninsanemanjoke?’‘Youfindsomeoddsensesofhumour.Now,takemeouttoyourrocket.I

wishtoseeit.’

Itwasnoon.Thedaywasveryhotwhentheyreachedtherocket.‘So.’Thepsychologistwalkeduptotheshipandtappedit.Itgongedsoftly.

‘MayIgoinside?’heaskedslyly.‘Youmay.’MrXxxsteppedinandwasgoneforalongtime.‘Of all the silly, exasperating things.’ The captain chewed a cigar as he

waited. ‘For twocents I’dgobackhomeand tellpeoplenot tobotherwithMars.Whatasuspiciousbunchoflouts.’‘Igatherthatagoodnumberoftheirpopulationareinsane,sir.Thatseems

tobetheirmainreasonfordoubting.’‘Nevertheless,thisisallsodamnedirritating.’The psychologist emerged from the ship after half an hour of prowling,

tapping,listening,smelling,tasting.‘Nowdoyoubelieve!’shoutedthecaptain,asifheweredeaf.The psychologist shut his eyes and scratched his nose. ‘This is themost

incredibleexampleofsensualhallucinationandhypnoticsuggestionI’veeverencountered.Iwentthroughyour“rocket”,asyoucallit.’Hetappedthehull.

‘I hear it. Auditory fantasy.’ He drew a breath. ‘I smell it. Olfactoryhallucination, induced by sensual telepathy.’ He kissed the ship. ‘I taste it.Labialfantasy!’Heshookthecaptain’shand.‘MayIcongratulateyou?Youareapsychotic

genius! You have done a most complete job! The task of projecting yourpsychotic image into the mind of another via telepathy and keeping thehallucinations frombecomingsensuallyweaker isalmost impossible.ThosepeopleintheHouseusuallyconcentrateonvisualsor,atthemost,visualsandauditory fantasies combined.Youhavebalanced thewhole conglomeration!Yourinsanityisbeautifullycomplete!’‘Myinsanity.’Thecaptainwaspale.‘Yes,yes,whatalovelyinsanity.Metal,rubber,gravitizers,foods,clothing,

fuel, weapons, ladders, nuts, bolts, spoons. Ten thousand separate items Ichecked on your vessel. Never have I seen such a complexity. Therewereevenshadowsunder thebunksandundereverything!Suchconcentrationofwill!Andeverything,nomatterhoworwhentested,hadasmell,asolidity,ataste,asound!Letmeembraceyou!’Hestoodbackatlast.‘I’llwritethisintomygreatestmonograph!I’llspeak

of it at theMartianAcademy nextmonth!Look at you!Why, you’ve evenchangedyoureyecolourfromyellowtoblue,yourskintopinkfrombrown.And those clothes, and your hands having five fingers instead of six!Biologicalmetamorphosis throughpsychological imbalance!Andyour threefriends—’He tookouta littlegun. ‘Incurable,ofcourse.Youpoor,wonderfulman.

Youwillbehappierdead.Haveyouanylastwords?’‘Stop,forGod’ssake!Don’tshoot!’‘Yousadcreature.Ishallputyououtofyourmiserywhichhasdrivenyou

to imagine this rocket and these three men. It will be most engrossing towatchyourfriendsandyourrocketvanishonceIhavekilledyou.IwillwriteaneatpaperonthedissolvementofneuroticimagesfromwhatIperceiveheretoday.’‘I’mfromEarth!MynameisJonathanWilliams,andthese—’‘Yes,Iknow,’soothedMrXxx,andfiredhisgun.Thecaptainfellwithabulletinhisheart.Theotherthreemenscreamed.Mr Xxx stared at them. ‘You continue to exist? This is superb!

Hallucinationswithtimeandspatialpersistence!’Hepointedthegunatthem.‘Well,I’llscareyouintodissolving.’‘No!’criedthethreemen.‘Anauditoryappeal,evenwith thepatientdead,’observedMrXxxashe

shotthethreemendown.

Theylayonthesand,intact,notmoving.Hekickedthem.Thenherappedontheship.‘It persists!They persist!’He fired his gun again at the bodies. Then he

stoodback.Thesmilingmaskdroppedfromhisface.Slowly the little psychologist’s face changed. His jaw sagged. The gun

droppedfromhisfingers.Hiseyesweredullandvacant.Heputhishandsupandturnedinablindcircle.Hefumbledatthebodies,salivafillinghismouth.‘Hallucinations,’ he mumbled frantically. ‘Taste. Sight. Smell. Sound.

Feeling.’Hewavedhishands.Hiseyesbulged.Hismouthbegantogiveoffafaintfroth.‘Goaway!’heshoutedtothebodies.‘Goaway!’hescreamedattheship.

He examined his trembling hands. ‘Contaminated,’ he whimpered wildly.‘Carried over into me. Telepathy. Hypnosis. Now I’m insane. Now I’mcontaminated. Hallucinations in all their sensual forms.’ He stopped andsearchedaroundwithhisnumbhandsforthegun.‘Onlyonecure.Onlyonewaytomakethemgoaway,vanish.’Ashotrangout.MrXxxfell.Thefourbodieslayinthesun.MrXxxlaywherehefell.Therocketreclinedonthelittlesunnyhillanddidn’tvanish.When the townpeople found the rocket at sunset theywonderedwhat it

was.Nobodyknew,soitwassoldtoajunkmanandhauledofftobebrokenupforscrapmetal.Thatnightitrainedallnight.Thenextdaywasfairandwarm.

MARCH2000

TheTaxpayer

HewantedtogotoMarsontherocket.Hewentdowntotherocketfieldintheearlymorningandyelledinthroughwirefenceatthemeninuniformthathewanted to go to Mars. He told them he was a taxpayer, his name wasPritchard,andhehadarighttogotoMars.Wasn’thebornrighthereinOhio?Wasn’theagoodcitizen?Thenwhycouldn’thego toMars?Heshookhisfistsat themandtoldthemthathewantedtogetawayfromEarth;anybodywithanysensewantedtogetawayfromEarth.TherewasgoingtobeabigatomicwaronEarthinabouttwoyears,andhedidn’twanttobeherewhenithappened.Heandthousandsofotherslikehim,iftheyhadanysense,wouldgotoMars.Seeiftheywouldn’t!Togetawayfromwarsandcensorshipandstatismandconscriptionandgovernmentcontrolof thisand that,ofartandscience!YoucouldhaveEarth!Hewasofferinghisgoodrighthand,hisheart,hishead, for theopportunity togo toMars!Whatdidyouhave todo,whatdidyouhavetosign,whomdidyouhavetoknow,togetontherocket?Theylaughedoutthroughthewirescreenathim.Hedidn’twanttogoto

Mars, they said.Didn’t he know that theFirst andSecondExpeditions hadfailed,hadvanished;themenwereprobablydead?But theycouldn’tproveit, theydidn’tknowforsure,hesaid,clinging to

thewirefence.Maybeitwasalandofmilkandhoneyupthere,andCaptainYorkandCaptainWilliamshadjustneverbotheredtocomeback.Nowweretheygoingtoopenthegateandlethimin toboardtheThirdExpeditionaryRocket,orwashegoingtohavetokickitdown?Theytoldhimtoshutup.Hesawthemenwalkingouttotherocket.‘Wait forme!’hecried. ‘Don’t leavemehereon this terribleworld, I’ve

gottogetaway;there’sgoingtobeanatomwar!Don’tleavemeonEarth!’Theydraggedhim,struggling,away.Theyslammedthepolicewagondoor

anddrovehimoffintotheearlymorning,hisfacepressedtotherearwindow,andjustbeforetheysirenedoverahill,hesawtheredfireandheardthebigsoundandfeltthehugetremorasthesilverrocketshotupandlefthimbehindonanordinaryMondaymorningontheordinaryplanetEarth.

APRIL2000

TheThirdExpedition

The ship came down from space. It came from the stars, and the blackvelocities,andtheshiningmovements,andthesilentgulfsofspace.Itwasanewship;ithadfireinitsbodyandmeninitsmetalcells,anditmovedwithacleansilence,fieryandwarm.Initwereseventeenmen,includingacaptain.Thecrowdat theOhio fieldhadshoutedandwaved theirhandsup into thesunlight,andtherockethadbloomedoutgreatflowersofheatandcolourandrunawayintospaceonthethirdvoyagetoMars?Now it was decelerating with metal efficiency in the upper Martian

atmospheres.Itwasstilla thingofbeautyandstrength.Ithadmovedinthemidnightwatersofspacelikeapalesea leviathan; ithadpassedtheancientmoonandthrownitselfonwardintoonenothingnessfollowinganother.Themenwithin it had been battered, thrown about, sickened,madewell again,eachinhisturn.Onemanhaddied,butnowtheremainingsixteen,withtheireyes clear in their heads and their faces pressed to the thick glass ports,watchedMarsswingupunderthem.‘Mars!’criedNavigatorLustig.‘GoodoldMars!’saidSamuelHinkston,archaeologist.‘Well,’saidCaptainJohnBlack.Therocketlandedonalawnofgreengrass.Outside,uponthislawn,stood

anirondeer.FartheruponthegreenstoodatallbrownVictorianhouse,quietinthesunlight,allcoveredwithscrollsandrococo,itswindowsmadeofblueand pink and yellow and green coloured glass.Upon the porchwere hairygeraniums and an old swingwhich was hooked into the porch ceiling andwhich now swung back and forth, back and forth, in a little breeze.At thesummitofthehousewasacupolawithdiamondleaded-glasswindowsandadunce-cap roof!Through the frontwindowyou could see a piece ofmusictitled‘BeautifulOhio’sittingonthemusic-rest.Around the rocket in four directions spread the little town, green and

motionlessintheMartianspring.Therewerewhitehousesandredbrickones,and tallelm-treesblowing in thewind,and tallmaplesandhorse-chestnuts.Andchurchsteepleswithgoldenbellssilentinthem.Therocketmenlookedoutandsawthis.Thentheylookedatoneanother

and then they lookedoutagain.Theyheld toeachother’selbows,suddenlyunabletobreathe,itseemed.Theirfacesgrewpale.‘I’llbedamned,’whisperedLustig,rubbinghisfacewithhisnumbfingers.

I’llbedamned.’‘Itjustcan’tbe,’saidSamuelHinkston.‘Lord,’saidCaptainJohnBlack.There was a call from the chemist. ‘Sir, the atmosphere is thin for

breathing.Butthere’senoughoxygen.It’ssafe.’‘Thenwe’llgoout,’saidLustig.‘Holdon,’saidCaptainJohnBlack.‘Howdoweknowwhatthisis?’‘It’sasmalltownwiththinbutbreathableairinit,sir.’‘And it’s a small town the like of Earth towns,’ said Hinkston, the

archaeologist.‘Incredible.Itcan’tbe,butitis.’CaptainJohnBlacklookedathimidly.‘Doyouthinkthatthecivilizations

of two planets can progress at the same rate and evolve in the same way,Hinkston?’‘Iwouldn’thavethoughtso,sir.’Captain Black stood by the port. ‘Look out there. The geraniums. A

specializedplant.ThatspecificvarietyhasonlybeenknownonEarthforfiftyyears.Thinkofthethousandsofyearsittakestoevolveplants.Thentellmeifit is logical that theMartians shouldhave:one, leaded-glasswindows; two,cupolas; three,porchswings;four,aninstrumentthat lookslikeapianoandprobablyisapiano;andfive,ifyoulookcloselythroughthistelescopelenshere, is it logical that aMartiancomposerwouldhavepublishedapieceofmusictitled,strangelyenough,“BeautifulOhio”?AllofwhichmeansthatwehaveanOhioRiveronMars!’‘CaptainWilliams,ofcourse!’criedHinkston.‘What?’‘CaptainWilliamsandhiscrewof threemen!OrNathanielYorkandhis

partner.Thatwould,explainit!’‘That would explain absolutely nothing. As far as we’ve been able to

figure,theYorkexpeditionexplodedthedayitreachedMars,killingYorkandhispartner.AsforWilliamsandhisthreemen,theirshipexplodedtheseconddayaftertheirarrival.Atleastthepulsationsfromtheirradiosceasedatthattime,sowefigurethatifthemenwerealiveafterthatthey’dhavecontactedus. And anyway, the York expedition was only a year ago, while CaptainWilliamsandhismenlandedheresometimeduringlastAugust.Theorizingthat theyarestillalive,could they,evenwith thehelpofabrilliantMartianrace,havebuiltsuchatownasthisandageditinsoshortatime?Lookatthattownoutthere;whyit’sbeenstandinghereforthelastseventyyears.Lookat

thewoodontheporchnewel;lookatthetrees,acenturyold,allofthem!No,this isn’tYork’sworkorWilliam’s. It’s somethingelse. Idon’t like it.AndI’mnotleavingtheshipuntilIknowwhatitis.’‘For thatmatter,’saidLustig,nodding, ‘Williamsandhismen,aswellas

York, landedontheoppositesideofMars.Wewereverycareful to landonthisside.’‘Anexcellentpoint.JustincaseahostilelocaltribeofMartianskilledoff

York and Williams, we have instructions to land in a farther region, toforestallarecurrenceofsuchadisaster.Sohereweare,asfarasweknow,inalandthatWilliamsandYorkneversaw.’‘Damn it,’ saidHinkston, ‘Iwant togetout into this town, sir,withyour

permission. Itmaybe thereare similar thoughtpatterns, civilizationgraphsoneveryplanetinoursunsystem.Wemaybeonthethresholdofthegreatestpsychologicalandmetaphysicaldiscoveryofourage!’‘I’mwillingtowaitamoment,’saidCaptainJohnBlack.‘Itmay be, sir, thatwe’re looking upon a phenomenon that, for the first

time,wouldabsolutelyprovetheexistenceofGod,sir.’‘There are many people who are of good faith without such proof, Mr

Hinkston.’‘I’monemyself,sir.Butcertainlyatownlikethiscouldnotoccurwithout

divineintervention.Thedetail.ItfillsmewithsuchfeelingsthatIdon’tknowwhethertolaughorcry.’‘Doneither,then,untilweknowwhatwe’reupagainst.’‘Upagainst?’Lustigbrokein.‘Againstnothing,Captain.It’sagood,quiet

greentown,alotliketheoldfashionedoneIwasbornin.Ilikethelooksofit.’‘Whenwereyouborn,Lustig?’‘Nineteen-fifty,sir.’‘Andyou,Hinkston?’‘Nineteen-fifty-five,sir.Grinnell,Iowa.Andthislookslikehometome.’‘Hinkston,Lustig, I couldbeeitherofyour fathers. I’m just eightyyears

old.Bornin1920inIllinois,andthroughthegraceofGodandasciencethat,inthelastfiftyyears,knowshowtomakesomeoldmenyoungagain,hereIam on Mars, not any more tired than the rest of you, but infinitely moresuspicious.Thistownoutherelooksverypeacefulandcool,andsomuchlikeGreenBluff,Illinois,thatitfrightensme.It’stoomuchlikeGreenBluff.’Heturnedtotheradioman.‘RadioEarth.Tellthemwe’velanded.That’sall.Tellthemwe’llradioafullreporttomorrow.’‘Yes,sir.’Captain Black looked out the rocket port with his face that should have

been the face of aman of eighty but seemed like the face of aman in hisfortiethyear.‘Tellyouwhatwe’lldo,Lustig;youandIandHinkston’lllookthetownover.Theothermen’llstayaboard.Ifanythinghappenstheycangetthehellout.Alossofthreemen’sbetterthanawholeship.Ifsomethingbadhappens,ourcrewcanwarnthenextrocket.That’sCaptainWilder’srocket,Ithink,duetobereadytotakeoffnextChristmas.Ifthere’ssomethinghostileaboutMarswecertainlywantthenextrockettobewellarmed.’‘Soarewe.We’vegotaregulararsenalwithus.’‘Tellthementostandbytheguns,then.Comeon,Lustig,Hinkston.’Thethreemenwalkedtogetherdownthroughthelevelsoftheship.

Itwasabeautifulspringday.Arobinsatonablossomingappletreeandsangcontinuously.Showersofpetalsnowsifteddownwhenthewindtouchedthegreenbranches,andtheblossomscentdriftedupontheair.Somewhereinthetown someonewas playing the piano, and themusic came andwent, cameandwent, softly, drowsily. The songwas ‘Beautiful Dreamer’. Somewhereelseaphonograph,scratchyandfaded,washissingoutarecordof‘Roamin’throughtheGloamin’’,sungbyHarryLauder.Thethreemenstoodoutsidetheship.Theysuckedandgaspedatthethin,

thinairandmovedslowlysoasnottotirethemselves.Nowthephonographrecordbeingplayedwas:

‘Oh,givemeaJunenight,Themoonlightandyou…’

Lustigbegantotremble.SamuelHinkstondidlikewise.The sky was serene and quiet, and somewhere a stream of water ran

through the cool caverns and tree shadingsof a ravine.Somewhere a horseandwagontrottedandrolledby,bumping.‘Sir,’saidSamuelHinkston,‘itmustbe, ithas tobe, that rocket travel to

MarsbeganintheyearsbeforetheFirstWorldWar!’‘No.’‘How else can you explain these houses, the iron deer, the pianos, the

music?’Hinkston took thecaptain’s elbowpersuasivelyand looked into thecaptain’s face. ‘Say that therewerepeople in theyear1905whohatedwarandgottogetherwithsomescientistsinsecretandbuiltarocketandcameoutheretoMars—’‘No,no,Hinkston.’‘Whynot?Theworldwasadifferentworldin1905;theycouldhavekeptit

asecretmuchmoreeasily.’

‘Butacomplexthinglikearocket;no,youcouldn’tkeepitsecret.’‘And theycameuphere to live, andnaturally thehouses theybuiltwere

similartoEarthhousesbecausetheybroughttheculturewiththem.’‘Andthey’velivedherealltheseyears?’saidthecaptain.‘In peace and quiet, yes.Maybe theymade a few trips, enough to bring

enoughpeople here for one small town, and then stopped for fear of beingdiscovered.That’swhythistownseemssoold-fashioned.Idon’tseeathing,myself,olderthantheyear1927,doyou?Ormaybe,sir,rockettravelisolderthanwethink.Perhapsitstartedinsomepartoftheworldcenturiesagoandwas kept secret by the small number ofmenwho came toMarswith onlyoccasionalvisitstoEarthoverthecenturies.’‘Youmakeitsoundalmostreasonable.’‘Ithastobe.We’vetheproofherebeforeus;allwehavetodoisfindsome

peopleandverifyit.’Theirbootsweredeadenedofallsoundinthethickgreengrass.Itsmelled

from a fresh mowing. In spite of himself, Captain John Black felt a greatpeacecomeoverhim. Ithadbeen thirtyyearssincehehadbeen ina smalltown,andthebuzzingofspringbeesontheairlulledandquietedhim,andthefreshlookofthingswasabalmtothesoul.They set foot upon the porch. Hollow echoes sounded from under the

boardsastheywalkedtothescreendoor.Insidetheycouldseeabeadcurtainhung across the hall entry, and a crystal chandelier and aMaxfield Parrishpainting framed on one wall over a comfortable Morris chair. The housesmelledold,andof theattic,and infinitelycomfortable.Youcouldhear thetinkleoficeinalemonadepitcher.Inadistantkitchen,becauseoftheheatoftheday,someonewaspreparingacoldlunch.Someonewashummingunderherbreath,highandsweet.CaptainJohnBlackrangthebell.

Footsteps,daintyandthin,camealongthehall,andakind-facedladyofsomefortyyears, dressed in the sort of dress youmight expect in theyear 1909,peeredoutatthem.‘CanIhelpyou?’sheasked.‘Begyourpardon,’saidCaptainBlackuncertainly.‘Butwe’relookingfor–

that is, couldyouhelpus—’He stopped.She lookedout at himwithdark,wonderingeyes.‘Ifyou’resellingsomething—’shebegan.‘Nowait!’hecried.‘Whattownisthis?’Shelookedhimupanddown.‘Whatdoyoumean,whattownisit?How

couldyoubeinatownandnotknowthename?’

The captain looked as if he wanted to go sit under a shady apple tree.‘We’restrangershere.Wewanttoknowhowthistowngothereandhowyougothere.’‘Areyoucensus-takers?’‘No.’‘Everyoneknows,’shesaid,‘thistownwasbuiltin1868.Isthisagame?’‘No,notagame!’criedthecaptain.‘We’refromEarth.’‘Outoftheground,doyoumean?’shewondered.‘No,we came from the third planet, Earth, in a ship.Andwe’ve landed

hereonthefourthplanet,Mars—’‘This,’explained thewoman,as if shewereaddressingachild, ‘isGreen

Bluff, Illinois, on the continentofAmerica, surroundedby theAtlantic andPacificoceans,onaplacecalledtheworld,or,sometimes,theEarth.Goawaynow.Good-bye.’Shetrotteddownthehall,runningherfingersthroughthebeadedcurtains.Thethreemenlookedatoneanother.‘Let’sknockthescreendoorin,’saidLustig.‘Wecan’tdothat.Thisisprivateproperty.GoodGod!’Theywenttositdownontheporchstep.‘Diditeverstrikeyou,Hinkston,thatperhapswegotourselvessomehow,

insomeway,offtrack,andbyaccidentcamebackandlandedonEarth?’‘Howcouldwehavedonethat?’‘Idon’tknow,Idon’tknow.OhGod,letmethink!’Hinkstonsaid,‘Butwecheckedeverymileoftheway.Ourchronometers

saidsomanymiles.Wewentpastthemoonandoutintospace,andhereweare.I’mpositivewe’reonMars.’Lustigsaid,‘Butsuppose,byaccident,inspace,intime,wegotlostinthe

dimensionsandlandedonanEarththatisthirtyorfortyyearsago.’‘Oh,goaway,Lustig!’Lustigwenttothedoor,rangthebell,andcalledintothecooldimrooms:

‘Whatyearisthis?’‘Nineteen twenty-six, of course,’ said the lady, sitting in a rocking-chair,

takingasipofherlemonade.‘Didyouhear that?’Lustigturnedwildlytotheothers.‘Nineteentwenty-

six!Wehavegonebackintime!ThisisEarth!’

Lustigsatdown,andthe threemenlet thewonderandterrorof the thoughtafflict them.Their hands stirred fitfully on their knees.The captain said, ‘Ididn’taskforathinglikethis.Itscaresthehelloutofme.Howcanathinglikethishappen?Iwishwe’dbroughtEinsteinwithus.’

‘Willanyoneinthistownbelieveus?’saidHinkston.‘Areweplayingwithsomething dangerous? Time, I mean. Shouldn’t we just take off and gohome?’‘No.Notuntilwetryanotherhouse.’Theywalkedthreehousesdowntoalittlewhitecottageunderanoak-tree.

‘I like to be as logical as I can be,’ said the captain. ‘And I don’t believewe’ve put our finger on it yet. Suppose, Hinkston, as you originallysuggested,thatrockettraveloccurredyearsago?AndwhentheEarthpeoplelived here a number of years they began to get homesick forEarth. First amildneurosisaboutit,thenafull-fledgedpsychosis.Thenthreatenedinsanity.Whatwouldyoudoasapsychiatristiffacedwithsuchaproblem?’Hinkston thought. ‘Well, I thinkI’darrange thecivilizationonMarsso it

resembled Earth more and more each day. If there was any way ofreproducingeveryplant,everyroad,andevery lake,andevenanocean, I’ddoso.Thenbysomevast crowdhypnosis I’dconvinceeveryone ina townthissizethatthisreallywasEarth,notMarsatall.’‘Goodenough,Hinkston.Ithinkwe’reontherighttracknow.Thatwoman

inthathousetherejustthinksshe’slivingonEarth.Itprotectshersanity.Sheandall theothers in this townare thepatientsof thegreatestexperiment inmigrationandhypnosisyouwilleverlayeyesoninyourlife.’‘That’sit,sir!’criedLustig.‘Right!’saidHinkston.‘Well.’Thecaptainsighed.‘Nowwe’vegotsomewhereIfeelbetter.It’sall

a bit more logical. That talk about time and going back and forth andtravellingthroughtimeturnsmystomachupsidedown.Butthisway—’Thecaptainsmiled.‘Well,well,itlooksasifwe’llbefairlypopularhere.’‘Orwillwe?’saidLustig. ‘Afterall, like thePilgrims, thesepeople came

heretoescapeEarth.Maybetheywon’tbetoohappytoseeus.Maybethey’lltrytodriveusoutorkillus.’‘Wehavesuperiorweapons.Thisnexthousenow.Upwego.’ButtheyhadhardlycrossedthelawnwhenLustigstoppedandlookedoff

acrossthetown,downthequiet,dreamingafternoonstreet.‘Sir,’hesaid.‘Whatisit,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 andincredulity.He soundedas if at anymomenthemightgoquite insanewithhappiness.Helookeddownthestreetandbegantorun,stumblingawkwardly,falling,pickinghimselfup,andrunningon.‘Look,look!’‘Don’tlethimgetaway!’Thecaptainbrokeintoarun.NowLustigwasrunningswiftly,shouting.Heturnedintoayardhalf-way

down the shadystreetand leapedupupon theporchofa largegreenhousewithanironroosterontheroof.Hewasbeatingat thedoor,holleringandcrying,whenHinkstonand the

captainranupbehindhim.’Theywereallgaspingandwheezing,exhaustedfromtheirruninthethinair.‘Grandma!Grandpa!’criedLustig.Twooldpeoplestoodinthedoorway.‘David!’theirvoicespiped,andtheyrushedouttoembraceandpathimon

thebackandmovearoundhim.‘David,oh,David,it’sbeensomanyyears!How you’ve grown, boy; how big you are, boy! Oh, David boy, how areyou?’‘Grandma,Grandpa!’sobbedDavidLustig.‘Youlookfine,fine!’Heheld

them,turnedthem,kissedthem,huggedthem,criedonthem,heldthemoutagain,blinkingatthelittleoldpeople.Thesunwasinthesky,thewindblew,thegrasswasgreen,thescreendoorstoodwide.‘Comein,boy,comein.There’sicedteaforyou,fresh;lotsofit!’‘I’vegotfriendshere.’LustigturnedandwavedatthecaptainandHinkston

frantically,laughing.‘Captain,comeonup.’‘Howdy,’ said the old people. ‘Come in. Any friends ofDavid’s are our

friendstoo.Don’tstandthere!’In the living-room of the old house itwas cool, and a grandfather clock

tickedhighand longandbronzed inonecorner.Thereweresoftpillowsonlargecouchesandwallsfilledwithbooksandarugcutinathickrosepattern,andicedteainthehand,sweating,andcoolonthethirstytongue.‘Here’stoourhealth.’Grandmatippedherglasstoherporcelainteeth.‘Howlonghaveyoubeenhere,Grandma?’saidLustig.‘Eversincewedied,’shesaidtartly.‘Eversinceyouwhat?’CaptainJohnBlacksetdownhisglass.‘Ohyes.’Lustignodded.‘They’vebeendeadthirtyyears.’‘Andyousittherecalmly!’shoutedthecaptain.‘Tush.’Theoldwomanwinkedglitteringly.‘Whoareyoutoquestionwhat

happens? Here we are.What’s life, anyway?Who does what for why andwhere?Allweknowishereweare,aliveagain,andnoquestionsasked.Asecond chance.’ She toddled over and held out her thin wrist. ‘Feel.’ Thecaptain felt. ‘Solid, ain’t it?’ she asked. He nodded. ‘Well, then,’ she saidtriumphantly,‘whygoaroundquestioning?’‘Well,’saidthecaptain,‘it’ssimplythatweneverthoughtwe’dfindathing

likethisonMars.’‘And now you’ve found it. I dare say there’s lots on every planet that’ll

showyouGod’sinfiniteways.’‘IsthisHeaven?’askedHinkston.

‘Nonsense,no. It’s aworld andweget a secondchance.Nobody tolduswhy.ButthennobodytolduswhywewereonEarth,either.ThatotherEarth,I mean. The one you came from. How do we know there wasn’t anotherbeforethatone?’‘Agoodquestion,’saidthecaptain.Lustigkeptsmilingathisgrandparents.‘Gosh,it’sgoodtoseeyou.Gosh,

it’sgood.’Thecaptainstoodupandslappedhishandonhis leginacasualfashion.

‘We’vegottobegoing.Thankyouforthedrinks.’‘You’llbeback,ofcourse,’saidtheoldpeople.‘Forsuppertonight?’‘We’ll try tomake it, thanks. There’s somuch to be done.Mymen are

waitingformebackattherocketand—’Hestopped.Helookedtowardsthedoor,startled.Farawayinthesunlighttherewasasoundofvoices,ashoutingandagreat

hello.‘What’sthat?’askedHinkston.‘We’ll soon findout.’AndCaptain JohnBlackwasoutof the frontdoor

abruptly,runningacrossthegreenlawnintothestreetoftheMartiantown.He stood looking at the rocket. The ports were open and his crew was

streamingout,waving their hands.A crowdof people hadgathered, and inandthroughandamongthesepeoplethemembersofthecrewwerehurrying,talking, laughing, shaking hands. People did little dances. People swarmed.Therocketlayemptyandabandoned.Abrassbandexplodedinthesunlight,flingingoffagaytunefromupraised

tubas and trumpets. Therewas a bang of drums and a shrill of fifes. Littlegirlswith goldenhair jumpedup anddown.Little boys shouted, ‘Hooray!’Fatmenpassedaroundten-centcigars.Thetownmayormadeaspeech.Theneachmemberofthecrew,withamotherononearm,afatherorsisterontheother,wasspiritedoffdownthestreetintolittlecottagesorbigmansions.‘Stop!’criedCaptainBlack.Thedoorsslammedshut.The heat rose in the clear spring sky, and allwas silent. The brass band

bangedoffaroundacorner,leavingtherockettoshineanddazzlealoneinthesunlight.‘Abandoned!’ said the captain. ‘They abandoned the ship, they did! I’ll

havetheirskins,byGod!Theyhadorders!’‘Sir,’saidLustig,‘don’tbetoohardonthem.Thosewerealloldrelatives

andfriends.’‘That’snoexcuse!’‘Thinkhowtheyfelt,Captain,seeingfamiliarfacesoutsidetheship!’

‘Theyhadtheirorders,damnit!’‘Buthowwouldyouhavefelt,Captain?’‘Iwouldhaveobeyedorders—’Thecaptain’smouthremainedopen.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!’themancalledout,andbrokeintoatrot.‘What?’CaptainJohnBlackswayed.‘John,youoldsonofabitch!’Themanranupandgrippedhishandandslappedhimontheback.‘It’syou,’saidCaptainBlack.‘Ofcourse,who’dyouthinkitwas?’‘Edward!’Thecaptainappealednow toLustigandHinkston,holding the

stranger’s hand. ‘This is my brother Edward. Ed, meet my men, Lustig,Hinkston!Mybrother!’They tugged at each other’s hands and arms and then finally embraced.

‘Ed!’‘John,youbum,you!’‘You’re lookingfine,Ed;but,Ed,what is this?Youhaven’tchangedover theyears.Youdied, I remember,whenyouweretwenty-sixandIwasnineteen.GoodGod!somanyyearsago,andhereyouareand,Lord,whatgoeson?’‘Mom’swaiting,’saidEdwardBlack,grinning.‘Mom?’‘AndDadtoo.’‘Dad?’Thecaptainalmostfellas ifhehadbeenhitbyamightyweapon.

Hewalkedstifflyandwithoutco-ordination.‘MomandDadalive?Where?’‘AttheoldhouseonOakKnollAvenue.’‘Theoldhouse.’Thecaptainstaredindelightedamaze.‘Didyouhearthat,

Lustig,Hinkston?’Hinkstonwasgone.Hehadseenhisownhousedown the street andwas

running for it. Lustig was laughing. ‘You see, Captain, what happened toeveryoneontherocket?Theycouldn’thelpthemselves.’‘Yes. Yes.’ The captain shut his eyes. ‘When I open my eyes you’ll be

gone.’Heblinked.‘You’restillthere.God,Ed,butyoulookfine!’‘Comeon;lunch’swaiting.ItoldMom.’Lustigsaid,‘Sir,I’llbewithmygrandfolksifyouneedme.’‘What?Oh,fine,Lustig.Later,then.’Edward seized his arm andmarched him. ‘There’s the house.Remember

it?’‘Hell!BetIcanbeatyoutothefrontporch!’They ran. The trees roared over Captain Black’s head; the earth roared

underhisfeet.HesawthegoldenfigureofEdwardBlackpullaheadofhimin

theamazingdreamofreality.Hesawthehouserushforward,thescreendoorswingwide.‘Beatyou!’criedEdward.‘I’manoldman,’pantedthecaptain,‘andyou’restillyoung.Butthen,you

alwaysbeatme,Iremember!’In the doorway,Mom, pink, plump, and bright.Behind her, pepper-grey,

Dad,hispipeinhishand.‘Mom,Dad!’Heranupthestepslikeachildtomeetthem.

Itwas a fine long afternoon.They finished a late lunch and they sat in theparlour and he told them all about his rocket and they nodded and smileduponhimandMotherwasjustthesameandDadbittheendoffacigarandlighted it thoughtfully in his old fashion. Therewas a big turkey dinner atnightand timeflowingon.When thedrumsticksweresuckedcleanand laybrittle upon the plates, the captain leaned back and exhaled his deepsatisfaction.Nightwas inall the treesandcolouring the sky,and the lampswerehalosofpinklightinthegentlehouse.Fromalltheotherhousesdownthestreetcamesoundsofmusic,pianosplaying,doorsslamming.Momputa recordon thevictrola,andsheandCaptainJohnBlackhada

dance.ShewaswearingthesameperfumeherememberedfromthesummerwhensheandDadhadbeenkilledinthetrainaccident.Shewasveryrealinhis arms as they danced lightly to themusic. ‘It’s not every day,’ she said,‘yougetasecondchancetolive.’‘I’llwake in themorning,’ said thecaptain. ‘And I’llbe inmyrocket, in

space,andallthiswillbegone.’‘No,don’tthinkthat,’shecriedsoftly.‘Don’tquestion.God’sgoodtous.

Let’sbehappy.’‘Sorry,Mom.’Therecordendedinacircularhissing.‘You’retired,Son.’Dadpointedwithhispipe.‘Youroldbedroom’swaiting

foryou,brassbedandall.’‘ButIshouldreportmymenin.’‘Why?’‘Why?Well,Idon’tknow.Noreason,Iguess.No,noneatall.They’reall

eatingorinbed.Agoodnight’ssleepwon’thurtthem.’‘Goodnight,Son.’Momkissedhischeek.‘It’sgoodtohaveyouhome.’‘It’sgoodtobehome.’Heleftthelandofcigar-smokeandperfumeandbooksandgentlelightand

ascendedthestairs,talking,talkingwithEdward.Edwardpushedadooropen,

and there was the yellow brass bed and the old semaphore banners fromcollegeandaverymustyracooncoatwhichhestrokedwithmutedaffection.‘It’s too much,’ said the captain. ‘I’m numb and I’m tired. Too much hashappened today. I feel as if I’d been out in a pounding rain for forty-eighthourswithoutanumbrellaoracoat.I’msoakedtotheskinwithemotion.’Edward slappedwide the snowy linens and flounced thepillows.He slid

the window up and let the night-blooming jasmine float in. There wasmoonlightandthesoundofdistantdancingandwhispering.‘SothisisMars,’saidthecaptain,undressing.‘Thisisit.’Edwardundressedinidle,leisurelymoves,drawinghisshirtoff

overhishead,revealinggoldenshouldersandthegoodmuscularneck.The lightswere out; theywere in bed, side by side, as in the days how

many decades ago? The captain lolled and was nourished by the scent ofjasminepushingthelacecurtainsoutuponthedarkairoftheroom.Amongthe trees,upona lawn,someonehadcrankedupaportablephonographandnowitwasplayingsoftly,‘Always’.ThethoughtofMarilyncametohismind.‘IsMarilynhere?’His brother, lying straight out in themoonlight from thewindow,waited

andthensaid,‘Yes.She’soutoftown.Butshe’llbehereinthemorning.’Thecaptainshuthiseyes.‘IwanttoseeMarilynverymuch.’Theroomwassquareandquietexceptfortheirbreathing.‘Goodnight,Ed.’Apause.‘Goodnight,John.’Helaypeacefully,lettinghisthoughtsfloat.Forthefirsttimethestressof

the day was moved aside; he could think logically now. It had all beenemotion.Thebandsplaying,thefamiliarfaces.Butnow…How?hewondered.Howwasallthismade?Andwhy?Forwhatpurpose?

Outofthegoodnessofsomedivineintervention?WasGod,then,reallythatthoughtfulofhischildren?Howandwhyandwhatfor?He considered the various theories advanced in the first heat of the

afternoon byHinkston andLustig.He let all kinds of new theories drop inlazy pebbles down through his mind, turning, throwing out dull flashes oflight.Mom.Dad.Edward.Mars.Earth.Mars.Martians.WhohadlivedhereathousandyearsagoonMars?Martians?Orhadthis

alwaysbeenthewayitwastoday?Martians.Herepeatedthewordidly,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, ofcourse.Highlyimprobable.Silly.Forgetit.Ridiculous.

But, he thought, just suppose … Just suppose, now, that there wereMartianslivingonMarsandtheysawourshipcomingandsawusinsideourshipandhatedus.Suppose,now, just for thehellof it, that theywanted todestroyus,asinvaders,asunwantedones,andtheywantedtodoitinaverycleverway,so thatwewouldbetakenoffguard.Well,whatwouldthebestweaponbethataMartiancoulduseagainstEarthMenwithatomicweapons?Theanswerwasinteresting.Telepathy,hypnosis,memory,andimagination.Suppose all of these houses aren’t real at all, this bed not real, but only

figmentsofmyownimagination,givensubstancebytelepathyandhypnosisthroughtheMartians,thoughtCaptainJohnBlack.Supposethesehousesarereallysomeothershape,aMartianshape,but,byplayingonmydesiresandwants, theseMartianshavemade thisseemlikemyoldhometown,myoldhouse,tolullmeoutofmysuspicions.Whatbetterwaytofoolaman,usinghisownmotherandfatherasbait?Andthistown,soold,fromtheyear1926,longbeforeanyofmymenwere

born.FromayearwhenIwassixyearsoldandtherewererecordsofHarryLauder,andMaxfieldParrishpaintingsstillhanging,andbeadcurtains,and‘BeautifulOhio’, and turn-of-the-century architecture.What if theMartianstookthememoriesofatownexclusivelyfrommymind?Theysaychildhoodmemoriesaretheclearest.Andaftertheybuiltthetownfrommymind,theypopulateditwiththemostlovedpeoplefromall themindsofthepeopleontherocket!Andsupposethosetwopeopleinthenextroom,asleep,arenotmymother

and father at all. But twoMartians, incredibly brilliant, with the ability tokeepmeunderhypnosisallofthetime.Andthatbrassbandtoday?Whatastartlinglywonderfulplanitwouldbe!

First,foolLustig,thenHinkston,thengatheracrowd;andallthemenintherocket,seeingmothers,aunts,uncles,sweethearts,deadten,twentyyearsago,naturally,disregardingorders,rushoutandabandonship.Whatmorenatural?Whatmoreunsuspecting?Whatmoresimple?Amandoesn’task toomanyquestionswhen hismother is suddenly brought back to life; he’smuch toohappy.Andhereweallaretonight,invarioushouses,invariousbeds,withnoweapons to protect us, and the rocket lies in the moonlight, empty. Andwouldn’t itbehorribleand terrifying todiscover thatallof thiswaspartofsomegreatcleverplanbytheMartianstodivideandconquerus,andkillus?Sometimeduringthenight,perhaps,mybrotherhereonthisbedwillchangeform, melt, shift, and become another thing, a terrible thing, aMartian. Itwouldbeverysimpleforhimjusttoturnoverinbedandputaknifeintomyheart.Andinallthoseotherhousesdownthestreet,adozenotherbrothersorfathers suddenly melting away and taking knives and doing things to the

unsuspecting,sleepingmenofEarth…Hishandswereshakingunderthecovers.Hisbodywascold.Suddenlyit

wasnotatheory.Suddenlyhewasveryafraid.Heliftedhimselfinbedandlistened.Thenightwasveryquiet.Themusic

hadstopped.Thewindhaddied.Hisbrotherlaysleepingbesidehim.Carefullyhe lifted thecovers, rolled themback.Heslipped from thebed

andwaswalkingsoftlyacrosstheroomwhenhisbrother’svoicesaid,‘Whereareyougoing?’‘What?’His brother’s voice was quite cold. ‘I said, where do you think you’re

going?’‘Foradrinkofwater.’‘Butyou’renotthirsty.’‘Yes,yes,Iam.’‘No,you’renot.’Captain John Black broke and ran across the room. He screamed. He

screamedtwice.Heneverreachedthedoor.

Inthemorningthebrassbandplayedamournfuldirge.Fromeveryhouseinthe street came little solemnprocessions bearing long boxes, and along thesun-filled street, weeping, came the grandmas andmothers and sisters andbrothersandunclesandfathers,walkingtothechurchyard,wheretherewerenewholesfreshlydugandnewtombstonesinstalled.Sixteenholesinall,andsixteentombstones.Themayormadealittlespeech,hisfacesometimeslookinglikethemayor,

sometimeslookinglikesomethingelse.MotherandFatherBlackwerethere,withBrotherEdward,andtheycried,

theirfacesmeltingnowfromafamiliarfaceintosomethingelse.GrandpaandGrandmaLustigwerethere,weeping,theirfacesshiftinglike

wax,shimmeringasallthingsshimmeronahotday.Thecoffinswerelowered.Someonemurmuredabout‘theunexpectedand

suddendeathsofsixteenfinemenduringthenight—’Earthpoundeddownonthecoffinlids.Thebrassband,playing‘Columbia, theGemof theOcean’,marchedand

slammedbackintotown,andeveryonetookthedayoff.

JUNE2001

–andtheMoonbeStillasBright

It was so cold when they first came from the rocket into the night thatSpender began to gather the dryMartian wood and build a small fire. Hedidn’tsayanythingaboutacelebration;hemerelygatheredthewood,setfiretoit,andwatcheditburn.Intheflarethatlightedthethinairofthisdried-upseaofMarshelooked

over his shoulder and saw the rocket that had brought them all, CaptainWilder andCheroke andHathaway andSamParkhill and himself, across asilentblackspaceofstarstolanduponadead,dreamingworld.JeffSpenderwaitedforthenoise.Hewatchedtheothermenandwaitedfor

themtojumparoundandshout.Itwouldhappenassoonasthenumbnessofbeingthe‘first’mentoMarsworeoff.Noneofthemsaidanything,butmanyofthemwerehoping,perhaps, that theotherexpeditionshadfailedandthatthis, theFourth,wouldbe the one.Theymeantnothingevilby it.But theystood thinking it,nevertheless, thinkingof thehonourandfame,while theirlungs became accustomed to the thinness of the atmosphere, which almostmadeyoudrunkifyoumovedtooquickly.Gibbswalkedovertothefreshlyignitedfireandsaid,‘Whydon’tweuse

theshipchemicalfireinsteadofthatwood?’‘Nevermind,’saidSpender,notlookingup.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 ofimportedblasphemy.There’dbetimeforthatlater;timetothrowcondensed-milkcansintheproudMartiancanals;timeforcopiesoftheNewYorkTimestoblowandcaperandrustleacrossthelonegreyMartiansea-bottoms;timefor banana-peels and picnic papers in the fluted, delicate ruins of the oldMartian valley towns. Plenty of time for that.And he gave a small inwardshiveratthethought.Hefedthefirebyhand,anditwaslikeanofferingtoadeadgiant.They

had landed on an immense tomb.Here a civilization had died. Itwas onlysimplecourtesythatthefirstnightbespentquietly.‘Thisisn’tmyideaofacelebration.’GibbsturnedtoCaptainWilder.‘Sir,I

thoughtwemightbreakourrationsofginandmeatandwhoopitupabit.’

Captain Wilder looked off towards a dead city a mile away. ‘We’re alltired,’hesaidremotely,asifhiswholeattentionwasonthecityandhismenforgotten. ‘Tomorrow night, perhaps. Tonight we should be glad we gotacrossallthatspacewithoutgettingameteorinourbulkheadorhavingonemanofusdie.’The men shifted around. There were twenty of them, holding to each

other’sshouldersoradjustingtheirbelts.Spenderwatchedthem.Theywerenotsatisfied.Theyhadriskedtheirlivestodoabigthing.Nowtheywantedto be shouting drunk, firing off guns to show howwonderful theywere tohavekickedaholeinspaceandriddenarocketallthewaytoMars.Butnobodywasyelling.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 muchnoise. The men were beginning to talk now. The captain sat down andrecountedthetriptothem.Theyalreadyknewitall,butitwasgoodtohearabout it, as somethingover anddone and safely put away.Theywouldnottalkaboutthereturntrip.Someonebroughtthatup,buttheytoldhimtokeepquiet.Thespoonsmovedin thedoublemoonlight; thefoodtastedgoodandthewinewasevenbetter.Therewasatouchoffireacrossthesky,andaninstantlatertheauxiliary

rocket landed beyond the camp. Spenderwatched as the small port openedandHathaway,thephysician-geologist–theywereallmenoftwofoldability,to conserve space on the trip – stepped out.Hewalked slowly over to thecaptain.‘Well?’saidCaptainWilder.Hathaway gazed out at the distant cities twinkling in the starlight. After

swallowingandfocusinghiseyeshesaid, ‘Thatcity there,Captain, isdeadandhasbeendeadagoodmany thousandyears.Thatapplies to those threecitiesinthehillsalso.Butthatfifthcity,twohundredmilesover,sir—’‘Whataboutit?’‘Peoplewerelivinginitlastweek,sir.’Spendergottohisfeet.‘Martians,’saidHathaway.‘Wherearetheynow?’‘Dead,’saidHathaway.‘Iwentintoahouseononestreet.Ithoughtthatit,

liketheothertownsandhouses,hadbeendeadforcenturies.MyGod,therewerebodiesthere.Itwaslikewalkinginapileofautumnleaves.Likesticksandpiecesofburntnewspaper, that’s all.And fresh.They’dbeendead’ tendaysattheoutside.‘Didyoucheckothertowns?Didyouseeanythingalive?’

‘Nothingwhatever.SoIwentouttochecktheothertowns.Fouroutoffivehave been empty for thousands of years. What happened to the originalinhabitantsIhaven’tthefaintestidea.Butthefifthcityalwayscontainedthesamething.Bodies.Thousandsofbodies.’‘Whatdidtheydieof?’Spendermovedforward.‘Youwon’tbelieveit.’‘Whatkilledthem?’Hathawaysaidsimply,‘Chicken-pox.’‘MyGod,no!’‘Yes.Imadetests.Chicken-pox.ItdidthingstotheMartiansitneverdidto

EarthMen.Theirmetabolismreacteddifferently,Isuppose.Burntthemblackand dried them out to brittle flakes. But it’s chicken-pox, nevertheless. SoYorkandCaptainWilliamsandCaptainBlackmusthavegotthroughtoMars,all three expeditions. God knows what happened to them. But we at leastknowwhattheyunintentionallydidtotheMartians.’‘Yousawnootherlife?’‘Chances are a few of the Martians, if they were smart, escaped to the

mountains.Butthereain’tenough,I’lllayyoumoney,tobeanativeproblem.Thisplanetisthrough.’Spender turned and went to sit at the fire, looking into it. Chicken-pox,

God,chicken-pox,thinkofit!Aracebuildsitselfforamillionyears,refinesitself, erects cities like those out there, does everything it can to give itselfrespect 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 adiseasewithafinenameoraterrifyingnameoramajesticname?No,inthenameofall that’sholy, ithas tobechicken-pox,achild’sdisease,adiseasethatdoesn’tevenkillchildrenonEarth.It’snotrightandit’snotfair.It’slikesaying the Greeks died of mumps, or the proud Romans died on theirbeautiful hills of athlete’s foot! If only we’d given the Martians time toarrangetheirdeath-robes,liedown,lookfit,andthinkupsomeotherexcusefor dying. It can’t be a dirty, silly thing like chicken-pox. It doesn’t fit thearchitecture;itdoesn’tfitthisentireworld!‘Allright,Hathaway,getyourselfsomefood.’‘Thankyou,Captain.’Andasquicklyasthatitwasforgotten.Thementalkedamongthemselves.Spenderdidnottakehiseyesoffthem.Helefthisfoodonhisplateunder

hishands.Hefeltthelandgettingcolder.Thestarsdrewcloser,veryclear.Whenanyonetalkedtooloudlythecaptainwouldreplyinalowvoicethat

madethemtalkquietlyfromimitation.Theairsmelledcleanandnew.Spendersatforalongtimejustenjoyingthe

way it wasmade. It had a lot of things in it he couldn’t identify: flowers,chemistries,dusts,winds.‘ThentherewasthattimeinNewYorkwhenIgotthatblonde,what’sher

name?–Ginnie!’criedBiggs.‘Thatwasit!’Spendertightenedin.Hishandbegantoquiver.Hiseyesmovedbehindthe

thin,sparselids.‘AndGinniesaidtome—’criedBiggs.Themenroared.‘SoIsmackedher!’shoutedBiggs,withabottleinhishand.Spendersetdownhisplate.Helistenedtothewindoverhisears,cooland

whispering. He looked at the cool ice of the whiteMartian buildings overthereontheemptysealands.‘What a woman, what a woman!’ Biggs emptied his bottle in his wide

mouth.‘OfallthewomenIeverknew!’ThesmellofBiggs’ssweatingbodywasontheair.Spenderletthefiredie.

‘Hey,dickherupthere,Spender!’saidBiggs,glancingathimforamoment,thenbacktohisbottle.‘Well,onenightGinnieandme—’AmannamedSchoenkegotouthisaccordion,anddidakickingdance,the

dustspringinguparoundhim.‘Ahoo–I’malive!’heshouted.‘Yay!’roaredthemen.Theythrewdowntheiremptyplates.Threeofthem

linedupandkickedlikechorus-maidens,jokingloudly.Theothers,clappinghands, yelled for something to happen. Cheroke pulled off his shirt andshowedhisnakedchest,sweatingashewhirledabout.Themoonlightshoneonhiscrew-cuthairandhisyoung,clean-shavencheeks.In the sea bottom the wind stirred along faint vapours, and from the

mountainsgreat stonevisages lookedupon the silvery rocket and the smallfire.Thenoisegotlouder,moremenjumpedup,someonesuckedonamouth-

organ, someone else blew on a tissue-papered comb. Twenty more bottleswereopenedanddrunk.Biggsstaggeredabout,wagginghisarmstodirectthedancingmen.‘Comeon,sir!’criedCheroketothecaptain,wailingasong.Thecaptainhadtojointhedance.Hedidn’twantto.Hisfacewassolemn.

Spenderwatched, thinking:Youpoorman,what anight this is!Theydon’tknowwhat they’re doing.They should have had an orientation programmebeforetheycametoMarstotell themhowtolookandhowtowalkaroundandbegoodforafewdays.‘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

downveryfast.Hisfacewasn’tsweaty,either.Accordion,harmonica,wine,shout,dance,wail,roundabout,clashofpan,

laughter.BiggsweavedtotherimoftheMartiancanal.Hecarriedsixemptybottles

and dropped them one by one into the deep blue canalwaters. Theymadeempty,hollow,drowningsoundsastheysank.‘I christen thee, I christen thee, I christen thee—’ said Biggs thickly. ‘I

christentheeBiggs,Biggs,Biggs,Canal—’Spenderwasonhisfeet,overthefire,andalongsideBiggsbeforeanyone

moved.HehitBiggsonceintheteethandonceintheear.Biggstoppledandfell down into the canalwater.After the splashSpenderwaited silently forBiggs to climb back up on to the stone bank. By that time the men wereholdingSpender.‘Hey,what’seatingyou,Spender?Hey?’theyasked.Biggs climbed up and stood dripping.He saw themen holding Spender.

‘Well,’hesaidandstartedforward.‘That’s enough,’ snapped Captain Wilder. The men broke away from

Spender.Biggsstoppedandglancedatthecaptain.‘All right, Biggs, get some dry clothes. You men, carry on your party!

Spender,comewithme!’Thementookuptheparty.Wildermovedoffsomedistanceandconfronted

Spender.‘Supposeyouexplainwhatjusthappened,’hesaid.Spenderlookedatthecanal.‘Idon’tknow.Iwasashamed.OfBiggsandus

andthenoise.Christ,whataspectacle!’‘It’sbeenalongtrip.They’vegottohavetheirfling.’‘Where’stheirrespect,sir?Where’stheirsenseoftherightthing?’‘You’retired,andyou’veadifferentwayofseeingthings,Spender.That’s

afifty-dollarfineforyou.’‘Yes,sir.ItwasjusttheideaofThemwatchingusmakefoolsofourselves.’‘Them?’‘TheMartians,whetherthey’redeadornot.’‘Most certainly dead,’ said the captain. ‘Do you think They knowwe’re

here?’‘Doesn’tanoldthingalwaysknowwhenanewthingcomes?’‘Isupposeso.Yousoundasifyoubelieveinspirits.’‘I believe in the things thatwere done, and there are evidences ofmany

things done onMars. There are streets and houses, and there are books, Iimagine,andbigcanalsandclocksandplacesforstabling,ifnothorses,well,then some domestic animal, perhaps with twelve legs, who knows?Everywhere I look I see things that were used. They were touched and

handledforcenturies.‘Askme,then,ifIbelieveinthespiritofthethingsastheywereused,and

I’llsayyes.They’reallhere.Allthethingswhichhaduses.Allthemountainswhich had names. And we’ll never be able to use them without feelinguncomfortable. And somehow the mountains will never sound right to us;we’llgivethemnewnames,buttheoldnamesarethere,somewhereintime,andthemountainswereshapedandseenunderthosenames.Thenameswe’llgivetothecanalsandmountainsandcitieswillfalllikesomuchwateronthebackofamallard.NomatterhowwetouchMars,we’llnevertouchit.Andthenwe’llgetmadatit,andyouknowwhatwe’lldo?We’llripitup,riptheskinoff,andchangeittofitourselves.’‘Wewon’truinMars,’saidthecaptain.‘It’stoobigandtoogood.’‘You think not? We Earth Men have a talent for ruining big, beautiful

things.Theonly reasonwedidn’t setuphot-dog stands in themidstof theEgyptian templeofKarnak is because itwasout of theway and servednolargecommercialpurpose.AndEgyptisasmallpartofEarth.Buthere,thiswholethingisancientanddifferent,andwehavetosetdownsomewhereandstartfoulingitup.We’llcallthecanaltheRockefellerCanalandthemountainKingGeorgeMountainandtheseatheDupontSea,andthere’llbeRooseveltandLincolnandCoolidgecities,anditwon’teverberight,whentherearethepropernamesfortheseplaces.’‘That’llbeyourjob,asarchaeologist,tofindouttheoldnames,andwe’ll

usethem.’‘Afewmenlikeusagainstallthecommercialinterests.’Spenderlookedat

theironmountains.‘Theyknowwe’reheretonight,tospitintheirwine,andIimaginetheyhateus.’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 andphilosophical people. They accepted what came to them. They acceded toracial death, that much we know, and without a last-moment war offrustrationtotumbledowntheircities.Everytownwe’veseensofarhasbeenflawlessly intact. They probably don’t mind us being here any more thanthey’d mind children playing on the lawn, knowing and understandingchildrenforwhat theyare.And,anyway,perhapsall thiswillchangeusforthebetter.‘Didyounoticethepeculiarquietofthemen,Spender,untilBiggsforced

themtogethappy?Theylookedprettyhumbleandfrightened.Lookingatallthis,weknowwe’renotsohot;we’rekidsinrompers,shoutingwithourplayrocketsandatoms,loudandalive.ButonedayEarthwillbeasMarsistoday.This will sober us. It’s an object lesson in civilizations. We’ll learn from

Mars.Nowsuckinyourchin.Let’sgobackandplayhappy.Thatfifty-dollarfinestillgoes.’

Thepartywasnotgoingwell.Thewindkeptcominginoff thedeadsea. ItmovedaroundthemenanditmovedaroundthecaptainandJeffSpenderastheyreturnedtothegroup.Thewindpulledatthedustandtheshiningrocketandpulledattheaccordion,andthedustgotintothevampedharmonica.Thedustgotintheireyesandthewindmadeahighsingingsoundintheair.Assuddenlyasithadcomethewinddied.Butthepartyhaddiedtoo.Themenstooduprightagainstthedark,coldsky.‘Comeongents,comeon!’Biggsbouncedfromtheshipinafreshuniform,

not lookingatSpenderevenonce.Hisvoicewas likesomeone inanemptyauditorium.Itwasalone.‘Comeon!’Nobodymoved.‘Comeone,Whitie,yourharmonica!’Whitie blew a chord. It sounded funny and wrong. Whitie knocked the

moisturefromhisharmonicaandputitaway.‘Whatkindapartyisthis?’Biggswantedtoknow.Someonehuggedtheaccordion.Itgaveasoundlikeadyinganimal.That

wasall.‘Okay, me and my bottle will go have our own party.’ Biggs squatted

againsttherocket,drinkingfromaflask.Spender watched him. Spender did not move for a long time. Then his

fingerscrawledupalonghistremblinglegtohisholsteredpistol,veryquietly,andstrokedandtappedtheleathersheath.‘All thosewhowant to can come into the city withme,’ announced the

captain.‘We’llpostaguardhereattherocketandgoarmed,justincase.’Themencountedoff.Fourteenofthemwantedtogo,includingBiggs,who

laughinglycountedhimselfin,wavinghisbottle.Sixothersstayedbehind.‘Herewego!’Biggsshouted.Thepartymovedout into themoonlightsilently.Theymade theirway to

theouterrimofthedreamingdeadcityinthelightoftheracingtwinmoons.Their shadows,under them,weredouble shadows.Theydidnotbreathe,orseemednotto,perhaps,forseveralminutes.Theywerewaitingforsomethingtostirinthedeadcity,somegreyformtorise,someancient,ancestralshapetocomegallopingacrossthevacantseabottomonanancient,armouredsteedofimpossiblelineage,ofunbelievablederivation.Spender filled the streetswith his eyes and hismind. Peoplemoved like

bluevapourlightsonthecobbledavenues;andtherewerefaintmurmursof

sound, and odd animals scurrying across the grey-red sands. Eachwindowwas given a person who leaned from it and waved slowly, as if under atimelesswater,atsomemovingforminthefathomsofspacebelowthemoon-silveredtowers.Musicwasplayedonsomeinnerear,andSpenderimaginedtheshapeofsuchinstrumentstoevokesuchmusic.Thelandwashaunted.‘Hey!’shoutedBiggs,standingtall,hishandsaroundhisopenmouth.‘Hey,

youpeopleinthecitythere,you!’‘Biggs!’saidthecaptain.Biggsquieted.Theywalkedforwardonatiledavenue.Theywereallwhisperingnow,for

itwas like entering a vast open library or amausoleum inwhich thewindlivedandoverwhichthestarsshone.Thecaptainspokequietly.Hewonderedwhere the people had gone, and what they had been, and who their kingswere,andhowtheyhaddied.Andhewondered,quietlyaloud,howtheyhadbuiltthiscitytolasttheagesthrough,andhadtheyevercometoEarth?WeretheyancestorsofEarthMententhousandyearsremoved?Andhadtheylovedand hated similar loves and hates, and done similar silly thingswhen sillythingsweredone?Nobody moved. The moons held and froze them; the wind beat slowly

aroundthem.‘LordByron,’saidJeffSpender.‘Lordwho?’Thecaptainturnedandregardedhim.‘LordByron,anineteenth-centurypoet.Hewroteapoemalongtimeago

that fits thiscityandhow theMartiansmust feel, if there’sanything leftofthemtofeel.ItmighthavebeenwrittenbythelastMartianpoet.’Themenstoodmotionless,theirshadowsunderthem.Thecaptainsaid,‘Howdoesthepoemgo,Spender?’Spendershifted,putouthishandtoremember,squintedsilentlyamoment;

then remembering, his slow quiet voice repeated the words and the menlistenedtoeverythinghesaid:

‘Sowe’llgonomorea-rovingSolateintothenight,

Thoughtheheartbestillasloving,Andthemoonbestillasbright.’

Thecitywasgreyandhighandmotionless.Themen’sfaceswereturnedinthelight.

‘Fortheswordoutwearsitssheath,

Andthesoulwearsoutthebreast,Andtheheartmustpausetobreathe,Andloveitselfhaverest.

Thoughthenightwasmadeforloving,Andthedayreturnstoosoon,

Yetwe’llgonomorea-rovingBythelightofthemoon.’

WithoutawordtheEarthMenstoodinthecentreofthecity.Itwasaclearnight.Therewasnot a sound except thewind.At their feet lay a tile courtworked into the shapes of ancient animals and peoples. They looked downuponit.Biggsmadeasicknoiseinhisthroat.Hiseyesweredull.Hishandswentto

hismouth;hechoked,shuthiseyes,bent,andathickrushoffluidfilledhismouth,spilledout,felltosplashonthetiles,coveringthedesigns.Biggsdidthistwice.Asharpwinystenchfilledthecoolair.NoonemovedtohelpBiggs.Hewentonbeingsick.Spenderstaredforamoment,thenturnedandwalkedoffintotheavenues

ofthecity,aloneinthemoonlight.Neveroncedidhepausetolookbackatthegatheredmenthere.

Theyturnedinatfourinthemorning.Theylayuponblanketsandshuttheireyesandbreathedthequietair.CaptainWildersatfeedinglittlesticksintothefire.McClureopenedhiseyestwohourslater.‘Aren’tyousleeping,sir?’‘I’mwaitingforSpender.’Thecaptainsmiledfaintly.McClurethoughtitover.‘Youknow,sir,Idon’tthinkhe’llevercomeback.

Idon’tknowhowIknow,butthat’sthewayIfeelabouthim,sir;he’llnevercomeback.’McClurerolledoverintosleep.Thefirecrackledanddied.

Spender did not return in the following week. The captain sent searchingparties, but they came back saying they didn’t knowwhere Spender couldhave gone. He would be back when he got good and ready. He was asorehead,theysaid.Tothedevilwithhim!Thecaptainsaidnothingbutwroteitdowninhislog…ItwasamorningthatmighthavebeenaMondayoraTuesdayoranyday

onMars.Biggswasonthecanalrim;hisfeethungdownintothecoolwater,soakingwhilehetookthesunonhisface.

Amanwalkedalongthebankofthecanal.ThemanthrewashadowdownuponBiggs.Biggsglancedup.‘Well,I’llbedamned!’saidBiggs.‘I’mthelastMartian,’saidtheman,takingoutagun.‘Whatdidyousay?’saidBiggs.‘I’mgoingtokillyou.’‘Cutit.Whatkindofjoke’sthat,Spender?’‘Standupandtakeitinthestomach.’‘ForChrist’ssake,putthatgunaway.’Spenderpulledthetriggeronlyonce.Biggssatontheedgeofthecanalfor

amomentbeforeheleanedforwardandfellintothewater.Thegunhadmadeonlyawhisperinghum.Thebodydriftedwithslowunconcernundertheslowcanaltides.Itmadeahollowbubblingsoundthatceasedafteramoment.Spendershovedhisgunintoitsholsterandwalkedsoundlesslyaway.The

sunwasshiningdownuponMars.Hefeltitburnhishandsandslideoverthesides of his tight face. He did not run; he walked as if nothing were newexceptthedaylight.Hewalkeddowntotherocket,andsomeofthemenwereeatingafreshlycookedbreakfastunderashelterbuiltbyCookie.‘HerecomesTheLonelyOne,’someonesaid.‘Hello,Spender!Longtimenosee!’Thefourmenatthetableregardedthesilentmanwhostoodlookingback

atthem.‘Youandthemgoddamnruins,’laughedCookie,stirringablacksubstance

inacrock.‘You’relikeadoginaboneyard.’‘Maybe,’saidSpender.‘I’vebeenfindingoutthings.Whatwouldyousay

ifIsaidI’dfoundaMartianprowlingaround?’Thefourmenlaiddowntheirforks.‘Didyou?Where?‘Nevermind.Letmeaskyouaquestion.Howwouldyoufeelifyouwerea

Martianandpeoplecametoyourlandandstartedtearingitup?’‘I know exactly how I’d feel,’ said Cheroke. ‘I’ve got some Cherokee

bloodinme.MygrandfathertoldmelotsofthingsaboutOklahomaTerritory.Ifthere’saMartianaround,I’mallforhim.’‘Whataboutyouothermen?’askedSpendercarefully.Nobody answered; their silence was talk enough. Catch as catch can,

finder’skeepers,iftheotherfellowturnshischeekslapithard,etc.…‘Well,’saidSpender,‘I’vefoundaMartian.’Themensquintedathim.‘Upinadeadtown.Ididn’tthinkI’dfindhim.Ididn’tintendlookinghim

up.Idon’tknowwhathewasdoingthere. I’vebeenlivingina littlevalley

townforaboutaweek,learninghowtoreadtheancientbooksandlookingattheir old art forms. And one day I saw thisMartian. He stood there for amoment and then hewas gone.He didn’t comeback for another day. I sataroundlearninghowtoreadtheoldwriting,andtheMartiancameback,eachtimea littlenearer,untilonthedayI learnedhowtodecipher theMartian’slanguage–it’samazinglysimpleandtherearepicturegraphstohelpyou–theMartianappearedbeforemeandsaid,“Givemeyourboots.”AndIgavehimmy boots and he said, “Give me your uniform and all the rest of yourapparel.”AndIgavehimallofthat,andthenhesaid,“Givemeyourgun,”and I gave himmy gun. Then he said, “Now come along andwatchwhathappens.”AndtheMartianwalkeddownintocampandhe’sherenow.’‘Idon’tseeanyMartian,’saidCheroke.‘I’msorry.’Spendertookouthisgun.Ithummedsoftly.Thefirstbulletgotthemanon

theleft;thesecondandthirdbulletstookthemenontherightandthecentreofthetable.Cookieturnedinhorrorfromthefiretoreceivethefourthbullet.Hefellbackintothefireandlaytherewhilehisclothescaughtfire.The rocket lay in the sun.Threemen sat at breakfast, their handson the

table, not moving, their food getting cold in front of them. Cheroke,untouched,satalone,staringinnumbdisbeliefatSpender.‘Youcancomewithme,’saidSpender.Cherokesaidnothing.‘Youcanbewithmeonthis.’Spenderwaited.FinallyCherokewas able to speak. ‘You killed them,’ he said, daring to

lookatthemenaroundhim.‘Theydeservedit.’‘You’recrazy!’‘MaybeIam.Butyoucancomewithme.’‘Comewithyou,forwhat?’criedCheroke,thecolourgonefromhisface,

hiseyeswatering.‘Goon,getout!’Spender’sfacehardened.‘Ofallofthem,Ithoughtyouwouldunderstand.’‘Getout!’Cherokereachedforhisgun.Spenderfiredonelasttime.Cherokestoppedmoving.NowSpenderswayed.Heputhishandtohissweatingface.Heglancedat

therocketandsuddenlybegantoshakeallover.Healmostfell,thephysicalreactionwassooverwhelming.Hisfaceheldanexpressionofoneawakeningfromhypnosis,fromadream.Hesatdownforamomentandtoldtheshakingtogoaway.‘Stop it, stop it!’ he commanded of his body. Every fibre of him was

quiveringandshaking.‘Stopit!’Hecrushedhisbodywithhisminduntilall

theshakingwassqueezedoutofit.Hishandslaycalmlynowuponhissilentknees.He arose and strapped a portable storage locker on his back with quiet

efficiency.Hishandbegantotrembleagain,justforabreathofaninstant,buthesaid,‘No!’veryfirmly,andthetremblingpassed.Then,walkingstiffly,hemovedoutbetweenthehotredhillsoftheland,alone.

Thesunburnedfartherupthesky.Anhourlaterthecaptainclimbeddownoutoftherockettogetsomehamandeggs.Hewasjustsayinghellotothefourmensittingtherewhenhestoppedandnoticedafaintsmellofgun-fumesontheair.Hesaw thecook lyingon theground,with thecampfireunderhim.Thefourmensatbeforefoodthatwasnowcold.AmomentlaterParkhillandtwoothersclimbeddown.Thecaptainstoodin

theirway,fascinatedbythesilentmenandthewaytheysatattheirbreakfast.‘Callthemen,allofthem,’saidthecaptain.Parkhillhurriedoffdownthecanalrim.The captain touched Cheroke. Cheroke twisted quietly and fell from his

chair.Sunlightburnedinhisbristledshorthairandonhishighcheekbones.Themencamein.‘Who’smissing?’‘It’sstillSpender,sir.WefoundBiggsfloatinginthecanal.’‘Spender!’Thecaptainsawthehillsrisinginthedaylight.Thesunshowedhisteethin

agrimace.‘Damnhim,’hesaidtiredly.‘Whydidn’thecomeandtalktome?’‘Heshould’vetalkedtome,’criedParkhill,eyesblazing.‘I’dhaveshothis

bloodybrainsout,that’swhatI’dhavedone,byGod!’CaptainWildernoddedattwoofhismen.‘Getshovels,’hesaid.Itwashotdiggingthegraves.Awarmwindcamefromoverthevacantsea

andblewthedustintotheirfacesasthecaptainturnedtheBiblepages.Whenthecaptainclosedthebooksomeonebeganshovellingslowstreamsofsanddownuponthewrappedfigures.Theywalkedbacktotherocket,clickedthemechanismsoftheirrifles,put

thickgrenadepacketsontheirbacks,andcheckedthefreeplayofpistolsintheirholsters.Theywereeachassignedacertainpartofthehills.Thecaptaindirectedthemwithoutraisinghisvoiceormovinghishandswheretheyhungathissides.‘Let’sgo,’hesaid.

Spendersawthethindustrisinginseveralplacesinthevalleyandheknew

thepursuitwasorganizedandready.Heputdownthethinsilverbookthathehadbeen reading as he sat easily on a flat boulder.Thebook’s pagesweretissue-thin, pure silver, hand-painted in black and gold. It was a book ofphilosophyatleasttenthousandyearsoldhehadfoundinoneofthevillasofaMartianvalleytown.Hewasreluctanttolayitaside.Foratimehehadthought,What’s theuse?I’llsitherereadinguntil they

comealongandshootme.The first reaction to his killing the six men this morning had caused a

periodofstunnedblankness,thensickness,andnow,astrangepeace.Butthepeacewaspassing, too, forhe saw thedustbillowing from the trailsof thehuntingmen,andheexperiencedthereturnofresentment.He took a drink of cool water from his hip canteen. Then he stood up,

stretched,yawned,and listened to thepeacefulwonderof thevalleyaroundhim.HowveryfineifheandafewothersheknewonEarthcouldbehere,liveouttheirliveshere,withoutasoundoraworry.He carried the bookwith him in one hand, the pistol ready in his other.

Therewas a little swift-running stream filledwithwhite pebbles and rockswhereheundressedandwadedinforabriefwashing.Hetookallthetimehewantedbeforedressingandpickinguphisgunagain.Thefiringbeganaboutthreeintheafternoon.BythenSpenderwashighin

thehills.They followedhim through threesmallMartianhill towns.Abovethe towns, scattered like pebbles, were single villas where ancient familieshadfoundabrook,agreenspot,andlaidoutatilepool,alibrary,andacourtwithapulsingfountain.Spender tookhalfanhour,swimminginoneof thepoolswhichwasfilledwithseasonalrain,waitingforthepursuerstocatchupwithhim.Shots rang out as he was leaving the little villa. Tile chipped up some

twentyfeetbehindhim,exploded.Hebrokeintoatrot,movedbehindaseriesofsmallbluffs,turnedandwithhisfirstshotdroppedoneofthemendeadinhistracks.Theywouldformanet,acircle;Spenderknewthat.Theywouldgoaround

andcloseinandtheywouldgethim.Itwasastrangethingthatthegrenadeswerenotused.CaptainWildercouldeasilyorderthegrenadestossed.But I’mmuch toonice tobeblown tobits, thoughtSpender.That’swhat

thecaptainthinks.Hewantsmewithonlyoneholeinme.Isn’tthatodd?Hewantsmydeath tobe clean.Nothingmessy.Why?Becauseheunderstandsme.Andbecauseheunderstands,he’swillingtoriskgoodmentogivemeacleanshotinthehead.Isn’tthatit?Nine,tenshotsbrokeoutinarattle.Rocksaroundhimjumpedup.Spender

fired steadily, sometimeswhileglancingat the silverbookhecarried inhis

hand.The captain ran in the hot sunlight with a rifle in his hands. Spender

followedhiminhispistolsightsbutdidnotfire.InsteadheshiftedandblewthetopoffarockwhereWhitielay,andheardanangryshout.Suddenlythecaptainstoodup.Hehadawhitehandkerchiefinhishands.

Hesaidsomethingtohismenandcamewalkingupthemountainafterputtingasidehisrifle.Spenderlaythere,thengottohisfeet,hispistolready.The captain came up and sat down on a warm boulder, not looking at

Spenderforamoment.Thecaptainreachedintohisblousepocket.Spender’sfingerstightenedon

thepistol.Thecaptainsaid,‘Cigarette?’‘Thanks.’Spendertookone.‘Light?’‘Gotmyown.’Theytookoneortwopuffsinsilence.‘Warm,’saidthecaptain.‘Isit?’‘Youcomfortableuphere?’‘Quite.’‘Howlongdoyouthinkyoucanholdout?’‘Abouttwelvemen’sworth.’‘Whydidn’tyoukillallofusthismorningwhenyouhadthechance?You

couldhave,youknow.’‘Iknow.Igotsick.Whenyouwanttodoathingbadlyenoughyoulieto

yourself.You say the other people are allwrong.Well, soon after I startedkillingpeopleIrealizedtheywerejustfoolsandIshouldn’tbekillingthem.Butitwastoolate.Icouldn’tgoonwithit then,soIcameupherewhereIcouldlietomyselfsomemoreandgetangry,tobuilditallupagain.’‘Isitbuiltup?’‘Notveryhigh.Enough.’Thecaptainconsideredhiscigarette.‘Whydidyoudoit?’Spender quietly laid the pistol at his feet. ‘Because I’ve seen that what

theseMartians hadwas just, as good as anythingwe’ll ever hope to have.They stopped where we should have stopped a hundred years ago. I’vewalkedintheircitiesandIknowthesepeopleandI’dbegladtocallthemmyancestors.’‘They have a beautiful city there.’ The captain nodded at one of several

places.‘It’snotthatalone.Yes,theircitiesaregood.Theyknewhowtoblendart

into their living. It’s always been a thing apart for Americans. Art wassomethingyoukeptinthecrazyson’sroomupstairs.Artwassomethingyoutook in Sunday doses, mixed with religion, perhaps. Well, these Martianshaveartandreligionandeverything.’‘Youthinktheyknewwhatitwasallabout,doyou?’‘Formymoney.’‘Andforthatreasonyoustartedshootingpeople.’‘When I was a kid my folks took me to visit Mexico City. I’ll always

rememberthewaymyfatheracted–loudandbig.Andmymotherdidn’tlikethe people because theywere dark and didn’twash enough.Andmy sisterwouldn’ttalktomostofthem.Iwastheonlyonereallylikedit.AndIcanseemymotherandfathercomingtoMarsandactingthesamewayhere.‘Anythingthat’sstrangeisnogoodtotheaverageAmerican.If itdoesn’t

have Chicago plumbing, it’s nonsense. The thought of that! Oh God, thethoughtofthat!Andthen–thewar.Youheardcongressionalspeechesbeforewe left. If thingsworkout theyhope toestablish threeatomic researchandatombombdepotsonMars.ThatmeansMarsisfinished;all thiswonderfulstuffgone.HowwouldyoufeelifaMartianvomitedstaleliquorontheWhiteHousefloor?’Thecaptainsaidnothing,butlistened.Spender continued: ‘And then the other power interests coming up. The

mineralmenandthetravelmen.DoyourememberwhathappenedtoMexicowhen Cortez and his very fine good friends arrived from Spain? A wholecivilizationdestroyedbygreedy,righteousbigots.HistorywillneverforgiveCortez.’‘Youhaven’tactedethicallyyourselftoday,’observedthecaptain.‘What could I do? Argue with you? It’s simply me against the whole

crookedgrindinggreedyset-uponEarth.They’llbefloppingtheirfilthyatombombsuphere,fightingforbasestohavewars.Isn’titenoughthey’veruinedone planet, without ruining another? Do they have to foul someone else’smanger?Thesimple-mindedwindbags.WhenIgotuphere1 felt Iwasnotonly freeof their so-calledculture, I felt Iwas freeof theirethicsand theircustoms.I’moutoftheirframeofreference,Ithought.AllIhavetodoiskillyouoffandlivemyownlife.’‘Butitdidn’tworkout,’saidthecaptain.‘No.After the fifthkillingatbreakfast, Idiscovered Iwasn’t allnew,all

Martian,afterall.Icouldn’tthrowawayeverythingIhadlearnedonEarthsoeasily.ButnowI’mfeelingsteadyagain.I’llkillyoualloff.That’lldelaythenexttripinarocketforagoodfiveyears.There’snootherrocketinexistencetoday,savethisone.ThepeopleonEarthwillwaitayear,twoyears,andthen

whentheyhearnothingfromus,they’llbeveryafraidtobuildanewrocket.They’lltaketwiceaslongandmakeahundredextraexperimentalmodelstoinsurethemselvesagainstanotherfailure.’‘You’recorrect.’‘Agoodreportfromyou,ontheotherhand,ifyoureturned,wouldhasten

thewholeinvasionofMars.IfI’mluckyI’lllivetobesixtyyearsold.EveryexpeditionthatlandsonMarswillbemetbyme.Therewon’tbemorethanone ship at a time coming up, one every year or so, and never more thantwentymeninthecrew.AfterI’vemadefriendswiththemandexplainedthatourrocketexplodedoneday–IintendtoblowitupafterIfinishmyjobthisweek–I’llkillthemoff,everyoneofthem.Marswillbeuntouchedforthenexthalf-century.Afterawhile,perhapstheEarthpeoplewillgiveuptrying.Rememberhowtheygrew leeryof the ideaofbuildingZeppelins thatwerealwaysgoingdowninflames?’‘You’vegotitallplanned,’admittedthecaptain.‘Ihave.’‘Yetyou’reoutnumbered.Inanhourwe’llhaveyousurrounded.Inanhour

you’llbedead.’‘I’ve found some underground passages and a place to live you’ll never

find.I’llwithdrawthere to liveforafewweeks.Untilyou’reoffguard.I’llcomeoutthentopickyouoff,onebyone.’Thecaptainnodded.‘Tellmeaboutyourcivilizationhere,’hesaid,waving

hishandatthemountaintowns.‘Theyknewhowtolivewithnatureandgetalongwithnature.Theydidn’t

trytoohardtobeallmanandnoanimal.That’sthemistakewemadewhenDarwinshowedup.WeembracedhimandHuxleyandFreud,allsmiles.AndthenwediscoveredthatDarwinandourreligionsdidn’tmix.Orat leastwedidn’t thinktheydid.Wewerefools.WetriedtobudgeDarwinandHuxleyandFreud.Theywouldn’tmoveverywell.So,likeidiots,wetriedknockingdownreligion.‘Wesucceededprettywell.We lostour faithandwentaroundwondering

whatlifewasfor.Ifartwasnomorethanafrustratedoutflingingofdesire,ifreligion was no more than self-delusion, what good was life? Faith hadalways given us answers to all things. But it allwent down the drainwithFreudandDarwin.Wewereandstillarealostpeople.’‘AndtheseMartiansareafoundpeople?’inquiredthecaptain.‘Yes.Theyknewhowtocombinescienceandreligionsothetwoworked

sidebyside,neitherdenyingtheother,eachenrichingtheother.’‘Thatsoundsideal.’‘Itwas.I’dliketoshowyouhowtheMartiansdidit.’

‘Mymenarewaiting.’‘We’llbegonehalfanhour.Tellthemthat,sir.’Thecaptainhesitated,thenroseandcalledanorderdownthehill.Spender ledhimover intoa littleMartianvillagebuiltallofcoolperfect

marble.Thereweregreatfriezesofbeautifulanimals,white-limbedcatthingsandyellow-limbedsunsymbols,andstatuesofbull-likecreaturesandstatuesofmenandwomenandhugefine-featureddogs.‘There’syouranswer,Captain.’‘Idon’tsee.’‘The Martians discovered the secret of life among animals. The animal

doesnotquestionlife.Itlives.Itsveryreasonforlivingislife;itenjoysandrelisheslife.Yousee–thestatuary,theanimalsymbols,againandagain.’‘Itlookspagan.’‘Onthecontrary,thoseareGodsymbols,symbolsoflife.Manhadbecome

toomuchman and not enough animal onMars too.And themen ofMarsrealized that in order to survive they would have to forgo asking that onequestion any longer: Why live? Life was its own answer. Life was thepropagation of more life and the living of as good a life as possible. TheMartiansrealizedthattheyaskedthequestion“Whyliveatall?”attheheightofsomeperiodofwaranddespair,whentherewasnoanswer.Butoncethecivilizationcalmed,quieted,andwarsceased,thequestionbecamesenselessinanewway.Lifewasnowgoodandneedednoarguments.’‘ItsoundsasiftheMartianswerequitenaive.’‘Only when it paid to be naive. They quit trying too hard to destroy

everything,tohumbleeverything.Theyblendedreligionandartandsciencebecause,atbase,scienceisnomorethananinvestigationofamiraclewecannever explain, and art is an interpretation of that miracle. They never letsciencecrushtheaestheticandthebeautiful.It’sallsimplyamatterofdegree.AnEarthManthinks:“Inthatpicture,colourdoesnotexist,really.Ascientistcanprovethatcolourisonlythewaythecellsareplacedinacertainmaterialtoreflectlight.Therefore,colourisnotreallyanactualpartofthingsIhappento see.”AMartian, far cleverer,would say: “This is a finepicture. It camefromthehandandthemindofamaninspired.Itsideaanditscolourarefromlife.Thisthingisgood.”’There was a pause. Sitting in the afternoon sun, the captain looked

curiouslyaroundatthelittlesilentcooltown.‘I’dliketolivehere,’hesaid.‘Youmayifyouwant.’‘Youaskmethat?’‘Willanyofthosemenunderyoueverreallyunderstandallthis?They’re

professionalcynics,andit’s toolatefor them.Whydoyouwant togobackwith them? So you can keep upwith the Joneses? To buy a gyro just likeSmithhas?Tolistentomusicwithyourpocket-bookinsteadofyourglands?There’salittlepatiodownherewithareelofMartianmusicinitatleastfiftythousand years old. It still plays.Music you’ll never hear in your life.Youcouldhear it.Therearebooks. I’vegottenonwell in reading themalready.Youcouldsitandread.’‘Itallsoundsquitewonderful,Spender.’‘Butyouwon’tstay?’‘No.Thanks,anyway.’‘Andyoucertainlywon’tletmestaywithouttrouble.I’llhavetokillyou

all.’‘You’reoptimistic.’‘Ihave something to fight for and live for; thatmakesmeabetterkiller.

I’vegotwhatamountstoareligion,now.It’slearninghowtobreathealloveragain.Andhowtolieinthesungettingatan,lettingthesunworkintoyou.Andhowtohearmusicandhowtoreadabook.Whatdoesyourcivilizationoffer?’The captain shifted his feet. He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry this is

happening.I’msorryaboutitall.’‘Iamtoo.IguessI’dbettertakeyoubacknowsoyoucanstarttheattack.’‘Iguessso.’‘Captain,Iwon’tkillyou.Whenit’sallover,you’llstillbealive.’‘What?’‘IdecidedwhenIstartedthatyou’dbeuntouched.’‘Well…’‘I’llsaveyououtfromtherest.Whenthey’redead,perhapsyou’llchange

yourmind.’‘No,’ said the captain. ‘There’s toomuchEarth blood inme. I’ll have to

keepafteryou.’‘Evenwhenyouhaveachancetostayhere?’‘It’s funny, but yes, evenwith that. I don’t knowwhy. I’ve never asked

myself.Well, here we are.’ They had returned to their meeting-place now.‘Willyoucomequietly,Spender?Thisismylastoffer.’Thanks,no.’Spenderputouthishand.‘Onelastthing.Ifyouwin,domea

favour.Seewhatcanbedonetorestrict tearingthisplanetapart,at leastforfiftyyears,untilthearchaeologistshavehadadecentchance,willyou?’‘Right.’‘Andlast–ifithelpsany,justthinkofmeaverycrazyfellowwhowent

berserkonesummerdayandneverwasrightagain.It’llbealittleeasieron

youthatway.’‘I’llthinkitover.Solong,Spender.Goodluck.’‘You’reanoddone,’said

Spenderasthecaptainwalkedbackdownthetrailinthewarm-blowingwind.

Thecaptainreturnedlikesomethinglosttohisdustymen.Hekeptsquintingatthesunandbreathinghard.‘Isthereadrink?’hesaid.Hefeltabottleputcoolintohishand.‘Thanks.’

Hedrank.Hewipedhismouth.‘Allright,’hesaid.‘Becareful.Wehaveallthetimewewant.Idon’twant

anymorelost.You’llhavetokillhim.Hewon’tcomedown.Makeitacleanshotifyoucan.Don’tmesshim.Getitoverwith.’‘I’llblowhisdamnedbrainsout,’saidSamParkhill.‘No, through the chest,’ said the captain.He could see Spender’s strong,

clearlydeterminedface.‘Hisbloodybrains,’saidParkhill.Thecaptainhandedhimthebottlejerkily.‘YouheardwhatIsaid.Through

thechest.’Parkhillmutteredtohimself.‘Now,’saidthecaptain.

They spread again,walking and then running, and thenwalking on the hothillside places where there would be sudden cool grottos that smelled ofmoss,andsuddenopenblasting-placesthatsmelledofsunonstone.Ihatebeingclever, thoughtthecaptain,whenyoudon’treallyfeelclever

and don’twant tobe clever. To sneak around andmake plans and feel bigaboutmakingthem.IhatethisfeelingofthinkingI’mdoingrightwhenI’mnot really certain I am. Who are we, anyway? The majority? Is that theanswer? Themajority is always holy, is it not?Always, always; just neverwrongforonelittleinsignificanttinymoment,isit?Nevereverwrongintenmillionyears?Hethought:Whatisthismajorityandwhoareinit?Andwhatdo they thinkandhowdid theyget thatwayandwill theyeverchangeandhowthedevildidIgetcaughtinthisrottenmajority?Idon’tfeelcomfortable.Isitclaustrophobia,fearofcrowds,orcommonsense?Canonemanberight,whilealltheworldthinkstheyareright?Let’snotthinkaboutit.Let’scrawlaroundandactexcitingandpullthetrigger.There,andthere!Themenranandduckedandranandsquattedinshadowsandshowedtheir

teeth,gasping,fortheairwasthin,notmeantforrunning;theairwasthinandtheyhadtositforfiveminutesatatime,wheezingandseeingblacklightsintheireyes,eatingatthethinairandwantingmore,tighteningtheireyes,andatlastgettingup,liftingtheirgunstotearholesinthatthinsummerair,holes

ofsoundandheat.Spenderremainedwherehewas,firingonlyonoccasion.‘Damnedbrainsallover!’Parkhillyelled,runninguphill.ThecaptainaimedhisgunatSamParkhill.Heputitdownandstaredatit

inhorror.‘Whatwereyoudoing?’heaskedofhislimphandandthegun.HehadalmostshotParkhillintheback.‘Godhelpme.’HesawParkhillstillrunning,thenfallingtoliesafe.Spender was being gathered in by a loose, running net of men. At the

hilltop,behindtworocks,Spenderlay,grinningwithexhaustionfromthethinatmosphere,greatislandsofsweatundereacharm.Thecaptainsawthetworocks.Therewasan intervalbetween themofsomefour inches,givingfreeaccesstoSpender’schest.‘Hey,you!’criedParkhill.‘Here’saslugforyourhead!’CaptainWilderwaited.Goon,Spender,hethought.Getout,likeyousaid

you would. You’ve only a fewminutes to escape. Get out and come backlater.Goon.Yousaidyouwould.Godowninthetunnelsyousaidyoufound,and lie there and live for months and years, reading your fine books andbathinginyourtemplepools.Goon,now,man,beforeit’stoolate.Spenderdidnotmovefromhisposition.‘What’swrongwithhim?’thecaptainaskedhimself.The captain pickedup his gun.Hewatched the running, hidingmen.He

looked at the towers of the little cleanMartian village, like sharply carvedchess-pieceslyingintheafternoon.HesawtherocksandtheintervalbetweenwhereSpender’schestwasrevealed.Parkhillwaschargingup,screaminginfury.‘No,Parkhill,’ said thecaptain. ‘Ican’t letyoudo it.Nor theothers.No,

noneofyou.Onlyme.’Heraisedthegunandsightedit.Will Ibecleanafter this?he thought. Is it right that it’smewhodoes it?

Yes, it is. I knowwhat I’m doing forwhat reason and it’s right, because IthinkI’mtherightperson.IhopeandprayIcanliveuptothis.HenoddedhisheadatSpender.‘Goon,’hecalledinaloudwhisperwhich

nooneheard.‘I’llgiveyouthirtysecondsmoretogetaway.Thirtyseconds!’Thewatchtickedonhiswrist.Thecaptainwatchedittick.Themenwere

running.Spenderdidnotmove.Thewatchtickedforalongtime,veryloudlyinthecaptain’sear.‘Goon,Spender,goon,getaway!’Thethirtysecondswereup.Thegunwassighted.Thecaptaindrewadeepbreath. ‘Spender,’hesaid,

exhaling.Hepulledthetrigger.

All that happened was that a faint powdering of rock went up in thesunlight.Theechoesofthereportfaded.

Thecaptainaroseandcalledtohismen:‘He’sdead.’Theothermendidnotbelieve it.Theirangleshadprevented their seeing

that particular fissure in the rocks. They saw their captain run up the hill,alone,andthoughthimeitherverybraveorinsane.Themencameafterhimafewminuteslater.Theygatheredaroundthebodyandsomeonesaid,‘Inthechest?’Thecaptainlookeddown.‘Inthechest,’hesaid.Hesawhowtherockshad

changedcolourunderSpender. ‘Iwonderwhyhewaited. Iwonderwhyhedidn’t escape as he planned. I wonder why he stayed on and got himselfkilled.’‘Whoknows?’someonesaid.Spenderlaythere,hishandsclasped,onearoundthegun,theotheraround

thesilverbookthatglitteredinthesun.Wasitbecauseofme?thoughtthecaptain.WasitbecauseIrefusedtogive

inmyself?DidSpenderhatetheideaofkillingme?AmIanydifferentfromtheseothershere?Isthatwhatdidit?Didhefigurehecouldtrustme?Whatotheransweristhere?None.Hesquattedbythesilentbody.I’ve got to live up to this, he thought. I can’t let him down now. If he

figuredtherewassomethinginmethatwaslikehimselfandcouldn’tkillmebecauseofit,thenwhatajobIhaveaheadofme!That’sit,yes,that’sit.I’mSpenderalloveragain,butIthinkbeforeIshoot.Idon’tshootatall,Idon’tkill.Idothingswithpeople.Andhecouldn’tkillmebecauseIwashimselfunderaslightlydifferentcondition.The captain felt the sunlight on the back of his neck. He heard himself

talking:‘Ifonlyhehadcometomeandtalkeditoverbeforeheshotanybody,wecouldhaveworkeditoutsomehow.’‘Workedwhat out?’ saidParkhill. ‘What couldwehaveworkedoutwith

hislikes?’Therewasasingingofheatintheland,offtherocksandoffthebluesky.‘I

guess you’re right,’ said the captain. ‘We could never have got together.Spenderandmyself,perhaps.ButSpenderandyouandtheothers,no,never.He’sbetteroffnow.Letmehaveadrinkfromthatcanteen.’ItwasthecaptainwhosuggestedtheemptysarcophagusforSpender.They

hadfoundanancientMartiantomb-yard.TheyputSpenderintoasilvercasewithwaxesandwineswhichweretenthousandyearsold,hishandsfoldedonhischest.Thelasttheysawofhimwashispeacefulface.

Theystoodforamomentintheancientvault.‘IthinkitwouldbeagoodideaforyoutothinkofSpenderfromtimetotime,’saidthecaptain.Theywalkedfromthevaultandshutthemarbledoor.The next afternoon Parkhill did some target practice in one of the dead

cities,shootingout thecrystalwindowsandblowingthe topsoff thefragiletowers.ThecaptaincaughtParkhillandknockedhisteethout.

AUGUST2001

TheSettlers

ThemenofEarthcametoMars.Theycamebecausetheywereafraidorunafraid,becausetheywerehappy

orunhappy,becausetheyfeltlikePilgrimsordidnotfeellikePilgrims.Therewasareasonforeachman.Theywereleavingbadwivesorbadjobsorbadtowns; they were coming to find something or leave something or getsomething,todigupsomethingorburysomethingorleavesomethingalone.Theywere comingwith smalldreamsor largedreamsornoneat all.But agovernmentfingerpointedfromfour-colourposters inmanytowns:THERE’SWORKFORYOUINTHESKY:SEEMARS!andthemenshuffledforward,onlyafewatfirst,adouble-score,formostmenfeltthegreatillnessinthemevenbeforethe rocket fired into space. And this disease was called The Loneliness,becausewhenyousawyourhometowndwindletothesizeofyourfistandthen lemon-size and thenpin-size andvanish in the fire-wake,you felt youhadneverbeenborn, therewasno town,youwerenowhere,with spaceallaround, nothing familiar, only other strange men. And when the state ofIllinois, Iowa,Missouri, orMontana vanished into cloud seas, and, doubly,whentheUnitedStatesshranktoamistedislandandtheentireplanetEarthbecameamuddybaseballtossedaway,thenyouwerealone,wanderinginthemeadowsofspace,onyourwaytoaplaceyoucouldn’timagine.So it was not unusual that the first men were few. The number grew

steadilyinproportiontothecensusofEarthMenalreadyonMars.Therewascomfortinnumbers.ButthefirstLonelyOneshadtostandbythemselves…

DECEMBER2001

TheGreenMorning

When the sun set he crouched by the path and cooked a small supper andlistened to the fire crack while he put the food in his mouth and chewedthoughtfully.Ithadbeenadaynotunlikethirtyothers,withmanyneatholesduginthedawnhours,seedsdroppedin,andwaterbroughtfromthebrightcanals.Now,withanironwearinessinhisslightbody,helayandwatchedtheskycolourfromonedarknesstoanother.HisnamewasBenjaminDriscoll,andhewasthirty-oneyearsold.Andthe

thing thathewantedwasMarsgrowngreenand tallwith treesand foliage,producing air, more air, growing larger with each season; trees to cool thetownsintheboilingsummer,treestoholdbackthewinterwinds.Therewereso many things a tree could do: add colour, provide shade, drop fruit, orbecome a children’s playground, a whole sky universe to climb and hangfrom;anarchitectureoffoodandpleasure,thatwasatree.Butmostofallthetreeswould distil an icy air for the lungs, and a gentle rustling for the earwhen you lay nights in your snowy bed and were gentled to sleep by thesound.Helaylisteningtothedarkearthgatheritself,waitingforthesun,forthe

rainsthathadn’tcomeyet.Hiseartotheground,hecouldhearthefeetoftheyearsaheadmovingatadistance,andhe imagined theseedshehadplacedtodaysproutingupwithgreen,andtakingholdonthesky,pushingoutbranchafterbranch,untilMarswasanafternoonforest,Marswasashiningorchard.In the earlymorning,with the small sun lifting faintly among the folded

hills,hewouldbeupandfinishedwithasmokybreakfast inafewminutesand, treading out the fire ashes, be on his way with knapsacks, testing,digging, placing seed or sprout, tamping lightly, watering, going on,whistling,lookingattheclearskybrighteningtowardsawarmnoon.‘You need the air,’ he told the night fire. The fire was a ruddy, lively

companion that snapped back at you, that slept close bywith drowsy pinkeyeswarmthroughthechillynight.‘Weallneedtheair.It’sthinairhereonMars.Yougettiredsosoon.It’slikelivingintheAndes,inSouthAmerica,high.Youinhaleanddon’tgetanything.Itdoesn’tsatisfy.’Hefelthisrib-case.Inthirtydays,howithadgrown.Totakeinmoreair,

theywouldallhavetobuildtheirlungs.Orplantmoretrees.‘That’swhatI’mherefor,’hesaid.Thefirepopped.‘Inschooltheytolda

storyabout JohnnyAppleseedwalkingacrossAmericaplantingapple trees.Well, I’m doingmore. I’m planting oaks, elms, andmaples, every kind oftree, aspens and deodars and chestnuts. Instead ofmaking just fruit for thestomach,I’mmakingairforthelungs.Whenthosetreesgrowupsomeyear,thinkoftheoxygenthey’llmake!’HerememberedhisarrivalonMars.Likeathousandothers,hehadgazed

uponastillmorningandthought,HowdoIfithere?WhatwillIdo?Isthereajobforme?Thenhehadfainted.Someone pushed a vial of ammonia to his nose and, coughing, he came

round.‘You’llbeallright,’saidthedoctor.‘Whathappened?’‘Theair’sprettythin.Somecan’ttakeit.Ithinkyou’llhavetogobackto

Earth.’‘No!’ He sat up, and almost immediately felt his eyes darken andMars

revolvetwicearoundunderhim.Hisnostrilsdilatedandheforcedhislungstodrinkindeepnothingnesses.‘I’llbeallright.I’vegottostayhere!’Theylethimliegaspinginhorridfish-likemotions.Andhethought,Air,

air, air.They’re sendingmebackbecauseof air.Andhe turnedhishead tolook across theMartian fields andhills.Hebrought them to focus, and thefirstthinghenoticedwasthattherewerenotrees,notreesatall,asfarasyoucould lookinanydirection.The landwasdownuponitself,a landofblackloam, but nothing on it, not even grass. Air, he thought, the thin stuffwhistlinginhisnostrils.Air,air.Andontopofhills,orintheirshadows,oreven by little creeks, not a tree and not a single green blade of grass. Ofcourse! He felt the answer came not from his mind, but his lungs and histhroat.And the thoughtwas a suddengust of pure oxygen, raisinghimup.Trees and grass. He looked down at his hands and turned them over. Hewouldplant treesandgrass.Thatwouldbehis job, tofightagainst theverything that might prevent his staying here. He would have a privatehorticultural war withMars. There lay the old soil, and the plants of it soancient they had worn themselves out. But what if new forms wereintroduced?Earth trees,greatmimosasandweepingwillowsandmagnoliasandmagnificenteucalyptus.Whatthen?Therewasnoguessingwhatmineralwealthhid in the soil, untappedbecause theold ferns, flowers, bushes, andtreeshadtiredthemselvestodeath.‘Letmeup!’heshouted.‘I’vegottoseetheCo-ordinator!’

He and the Co-ordinator had talked an entire morning about things thatgrew and were green. It would be months, if not years, before organizedplantingbegan.Sofar,frostedfoodwasbroughtfromEarthinflyingicicles;afewcommunitygardensweregreeningupinhydroponicplants.‘Meanwhile,’saidtheCo-ordinator,‘it’syourjob.We’llgetwhatseedwe

canforyou,alittleequipment.Spaceontherocketsismightypreciousnow.I’m afraid, since these first towns aremining communities, there won’t bemuchsympathyforyourtree-planting—’‘Butyou’llletmedoit?’Theylethimdoit.Providedwithasinglemotor-cycle,itsbinfullofrich

seeds and sprouts, he had parked his vehicle in the valley wilderness andstruckoutonfootovertheland.Thathadbeenthirtydaysago,andhehadneverglancedback.Forlooking

backwould have been sickening to the heart.Theweatherwas excessivelydry; it was doubtful if any seeds had sprouted yet. Perhaps his entirecampaign,hisfourweeksofbendingandscoopingwerelost.Hekepthiseyesonlyaheadofhim,goingondown thiswide, shallowvalleyunder the sun,awayfromFirstTown,waitingfortherainstocome.Cloudsweregatheringoverthedrymountainsnowashedrewhisblanket

over his shoulders.Mars was a place as unpredictable as time. He felt thebakedhillssimmeringdownintofrostynight,andhethoughtoftherich,inkysoil,asoilsoblackandshinyitalmostcrawledandstirredinyourfist,aranksoil from which might sprout gigantic beanstalks from which, with bone-shakingconcussion,mightdropscreaminggiants.Thefireflutteredintosleepyash.Theair tremoredtothedistantrollofa

cart-wheel.Thunder.Asuddenodourofwater.Tonight,he thought,andputhishandouttofeelforrain.Tonight.

Heawoketoataponhisbrow.Waterrandownhisnoseintohislips.Anotherdrophithiseye,blurringit.

Anothersplashedhischin.Therain.Raw,gentle,andeasy,itmizzledoutofthehighair,aspecialelixir,tasting

ofspellsandstarsandair,carryingapepperydustinit,andmovinglikeararelightsherryonhistongue.Rain.Hesatup.Helet theblanketfallandhisbluedenimshirtspot,while the

raintookonmoresoliddrops.Thefirelookedasthoughaninvisibleanimalweredancingon it,crushing it,until itwasangrysmoke.Therainfell.Thegreat black lidof sky cracked in sixpowderyblue chips, like amarvellous

crackledglaze,andrusheddown.Hesawtenbillionraincrystals,hesitatinglongenoughtobephotographedbytheelectricaldisplay.Thendarknessandwater.Hewasdrenchedtotheskin,butheheldhisfaceupandletthewaterhit

his eyelids, laughing. He clapped his hands together and stepped up andwalkedaroundhislittlecamp,anditwasoneo’clockinthemorning.It rained steadily for two hours and then stopped. The stars came out,

freshlywashedandclearerthanever.Changingintodryclothesfromhiscellophanepack,MrBenjaminDriscoll

laydownandwenthappilytosleep.

Thesunroseslowlyamongthehills. Itbrokeoutuponthe landquietlyandwakenedMrDriscollwherehelay.Hewaitedamomentbeforearising.Hehadworkedandwaitedalonghot

month,andnow,standingup,he turnedat lastand faced thedirection fromwhichhehadcome.Itwasagreenmorning.Asfarashecouldsee,thetreeswerestandingupagainstthesky.Notone

tree, not two, not a dozen, but the thousands he had planted in seed andsprout.Andnotlittletrees,no,notsaplings,notlittletendershoots,butgreattrees,hugetrees,treesastallastenmen,greenandgreenandhugeandroundand full, trees shimmering theirmetallic leaves, treeswhispering, trees in alineoverhills,lemon-trees,lime-trees,redwoodsandmimosasandoaksandelms and aspens, cherry, maple, ash, apple, orange, eucalyptus, stung by atumultuousrain,nourishedbyalienandmagicalsoiland,evenashewatched,throwingoutnewbranches,poppingopennewbuds.‘Impossible!’criedMrBenjaminDriscoll.Butthevalleyandthemorningweregreen.Andtheair!All about, likeamovingcurrent, amountain river, came thenewair, the

oxygen blowing from the green trees. You could see it shimmer high incrystal billows. Oxygen, fresh, pure, green, cold oxygen turning the valleyintoariverdelta.Inamomentthetowndoorswouldflipwide,peoplewouldrun through the newmiracle of oxygen, sniffing, gusting in lungfuls of it,cheekspinkingwithit,nosesfrozenwithit, lungsrevivified,hearts leaping,andwornbodiesliftedintoadance.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

yellowsun.

FEBRUARY2002

TheLocusts

Therocketssetthebonymeadowsafire,turnedrocktolava,turnedwoodtocharcoal, transmutedwater to steam,made sand and silica into green grasswhichlaylikeshatteredmirrorsreflectingtheinvasion,allabout.Therocketscame like drums, beating in the night. The rockets came like locusts,swarming and settling in blooms of rosy smoke.And from the rockets ranmenwithhammersintheirhandstobeatthestrangeworldintoashapethatwas familiar to the eye, to bludgeon away all the strangeness, theirmouthsfringedwith nails so they resembled steel-toothed carnivores, spitting themintotheirswifthandsastheyhammeredupframecottagesandscuttledoverroofs with shingles to blot out the eerie stars, and fit green shades to pullagainstthenight.Andwhenthecarpentershadhurriedon,thewomencameinwithflower-potsandchintzandpansandsetupakitchenclamourtocoverthesilencethatMarsmadewaitingoutsidethedoorandtheshadedwindow.In sixmonths a dozen small towns had been laid down upon the naked

planet,filledwithsizzlingneontubesandyellowelectricbulbs.Inall,someninetythousandpeoplecametoMars,andmore,onEarth,werepackingtheirgrips…

AUGUST2002

NightMeeting

Beforegoingonupintothebluehills,TomásGomezstoppedforgasolineatthelonelystation.‘Kindofaloneouthere,aren’tyou,Pop?’saidTomás.Theoldmanwipedoffthewindshieldofthesmalltruck.‘Notbad.’‘HowdoyoulikeMars,Pop?’‘Fine.Alwayssomethingnew.ImadeupmymindwhenIcameherelast

yearIwouldn’texpectnothing,norasknothing,norbesurprisedatnothing.We’vegot to forgetEarth andhow thingswere.We’vegot to look atwhatwe’reinhere,andhowdifferentitis.Igetahellofalotoffunoutofjusttheweatherhere.It’sMartianweather.Hotashelldaytime,coldashellnights.Igetabigkickoutofthedifferentflowersanddifferentrain.IcametoMarstoretire,andIwantedtoretireinaplacewhereeverythingisdifferent.Anoldmanneedstohavethingsdifferent.Youngpeopledon’twanttotalktohim,otheroldpeopleborehelloutofhim.SoIthoughtthebestthingformeisaplace so different that all you got to do is open your eyes and you’reentertained.Igotthisgas-station.Ifbusinesspicksuptoomuch,I’llmoveonback to some other old highway that’s not so busy, where I can earn justenoughtoliveonandstillhavetimetofeelthedifferentthingshere.’‘You got the right idea, Pop,’ said Tomás, his brown hands idly on the

wheel.Hewasfeelinggood.Hehadbeenworkinginoneofthenewcoloniesfortendaysstraight,andnowhehadtwodaysoffandwasonhiswaytoaparty.‘I’m not surprised at anything any more,’ said the old man. ‘I’m just

looking. I’m just experiencing. If you can’t takeMars forwhat she is, youmightaswellgobacktoEarth.Everything’scrazyuphere, thesoil, theair,thecanals,thenatives(Ineversawanyyet,butIcanhearthey’rearound),theclocks.Evenmyclockacts funny.Even time iscrazyuphere.Sometimes Ifeel I’mhereallbymyself,nooneelseon thewholedamnplanet. I’d takebetsonit.SometimesIfeelabouteightyearsold,mybodysqueezedupandeverythingelsetall.Jesus, it’s just theplaceforanoldman.Keepsmealertand keeps me happy. You know what Mars is? It’s like a thing I got forChristmasseventyyearsago–don’tknowifyoueverhadone–theycalled

themkaleidoscopes:bitsofcrystalandclothandbeadandpretty junk.Youheldituptothesunlightandlookedinthroughatit,andittookyourbreathaway.Allthepatterns!Well,that’sMars.Enjoyit.Don’taskittobenothingelse but what it is. Jesus, you know the highway right there, built by theMartians,isoversixteencenturiesoldandstillingoodcondition?That’sonedollarandfiftycents,thanksandgoodnight.’Tomásdroveoffdowntheancienthighway,laughingquietly.

Itwas a long roadgoing into darkness andhills, andhe held to thewheel,nowandagainreachingintohislunch-bucketandtakingoutapieceofcandy.Hehadbeendrivingsteadily foranhour,withnoothercaron the road,nolight, just the road going under, the hum, the roar, andMars out there, soquiet.Marswasalwaysquiet,butquietertonightthananyother.Thedesertsandemptyseasswungbyhim,andthemountainsagainstthestars.There was a smell of Time in the air tonight. He smiled and turned the

fancyinhismind.Therewasathought.WhatdidTimesmelllike?Likedustand clocks and people. And if you wondered what Time sounded like itsoundedlikewaterrunninginadarkcaveandvoicescryinganddirtdroppingdownuponhollowbox-lids,andrain.And,goingfarther,whatdidTimelooklike?Timelookedlikesnowdroppingsilentlyintoablackroomoritlookedlikeasilent filminanancient theatre,onehundredbillionfacesfalling likethoseNewYearballoons,downanddownintonothing.ThatwashowTimeswelledandlookedandsounded.Andtonight–Tomásshovedahandintothewindoutsidethetruck–tonightyoucouldalmosttouchTime.HedrovethetruckbetweenthehillsofTime.Hisneckprickledandhesat

up,watchingahead.Hepulled intoa littledeadMartian town,stopped theengine,and let the

silencecome inaroundhim.Hesat,notbreathing, lookingoutat thewhitebuildings in the moonlight. Uninhabited for centuries. Perfect, faultless, inruins,yes,butperfect,nevertheless.Hestarted theengineanddroveonanothermileormorebeforestopping

again, climbing out, carrying his lunch bucket, and walking to a littlepromontory where he could look back at that dusty city. He opened histhermosandpouredhimselfacupofcoffee.Anightbirdflewby.Hefeltverygood,verymuchatpeace.Perhaps fiveminutes later therewas a sound.Off in the hills,where the

ancienthighwaycurved,therewasamotion,adimlight,andthenamurmur.Tomásturnedslowlywiththecoffee-cupinhishand.Andoutofthehillscameastrangething.It was a machine like a jade-green insect, a praying mantis, delicately

rushing through the cold air, indistinct, countless green diamonds winkingoveritsbody,andredjewelsthatglitteredwithmultifacetedeyes.Itssixlegsfell upon the ancient highway with the sounds of a sparse rain whichdwindledaway,andfromthebackofthemachineaMartianwithmeltedgoldforeyeslookeddownatTomásasifhewerelookingintoawell.TomásraisedhishandandthoughtHello!automatically,butdidnotmove

hislips,forthiswasaMartian.ButTomáshadswuminblueriversonEarth,withstrangerspassingontheroad,andeateninstrangehouseswithstrangepeople,andhisweaponhadalwaysbeenhis smile.Hedidnotcarryagun.Andhedidnotfeeltheneedofonenow,evenwiththelittlefearthatgatheredabouthisheartatthismoment.TheMartian’shandswereemptytoo.Foramomenttheylookedacrossthe

coolairateachother.ItwasTomáswhomovedfirst.‘Hello!’hecalled.‘Hello!’calledtheMartianinhisownlanguage.Theydidnotunderstandeachother.‘Didyousayhello?’theybothasked.‘Whatdidyousay?’theysaid,eachinadifferenttongue.Theyscowled.‘Whoareyou?’saidTomásinEnglish.‘Whatareyoudoinghere?’InMartian;thestranger’slipsmoved.‘Whereareyougoing?’theysaid,andlookedbewildered.‘I’mTomásGomez.’‘I’mMuheCa.’Neitherunderstood,buttheytappedtheirchestswiththewords,andthenit

becameclear.AndthentheMartianlaughed.‘Wait!’Tomásfelthisheadtouched,butno

handhadtouchedhim.‘There!’saidtheMartianinEnglish.‘Thatisbetter!’‘Youlearnedmylanguage,soquick!’‘Nothingatall!’Theylooked,embarrassedwithanewsilence,atthesteamingcoffeehehad

inonehand.‘Something different?’ said the Martian, eyeing him and the coffee,

referringtothemboth,perhaps.‘MayIofferyouadrink?’saidTomás.‘Please.’TheMartiansliddownfromhismachine.Asecondcupwasproducedandfilled,steaming.Tomáshelditout.Theirhandsmetand–likemist–fellthrougheachother.

‘JesusChrist!’criedTomás,anddroppedthecup.‘NameoftheGods!’saidtheMartianinhisowntongue.‘Didyouseewhathappened?’theybothwhispered.Theywereverycoldandterrified.TheMartianbenttotouchthecup,butcouldnottouchit.‘Jesus!’saidTomás.‘Indeed.’ TheMartian tried again and again to get hold of the cup, but

couldnot.Hestoodupand thought formoment, then tookaknife fromhisbelt.’‘Hey!’criedTomás.‘Youmisunderstand,catch!’saidtheMartian,andtossedit.Tomáscuppedhishands.Theknifefellthroughhisflesh.Ithittheground. Tomás bent to pick it up, but could not touch it, and he recoiled,shivering.NowhelookedattheMartianagainstthesky.‘Thestars!’hesaid.‘Thestars!’saidtheMartian,looking,inturn,atTomás.Thestarswerewhiteandsharpbeyondthefleshof theMartian,andthey

weresewnintohisfleshlikescintillasswallowedintothethin,phosphorousmembraneofagelatinoussea-fish.Youcouldseestarsflickeringlikevioleteyes in the Martian’s stomach and chest, and through his wrists, likejewellery.‘Icanseethroughyou!’saidTomás.‘AndIthroughyou!’saidtheMartian,steppingback.Tomásfelthisownbodyand,feelingthewarmth,wasreassured.Iamreal,

hethought.TheMartian touched his own nose and lips. ‘I have flesh,’ he said, half

aloud.‘Iamalive.’Tomásstaredatthestranger.‘AndifIamreal,thenyoumustbedead.’‘No,you!’‘Aghost’‘Aphantom!’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,eachfindinghimselfintact,hot,excited,stunned,awed,andtheother,ahyes,thatotheroverthere,unreal,aghostlyprismflashingtheaccumulatedlightofdistantworlds.I’mdrunk,thoughtTomás.Iwon’ttellanyoneofthistomorrow,no,no.Theystoodthereontheancienthighway,neitherofthemmoving.‘Whereareyoufrom?’askedtheMartianatlast.‘Earth.’‘Whatisthat?’

‘There.’Tomásnoddedtothesky.‘When?’‘Welandedoverayearago,remember?’‘No.’‘Andallofyouweredead,allbutafew.You’rerare,don’tyouknowthat?’‘That’snottrue.’‘Yes, dead. I saw the bodies. Black, in the rooms, in the houses, dead.

Thousandsofthem.’‘That’sridiculous.We’realive!’‘Mister,you’reinvaded,onlyyoudon’tknowit.Youmusthaveescaped.’‘Ihaven’tescaped; therewasnothing toescape.Whatdoyoumean?I’m

onmyway toa festivalnowat thecanal,near theEniallMountains. Iwastherelastnight.Don’tyouseethecitythere?’TheMartianpointed.Tomáslookedandsawtheruins.‘Why,thatcity’sbeendeadthousandsof

years.’TheMartianlaughed.‘Dead.Isleptthereyesterday!’‘And I was in it a week ago and theweek before that, and I just drove

throughitnow,andit’saheap.Seethebrokenpillars?’‘Broken?Why,Iseethemperfectly.Themoonlighthelps.Andthepillars

areupright.’‘There’sdustinthestreets,’saidTomás.‘Thestreetsareclean!’‘Thecanalsareemptyrightthere.’‘Thecanalsarefulloflavenderwine!’‘It’sdead.’‘It’s alive!’ protested theMartian, laughingmore now. ‘Oh, you’re quite

wrong. See all the carnival lights? There are beautiful boats as slim aswomen,beautifulwomenasslimasboats,womenthecolourofsand,womenwithfire-flowersintheirhands.Icanseethem,small,runninginthestreetsthere.That’swhereI’mgoingnow,tothefestival;we’llfloatonthewatersallnightlong;we’llsing,we’lldrink,we’llmakelove.Can’tyouseeit?’‘Mister,thatcityisdeadasadriedlizard.Asanyofourparty.Me,I’mon

mywaytoGreenCitytonight;that’sthenewcolonywejustraisedovernearIllinois Highway. You’re mixed up.We brought in a million board feet ofOregon lumber and a couple dozen tons of good steel nails and hammeredtogethertwoofthenicestlittlevillagesyoueversaw.Tonightwe’rewarmingoneofthem.AcouplerocketsarecominginfromEarth,bringingourwivesandgirlfriends.There’llbebarndancesandwhisky—’TheMartianwasnowdisquieted.‘Yousayitisoverthatway?’‘There are the rockets.’ Tomás walked him to the edge of the hill and

pointeddown.‘See?’‘No.’‘Damnit,theretheyare!Thoselongsilverthings.’‘No.’NowTomáslaughed.‘You’reblind!’‘Iseeverywell.Youaretheonewhodoesnotsee.’‘Butyouseethenewtown,don’tyou?’‘Iseenothingbutanocean,andwateratlowtide.’‘Mister,thatwater’sbeenevaporatedforfortycenturies.’‘Ah,now,now,thatisenough.’‘It’strue,Itellyou.’TheMartiangrewveryserious.‘Tellmeagain.Youdonotseethecitythe

wayIdescribeit?Thepillarsverywhite,theboatsveryslender, thefestivallights–oh, I see themclearly!And listen! I canhear themsinging. It’snospaceawayatall.’Tomáslistenedandshookhishead.‘No.’‘AndI,ontheotherhand,’saidtheMartian,‘cannotseewhatyoudescribe.

Well.’Againtheywerecold.Anicewasintheirflesh.‘Canitbe…?’‘What?’‘Yousay“fromthesky”?’‘Earth.’‘Earth,aname,nothing,’saidtheMartian.‘But…asIcameupthepassan

hourago…’Hetouchedthebackofhisneck.‘Ifelt‘Cold?’‘Yes.’‘Andnow?’‘Coldagain.Oddly.Therewasa thing in the light, to thehills, the road,’

saidtheMartian.‘Ifeltthestrangeness,theroad,thelight,andforamomentIfeltasifIwerethelastmanaliveonthisworld…’‘Sodid I!’ saidTomás, and itwas like talking to anold anddear friend,

confiding,growingwarmwiththetopic.TheMartianclosedhiseyesandopenedthemagain.‘Thiscanonlymean

onething.IthastodowithTime.Yes.YouareafigmentofthePast!’‘No,youarefromthePast,’saidtheEarthMan,havinghadtimetothinkof

itnow.‘Youaresocertain.Howcanyouprovewho is fromthePast,whofrom

theFuture?Whatyearisit?’‘Twothousandandtwo!’

‘Whatdoesthatmeantome?’Tomásconsideredandshrugged.‘Nothing.’‘ItisasifItoldyouthatitistheyear4462853S.E.c.Itisnothingandmore

thannothing!Whereistheclocktoshowushowthestarsstand?’‘Buttheruinsproveit!TheyprovethatIamtheFuture,Iamalive,youare

dead!’‘Everything inme denies this.My heart beats,my stomach hungers,my

mouth thirsts. No, no, not dead, not alive, either of us. More alive thananythingelse.Caughtbetween ismore like it.Twostrangerspassing in thenight,thatisit.Twostrangerspassing.Ruins,yousay!’‘Yes.You’reafraid!’‘WhowantstoseetheFuture,whoeverdoes?AmancanfacethePast,but

think–thepillarscrumbled,yousay?Andtheseaempty,andthecanalsdry,andthemaidensdead,andtheflowerswithered?’TheMartianwassilent,butthenhelookedonahead.‘Buttheretheyare.Iseethem.Isn’tthatenoughforme?Theywaitformenow,nomatterwhatyousay.’AndforTomástherockets,faraway,waitingforhim,andthetownandthe

womenfromEarth.‘Wecanneveragree,’hesaid.‘Let us agree to disagree,’ said theMartian. ‘What does itmatterwho is

PastorFuture,ifwearebothalive,forwhatfollowswillfollow,tomorroworin ten thousand years. How do you know that those temples are not thetemples of your own civilization one hundred centuries from now, tumbledandbroken?Youdonot know.Thendon’t ask.But thenight is very short.Theregothefestivalfiresinthesky,andthebirds.’Tomásputouthishand.TheMartiandidlikewiseinimitation.Theirhandsdidnottouch;theymeltedthrougheachother.‘Willwemeetagain?’‘Whoknows?Perhapssomeothernight.’‘I’dliketogowithyoutothatfestival.’‘AndIwishImightcometoyournewtown,toseethisshipyouspeakof,

toseethesemen,tohearallthathashappened.’‘Good-bye,’saidTomás.‘Good-night.’TheMartianrodehisgreen-metalvehiclequietlyawayinto thehills.The

EarthManturnedhistruckanddroveitsilentlyintheoppositedirection.‘Good Lord! what a dream that was,’ sighed Tomás, his hands on the

wheel,thinkingoftherockets,thewomen,therawwhisky,theVirginiareels,theparty.Howstrangeavisionwasthat,thoughttheMartian,rushingon,thinkingof

thefestival,thecanals,theboats,thewomenwithgoldeneyes,andthesongs.

Thenightwasdark.Themoonshadgonedown.Starlighttwinkledontheemptyhighwaywherenowtherewasnotasound,nocar,noperson,nothing.Anditremainedthatwayalltherestofthecool,darknight.

OCTOBER2002

TheShore

Marswasadistant shore,and themenspreadupon it inwaves.Eachwavewas different, and each wave stronger. The first wave carried with it menaccustomed to spaces and coldness and being alone, the coyote and cattle-men,withno faton them,with faces theyearshadworn the fleshoff,witheyeslikenailheads,andhandslikethematerialofoldgloves,readytotouchanything.Marscoulddonothing for them, for theywerebred toplainsandprairiesasopenastheMartianfields.Theycameandmadethingsalittlelessempty,sothatotherswouldfindcouragetofollow.Theyputpanesinhollowwindowsandlightsbehindthepanes.Theywerethefirstmen.Everyoneknewwhothefirstwomenwouldbe.The second men should have travelled from other countries with other

accents and other ideas. But the rocketswereAmerican and themenwereAmericananditstayedthatway,whileEuropeandAsiaandSouthAmericaandAustraliaandtheislandswatchedtheRomancandlesleavethembehind.Therestoftheworldwasburiedinwarorthethoughtsofwar.SothesecondmenwereAmericansalso.Andtheycamefromthecabbage

tenements and subways, and they found much rest and vacation in thecompanyofthesilentmenfromthetumble-weedstateswhoknewhowtousesilences so they filled you upwith peace after long years crushed in tubes,tins,andboxesinNewYork.Andamongthesecondmenweremenwholooked,bytheireyes,asifthey

wereontheirwaytoGod…

NOVEMBER2002

TheFireBalloons

Fire explodedover summernight lawns.You saw sparkling facesof unclesand aunts. Sky-rockets fell up in the brown shining eyes of cousins on theporch,andthecoldcharredsticksthumpeddownindrymeadowsfaraway.TheMostReverendFatherJosephDanielPeregrineopenedhiseyes.What

adream:heandhiscousinswiththeirfieryplayathisgrandfather’sancientOhiohomesomanyyearsago!He lay listening to the great hollow of the church, the other cellswhere

otherFatherslay.Hadthey,too,ontheeveoftheflightoftherocketCrucifix,lainwithmemoriesoftheFourthofJuly?Yes.ThiswaslikethosebreathlessIndependencedawnswhenyouwaitedforthefirstconcussionandrushedoutonthedewysidewalks,yourhandsfullofloudmiracles.Soheretheywere,theEpiscopalFathers,inthebreathingdawnbeforethey

pin-wheeledofftoMars,leavingtheirincensethroughthevelvetcathedralofspace.‘Shouldwegoatall?’whisperedFatherPeregrine.‘Shouldn’twesolveour

ownsinsonEarth?Aren’twerunningfromourliveshere?’He arose, his fleshy body, with its rich look of strawberries, milk, and

steak,movingheavily.‘Orisitsloth?’hewondered.‘DoIdreadthejourney?’Hesteppedintotheneedle-sprayshower.‘But I shall takeyou toMars,body.’Headdressedhimself. ‘Leavingold

sinshere.AndontoMarstofindnewsins?’Adelightfulthoughtalmost.Sinsno one had ever thought of. Oh, he himself had written a little book: TheProblemofSinonOtherWorlds,ignoredassomehownotseriousenoughbyhisEpiscopalbrethren.Onlylastnight,overafinalcigar,heandFatherStonehadtalkedofit.‘OnMarssinmightappearasvirtue.Wemustguardagainstvirtuousacts

there that, later,mightbefound tobesins!’saidFatherPeregrine,beaming.‘Howexciting!It’sbeencenturiessincesomuchadventurehasaccompaniedtheprospectofbeingamissionary!’‘Iwillrecognizesin,’saidFatherStonebluntly,‘evenonMars.’‘Oh,wepriestsprideourselvesonbeinglitmuspaper,changingcolour in

sin’s presence,’ retortedFatherPeregrine, ‘butwhat ifMartian chemistry issuchwedonotcolouratall!IftherearenewsensesonMars,youmustadmitthepossibilityofunrecognizablesin.’‘Ifthereisnomaliceaforethought,thereisnosinorpunishmentforsame–

theLordassuresusthat,’FatherStonereplied.‘OnEarth,yes.ButperhapsaMartiansinmightinformthesubconsciousof

its evil, telepathically, leaving the conscious mind of man free to act,seeminglywithoutmalice!Whatthen?’‘Whatcouldtherebeinthewayofnewsins?’FatherPeregrineleanedheavilyforward.‘Adamalonedidnotsin.AddEve

andyouaddtemptation.Addasecondmanandyoumakeadulterypossible.With the addition of sex or people, you add sin. Ifmenwere armless theycouldnotstranglewiththeirhands.Youwouldnothavethatparticularsinofmurder.Addarms,andyouadd thepossibilityofanewviolence.Amoebascannot sin because they reproduce by fission. They do not covet wives ormurdereachother.Addsex toamoebas,addarmsand legs,andyouwouldhavemurderandadultery.Addanarmor legorperson,or takeawayeach,and you add or subtract possible evil.OnMars,what if there are five newsenses,organs,invisiblelimbswecan’tconceiveof–thenmightn’ttherebefivenewsins?’FatherStonegasped.‘Ithinkyouenjoythissortofthing!’‘Ikeepmymindalive,Father;justalive,isall.’‘Yourmind’salwaysjuggling,isn’tit?–mirrors,torches,plates.’‘Yes. Because sometimes the Church seems like those posed circus

tableauxwhere the curtain lifts andmen,white, zinc-oxide, talcum-powderstatues,freezetorepresentabstractBeauty.Verywonderful.ButIhopetherewillalwaysberoomformetodartaboutamongthestatues,don’tyou,FatherStone?’Father Stone hadmoved away. ‘I think we’d better go to bed. In a few

hourswe’llbejumpinguptoseeyournewsins,FatherPeregrine.’

Therocketstoodreadyforthefiring.TheFatherswalkedfromtheirdevotionsinthechillymorning,manyafine

priestfromNewYorkorChicagoorLosAngeles–theChurchwassendingitsbest–walkingacross townto thefrostyfield.Walking,FatherPeregrinerememberedtheBishop’swords:‘FatherPeregrine,youwill captain themissionaries,withFatherStoneat

your side. Having chosen you for this serious task, I find my reasonsdeplorably obscure, Father, but your pamphlet on planetary sin did not gounread.You are a flexibleman.AndMars is like that uncleaned closetwe

haveneglectedformillennia.Sinhascollectedtherelikebric-à-brac.MarsistwiceEarth’sageandhashaddoublethenumberofSaturdaynights,liquor-baths, and eye-poppings atwomen as naked aswhite seals.Whenweopenthatclosetdoor, thingswill fallonus.Weneedaquick,flexibleman–onewhosemindcandodge.Anyonea littledogmaticmightbreak in two. I feelyou’llberesilient.Father,thejobisyours.’TheBishopandtheFathersknelt.Theblessingwas saidand the rocketgivena little showerofholywater.

Arising,theBishopaddressedthem:‘IknowyouwillgowithGod,topreparetheMartiansforthereceptionof

HisTruth.Iwishyouallathoughtfuljourney.’TheyfiledpasttheBishop,twentymen,robeswhispering,todelivertheir

handsintohiskindhandsbeforepassingintothecleansedprojectile.‘Iwonder,’saidFatherPeregrine,atthelastmoment,‘ifMarsisHell?Only

waitingforourarrivalbeforeitburstsintobrimstoneandfire.’‘Lordbewithus,’saidFatherStone.Therocketmoved.

Comingoutofspacewaslikecomingoutofthemostbeautifulcathedraltheyhad ever seen. Touching Mars was like touching the ordinary pavementoutsidethechurchfiveminutesafterhavingreallyknownyourloveforGod.The Fathers stepped gingerly from the steaming rocket and knelt upon

MartiansandwhileFatherPeregrinegavethanks.‘Lord,wethankTheefor the journeythroughThyrooms.And,Lord,we

have reached a new land, so we must have new eyes.We shall hear newsounds,andmustneedshavenewears.Andtherewillbenewsins,forwhichweaskthegiftofbetterandfirmerandpurerhearts.Amen.’Theyarose.And herewasMars like a sea underwhich they trudged in the guise of

submarinebiologists,seekinglife.Here the territoryofhiddensin.Oh,howcarefullytheymustallbalance,likegreyfeathers,inthisnewelement,afraidthatwalkingitselfmightbesinful;orbreathing,orsimplefasting!And here was the mayor of First Town come to meet them with

outstretchedhand.‘WhatcanIdoforyou,FatherPeregrine?’‘We’d like toknowabout theMartians.Foronly ifweknowabout them

can we plan our church intelligently. Are they ten feet tall?Wewill buildlargedoors.Aretheirskinsblueorredorgreen?Wemustknowwhenweputhumanfigures in thestainedglasssowemayuse therightskincolour.Aretheyheavy?Wewillbuildsturdyseatsforthem.’‘Father,’ said the mayor, ‘I don’t think you should worry about the

Martians.Therearetworaces.Oneofthemisprettywelldead.Afewareinhiding.Andthesecondrace–well,they’renotquitehuman.’‘Oh?’FatherPeregrine’sheartquickened.They’reroundluminousglobesof light,Father, living in thosehills.Man

orbeast,whocansay?Buttheyactintelligently,Ihear.’Themayorshrugged.‘Ofcourse,they’renotmen,soIdon’tthinkyou’llcare—’‘Onthecontrary,’saidFatherPeregrineswiftly.‘Intelligent,yousay?’‘There’sastory.Aprospectorbrokehis leginthosehillsandwouldhave

died there. The blue spheres of light came at him.When hewoke, hewasdownonahighwayanddidn’tknowhegotthere.’‘Drunk,’saidFatherStone.‘That’s the story,’ said the mayor. ‘Father Peregrine, with most of the

Martiansdead,andonlythosebluespheres,Ifranklythinkyou’dbebetteroffinFirstCity.Marsisopeningup.It’safrontiernow,likeintheolddaysonEarth,outWest,and inAlaska.Menarepouringuphere.There’reacouplethousandblackIrishmechanicsandminersandday labourers inFirstTownwhoneedsaving,becausethere’retoomanywickedwomencamewiththem,andtoomuchten-century-oldMartianwine—’FatherPeregrinewasgazingintothesoftbluehills.FatherStoneclearedhisthroat.‘Well,Father?’FatherPeregrinedidnothear.‘Spheresofbluefire?’‘Yes,Father.’‘Ah,’FatherPeregrinesighed.‘Blueballoons.’FatherStoneshookhishead.‘Acircus!’Father Peregrine felt hiswrists pounding.He saw the little frontier town

with raw, fresh-built sin, and he saw the hills, old with the oldest and yetperhapsanevennewer(tohim)sin.‘Mayor,couldyourblackIrishlabourerscookonemoredayinhellfire?’‘I’dturnandbastethemforyou,Father.’FatherPeregrinenoddedtothehills.‘Thenthat’swherewe’llgo.’Therewasamurmurfromeveryone.‘It would be so simple,’ explained Father Peregrine, ‘to go into town. I

prefer to think that if the Lord walked here and people said, “Here is thebeatenpath,”Hewouldreply,“Showmetheweeds.Iwillmakeapath.”’‘But—’‘FatherStone, thinkhowitwouldweighuponus ifwepassedsinnersby

anddidnotextendourhands.’‘Butglobesoffire!’‘Iimaginemanlookedfunnytootheranimalswhenwefirstappeared.Yet

hehasasoul,forallhishomeliness.Untilweproveotherwise,letusassume

thatthesefierysphereshavesouls.’‘Allright,’agreedthemayor,‘butyou’llbebacktotown.’‘We’llsee.First,somebreakfast.ThenyouandI,FatherStone,willwalk

alone into the hills. I don’t want to frighten those fiery Martians withmachinesorcrowds.Shallwehavebreakfast?’TheFathersateinsilence.

At nightfall FatherPeregrine andFatherStonewere high in the hills.Theystoppedandsatuponarocktoenjoyamomentofrelaxationandwaiting.TheMartianshadnotasyetappeared,andtheybothfeltvaguelydisappointed.‘Iwonder—’FatherPeregrinemoppedhisface.‘Doyouthinkifwecalled

“Hello!”theymightanswer?’‘FatherPeregrine,won’tyoueverbeserious?’‘NotuntilthegoodLordis.Oh,don’tlooksoterriblyshocked,please.The

Lord is not serious. In fact, it is a little hard to know justwhat elseHe isexcept loving.And lovehas todowithhumour, doesn’t it?Foryoucannotlovesomeoneunlessyouputupwithhim,canyou?Andyoucannotputupwith someone constantly unless you can laugh at him. Isn’t that true?Andcertainlywe are ridiculous little animalswallowing in the fudge-bowl, andGodmustloveusallthemorebecauseweappealtohishumour.’‘IneverthoughtofGodashumorous,’saidFatherStone.TheCreator of the platypus, the camel, the ostrich, andman?Oh, come

now!’FatherPeregrinelaughed.Butatthisinstant,fromamongthetwilighthills,likeaseriesofbluelamps

littoguidetheirway,cametheMartians.FatherStonesawthemfirst.‘Look!’FatherPeregrineturned,andthelaughterstoppedinhismouth.Theroundblueglobesoffirehoveredamongthetwinklingstars,distantly

trembling.‘Monsters!’FatherStoneleapedup.ButFatherPeregrinecaughthim.‘Wait!’‘Weshould’vegonetotown!’‘No,listen,look!’pleadedFatherPeregrine.‘I’mafraid!’‘Don’tbe.ThisisGod’swork!’‘Thedevil’s!’‘No,now,quiet!’FatherPeregrinegentledhimandtheycrouchedwiththe

softbluelightontheirupturnedfacesasthefieryorbsdrewnear.And again, IndependenceNight, thought Father Peregrine, tremoring.He

felt like a child back in those July Fourth evenings, the sky blowing apart,

breaking into powdery stars and burning sound, the concussions jinglinghouse-windows like the ice on a thousand thin ponds. The aunts, uncles,cousinscrying,‘Ah!’astosomecelestialphysician.Thesummerskycolours.And the Fire Balloons, lit by an indulgent grandfather, steadied in hismassivelytenderhands.Oh,thememoryofthoselovelyFireBalloons,softlylighted,warmly billowed bits of tissue, like insectwings, lying like foldedwaspsinboxesand,lastofall,afterthedayofriotandfury,atlonglastfromtheir boxes, delicately unfolded, blue, red, white, patriotic – the FireBalloons!HesawthedimfacesofdearrelativeslongdeadandmantledwithmossasGrandfatherlitthetinycandleandletthewarmairbreatheuptoformtheballoonplumplyluminousinhishands,ashiningvisionwhichtheyheld,reluctanttoletitgo;for,oncereleased,itwasyetanotheryeargonefromlife,another Fourth, another bit of Beauty vanished. And then up, up, still upthroughthewarmsummernightconstellations,theFireBalloonshaddrifted,whilered-white-and-blueeyesfollowedthem,wordless,fromfamilyporches.AwayintodeepIllinoiscountry,overnightriversandsleepingmansionstheFireBalloonsdwindled,forevergone…FatherPeregrinefelttearsinhiseyes.AbovehimtheMartians,notonebut

a thousand whispering Fire Balloons, it seemed, hovered. Anymoment hemight findhis long-deadandblessedgrandfatherathiselbow,staringupatBeauty.ButitwasFatherStone.‘Let’sgo,please,Father!’‘Imustspeaktothem.’FatherPeregrinerustledforward,notknowingwhat

tosay,forwhathadheeversaidtotheFireBalloonsoftimepastexceptwithhismind:youarebeautiful,youarebeautiful,andthatwasnotenoughnow,Hecouldonlylifthisheavyarmsandcallupward,ashehadoftenwishedtocallaftertheenchantedFireBalloons,‘Hello!’But the fiery spheres only burned like images in a dark mirror. They

seemedfixed,gaseous,miraculous,forever.‘WecomewithGod,’saidFatherPeregrinetothesky.‘Silly,silly,silly.’FatherStonechewedthebackofhishand.‘Inthename

ofGod,FatherPeregrine,stop!’Butnowthephosphorescentspheresblewawayintothehills.Inamoment

theyweregone.FatherPeregrinecalledagain,and theechoofhis lastcryshook thehills

above.Turning,hesawanavalancheshakeoutdust,pause,andthen,withathunderofstonewheels,crashdownthemountainuponthem.‘Lookwhatyou’vedone!’criedFatherStone.FatherPeregrinewasalmostfascinated,thenhorrified.Heturned,knowing

theycouldrunonlyafewfeetbefore therockscrushedthemintoruins.Hehadtimetowhisper,Oh,Lord!andtherocksfell!‘Father!’Theywereseparatedlikechafffromwheat.Therewasablueshimmering

ofglobes,ashiftofcoldstars,aroar,andthentheystooduponaledgetwohundred feet awaywatching the spot where their bodies should have beenburiedundertonsofstone.Thebluelightevaporated.ThetwoFathersclutchedeachother.‘Whathappened?’‘Thebluefiresliftedus!’‘Weran,thatwasit!’‘No,theglobessavedus.’‘Theycouldn’t!’‘Theydid.’The skywas empty. Therewas a feel as if a great bell had just stopped

tolling.Reverberationslingeredintheirteethandmarrows.‘Let’sgetawayfromhere.You’llhaveuskilled.’‘Ihaven’tfeareddeathforagoodmanyyears,FatherStone.’‘We’ve proved nothing. Those blue lights ran off at the first cry. It’s

useless.’‘No.’ Father Peregrinewas suffusedwith a stubbornwonder. ‘Somehow,

theysavedus.Thatprovestheyhavesouls.’‘Itprovesonlythattheymighthavesavedus.Everythingwasconfused.We

mighthaveescaped,ourselves.’‘Theyarenotanimals,FatherStone.Animalsdonotsavelives,especially

of strangers. There is mercy and compassion here. Perhaps, tomorrow, wemayprovemore.’‘Provewhat?How?’FatherStonewasimmenselytirednow;theoutrageto

his mind and body showed on his stiff face. ‘Follow them in helicopters,readingchapterandverse?They’renothuman.Theyhaven’teyesorearsorbodieslikeours.’‘ButIfeelsomethingaboutthem,’repliedFatherPeregrine.‘Iknowagreat

revelationisathand.Theysavedus.Theythink.Theyhadachoice;letusliveordie.Thatprovesfreewill!’FatherStonesettoworkbuildingafire,glaringatthesticksinhishands,

chokingonthegreysmoke.‘Imyselfwillopenaconventfornurslinggeese,a monastery for sainted swine, and I shall build a miniature apse in amicroscopesothatParameciumcanattendservicesandtell theirbeadswiththeirflagella.’‘Oh,FatherStone.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Father Stone blinked redly across the fire. ‘But this is likeblessing a crocodile before he chews you up. You’re risking the entiremissionaryexpedition.WebelonginFirstTown,washingliquorfrommen’sthroatsandperfumeofftheirhands!’‘Can’tyourecognizethehumanintheinhuman?’‘I’dmuchratherrecognizetheinhumaninthehuman.’‘ButifIprovethesethingssin,knowsin,knowamorallife,havefreewill

andintellect,FatherStone?’‘Thatwilltakemuchconvincing.’The night grew rapidly cold and they peered into the fire to find their

wildest thoughts, while eating biscuits and berries, and soon they werebundledforsleepunder thechimingstars.And justbefore turningoveronelast time Father Stone, who had been thinking for many minutes to findsomethingtobotherFatherPeregrineabout,staredintothesoftpinkcharcoalbed and said, ‘Not Adam and Eve on Mars. No original sin. Maybe theMartiansliveinastateofGod’sgrace.ThenwecangobackdowntotownandstartworkontheEarthMen.’FatherPeregrine remindedhimself to saya littleprayer forFatherStone,

who got so mad and who was now being vindictive, God help him. ‘Yes,FatherStone,buttheMartianskilledsomeofoursettlers.That’ssinful.Theremust have been an Original Sin and aMartian Adam and Eve.We’ll findthem.Menaremen,unfortunately,nomatterwhattheirshape,andinclinedtosin.’ButFatherStonewaspretendingsleep.

FatherPeregrinedidnotshuthiseyes.Ofcourse theycouldn’t let theseMartiansgo tohell, could they?Witha

compromise to their consciences, could they go back to the new colonialtowns,thosetownssofullofsinfulgulletsandwomenwithscintillaeyesandwhiteoysterbodiesrollickinginbedsandwithlonelylabourers?Wasn’tthatthe place for the Fathers?Wasn’t this trek into the hills merely a personalwhim?Was he really thinking of God’s Church, or was he quenching thethirstofasponge-likecuriosity?ThoseblueroundglobesofStAnthony’sfire–howtheyburnedinhismind!Whatachallenge,tofindthemanbehindthemask,thehumanbehindtheinhuman.Wouldn’thebeproudifhecouldsay,eventohissecretself,thathehadconvertedarollinghugepool-tablefulloffieryspheres!Whatasinofpride!Worthdoingpenancefor!ButthenonedidmanypridefulthingsoutofLove,andhelovedtheLordsomuchandwassohappyatitthathewantedeveryoneelsetobehappytoo.The last thinghesawbeforesleepwas the returnof theblue fires, likea

flightofburningangelssilentlysinginghimtohisworriedrest.Theblue rounddreamswere still there in the skywhenFatherPeregrine

awokeintheearlymorning.FatherStonesleptlikeastiffbundle,quietly.FatherPeregrinewatchedthe

Martiansfloatingandwatchinghim.Theywerehuman–heknew it.Buthemustprove itor faceadry-mouthed,dry-eyedBishop tellinghimkindly tostepaside.Buthowtoprovehumanityiftheyhidinthehighvaultsofthesky?How

tobringthemnearerandprovideanswerstothemanyquestions?‘Theysavedusfromtheavalanche.’FatherPeregrinearose,movedoffamongtherocks,andbegantoclimbthe

nearesthilluntilhecametoaplacewhereacliffdroppedsheerlytoafloortwohundredfeetbelow.Hewaschokingfromhisvigorousclimbinthefrostyair.Hestood,gettinghisbreath.‘IfIfellfromhere,itwouldsurelykillme.’Heletapebbledrop.Momentslateritclickedontherocksbelow.TheLordwouldneverforgiveme.’Hetossedanotherpebble.‘Itwouldn’tbesuicide,wouldit,ifIdiditoutofLove…’Heliftedhisgazetothebluespheres.‘Butfirst,anothertry.’Hecalledto

them:‘Hello,hello!’The echoes tumbled upon each other, but the blue fires did not blink or

move.Hetalkedtothemforfiveminutes.Whenhestopped,hepeereddownand

sawFatherStone,stillindignantlyasleep,belowinthelittlecamp.‘Imustproveeverything.’FatherPeregrinesteppedtothecliffrim.‘Iam

anoldman. Iamnotafraid.Surely theLordwillunderstand that IamonlydoingthisforHim?’Hedrewadeepbreath.Allhislifeswamthroughhiseyes,andhethought,

InamomentshallIdie?IamafraidthatIlovelivingmuchtoomuch.ButIlovethingsmore.And,thinkingthus,hesteppedoffthecliff.Hefell.‘Fool!’ he cried.He tumbled endover end. ‘Youwerewrong!The rocks

rushedupathim,andhesawhimselfdashedonthemandsenttoglory.‘WhydidIdothisthing?’Butheknewtheanswer,andaninstantlaterwascalmashefell.Thewindroaredaroundhimandtherockshurtledtomeethim.Andthentherewasashiftofstars,aglimmeringofbluelight,andhefelt

himself surrounded by blueness and suspended. A moment later he wasdeposited,withagentlebump,upon therocks,wherehesata fullmoment,

alive, and touching himself, and looking up at those blue lights that hadwithdrawninstantly.‘Yousavedme!’hewhispered.‘Youwouldn’tletmedie.Youknewitwas

wrong.’HerushedovertoFatherStone,whostilllayquietlyasleep.‘Father,Father,

wakeup!’Heshookhimandbroughthimround.‘Father,theysavedme!’‘Whosavedyou?’FatherStoneblinkedandsatup.FatherPeregrinerelatedhisexperience.‘Adream,anightmare;gobacktosleep,’saidFatherStoneirritably.‘You

andyoucircusballoons.’‘ButIwasawake!’‘Now,now,Father,calmyourself.Therenow.’‘Youdon’tbelieveme?Haveyouagun?Yes,there,letmehaveit.’‘Whatareyougoingtodo?’FatherStonehandedoverthesmallpistolthey

had brought along for protection against snakes or other similar andunpredictableanimals.FatherPeregrineseizedthepistol.‘I’llproveit!’Hepointedthepistolathisownhandandfired.‘Stop!’Therewasashimmeroflight,andbeforetheireyesthebulletstoodupon

theair,poisedaninchfromhisopenpalm.Ithungforamoment,surroundedbyabluephosphorescence.Thenitfell,hissing,intothedust.FatherPeregrine fired thegun three times–athishand,athis leg,athis

body.Thethreebulletshovered,glittering,and,likedeadinsects,fellattheirfeet.‘You see?’ said Father Peregrine, letting his arm fall, and allowing the

pistol to drop after thebullets. ‘Theyknow.Theyunderstand.They are notanimals. They think and judge and live in a moral climate. What animalwouldsavemefrommyselflikethis?Thereisnoanimalwoulddothat.Onlyanotherman,Father.Now,doyoubelieve?’FatherStonewaswatchingtheskyandthebluelights,andnow,silently,he

droppedtoonekneeandpickedupthewarmbulletsandcuppedtheminhishand.Heclosedhishandtight.Thesunwasrisingbehindthem.‘Ithinkwehadbettergodowntotheothersandtellthemofthisandbring

thembackuphere,’saidFatherPeregrine.Bythetimethesunwasup,theywerewellontheirwaybacktotherocket.

FatherPeregrinedrewtheroundcircleinthecentreoftheblackboard.‘ThisisChrist,thesonoftheFather.’

HepretendednottoheartheotherFather’ssharpintakeofbreath.‘ThisisChrist,inallhisGlory,’hecontinued.‘Itlookslikeageometryproblem,’observedFatherStone.‘Afortunatecomparison,forwedealwithsymbolshere.Christ isnoless

Christ, you must admit, in being represented by a circle or a square. Forcenturiesthecrosshassymbolizedhisloveandagony.SothiscirclewillbetheMartianChrist.ThisishowweshallbringHimtoMars.’TheFathersstirredfretfullyandlookedateachother.‘You,BrotherMathias,willcreate,inglass,areplicaofthiscircle,aglobe,

filledwithbrightfire.Itwillstanduponthealtar.’‘Acheapmagictrick,’mutteredFatherStone.FatherPeregrinewentonpatiently: ‘On thecontrary.Wearegiving them

God in an understandable image. If Christ had come to us on Earth as anoctopus,wouldwehaveacceptedhimreadily?’Hespreadhishands.‘Wasitthen a cheapmagic trick of theLord’s to bring usChrist through Jesus, inman’s shape?Afterwebless thechurchwebuildhereand sanctify its altarandthissymbol,doyouthinkChristwouldrefusetoinhabittheshapebeforeus?Youknowinyourheartshewouldnotrefuse.’‘Butthebodyofasoullessanimal!’saidBrotherMathias.‘We’vealreadygoneoverthat,manytimessincewereturnedthismorning,

BrotherMathias.Thesecreaturessavedusfromtheavalanche.Theyrealizedthat self-destructionwas sinful, andprevented it, time after time.Thereforewemustbuildachurchinthehills,livewiththem,tofindtheirownspecialwaysofsinning,thealienways,andhelpthemtodiscoverGod.’TheFathersdidnotseempleasedattheprospect.‘Isitbecausetheyaresooddtotheeye?’wonderedFatherPeregrine.‘But

whatisashape?OnlyacupfortheblazingsoulthatGodprovidesusall.IftomorrowIfoundthatsea-lionssuddenlypossessedfreewill,intellect,knewwhennottosin,knewwhatlifewasandtemperedjusticewithmercyandlifewith love, then I would build an undersea cathedral. And if the sparrowsshould, miraculously, with God’s will, gain everlasting souls tomorrow, Iwouldfreightachurchwithheliumandtakeafterthem,forallsouls,inanyshape, if they have free will and are aware of their sins, will burn in hellunlessgiventheirrightfulcommunions.IwouldnotletaMartiansphereburninhell,either, for it isasphereonly inmineeyes.WhenIclosemyeyes itstandsbeforeme,anintelligence,alove,asoul–andImustnotdenyit.’‘Butthatglassglobeyouwishplacedonthealtar,’protestedFatherStone.‘ConsidertheChinese,’repliedFatherPeregrineimperturbably.‘Whatsort

ofChristdoChristianChineseworship?AnorientalChrist,naturally.You’veall seen oriental Nativity scenes. How is Christ dressed? In Eastern robes.

Wheredoeshewalk?InChinesesettingsofbambooandmistymountainandcrookedtree.Hiseyelidstaper,hischeekbonesrise.Eachcountry,eachraceadds something to ourLord. I am remindedof theVirgin ofGuadalupe, towhomallMexicopaysitslove.Herskin?Haveyounoticedthepaintingsofher?Adarkskin,likethatofherworshippers.Isthisblasphemy?Notatall.Itisnot logical thatmenshouldacceptaGod,nomatterhowreal,ofanothercolour.IoftenwonderwhyourmissionariesdowellinAfrica,withasnow-whiteChrist.Perhapsbecausewhiteisasacredcolour,inalbino,oranyotherform,totheAfricantribes.Giventime,mightn’tChristdarkentheretoo?Theformdoesnotmatter.Contentiseverything.WecannotexpecttheseMartianstoacceptanalienform.WeshallgivethemChristintheirownimage.’There’s a flaw in your reasoning, Father,’ said Father Stone. ‘Won’t the

Martianssuspectusofhypocrisy?Theywillrealizethatwedon’tworshiparound,globularChrist,butamanwithlimbsandahead.Howdoweexplainthedifference?’‘Byshowingthereisnone.Christwillfillanyvesselthatisoffered.Bodies

or globes, he is there, and eachwill worship the same thing in a differentguise.Whatismore,wemustbelieveinthisglobewegivetheMartians.Wemustbelieveinashapewhichismeaninglesstousastoform.ThisspheroidwillbeChrist.Andwemustrememberthatweourselves,andtheshapeofourEarth Christ, would be meaningless, ridiculous, a squander of material totheseMartians.’FatherPeregrinelaidasidehischalk.‘Nowletusgointothehillsandbuild

ourchurch.’TheFathersbegantopacktheirequipment.Thechurchwasnotachurch,butanareaclearedofrocks,aplateauonone

ofthelowmountains,itssoilsmoothedandbrushed,andanaltarestablishedwhereonBrotherMathiasplacedthefieryglobehehadconstructed.Attheendofthesixdaysoftheworkthe‘church’wasready.‘What shallwe dowith this?’ Father Stone tapped an iron bell they had

broughtalong.‘Whatdoesabellmeantothem?’‘I imagine I brought it for our own comfort,’ admitted Father Peregrine.

‘Weneedafewfamiliarities.Thischurchseemsso little likeachurch.Andwefeelsomewhatabsurdhere–evenI;foritissomethingnew,thisbusinessofconvertingthecreaturesofanotherworld.Ifeellikearidiculousplay-actorattimes.AndthenIpraytoGodtolendmestrength.’‘ManyoftheFathersareunhappy.Someofthemjokeaboutallthis,Father

Peregrine.’‘Iknow.We’llputthisbellinasmalltower,fortheircomfort,anyway.’‘Whatabouttheorgan?’

‘We’llplayitatthefirstservice,tomorrow.’‘But,theMartians—’‘Iknow.Butagain,Isuppose,forourowncomfort,ourownmusic.Later

wemaydiscovertheirs.’TheyaroseveryearlyonSundaymorningandmovedthroughthecoldness

likepalephantoms, rime tinklingon their habits; coveredwith chimes theywere,shakingdownshowersofsilverwater.‘IwonderifitisSundayhereonMars?’musedFatherPeregrine,butseeing

FatherStonewince,hehastenedon.‘ItmightbeTuesdayorThursday–whoknows?Butnomatter.Myidlefancy.It’sSundaytous.Come.’The Fathers walked into the flat, wide area of the ‘church’ and knelt,

shiveringandblue-lipped.FatherPeregrine said a little prayer andput his cold fingers to theorgan

keys.Themusicwentuplikeaflightofprettybirds.Hetouchedthekeyslikeamanmovinghishandsamongtheweedsofawildgarden,startlingupgreatsoaringsofbeautyintothehills.Themusiccalmedtheair.Itsmelledthefreshsmellofmorning.Themusic

driftedintothemountainsandshookdownmineralpowdersinadustyrain.TheFatherswaited.‘Well,FatherPeregrine.’FatherStone eyed the empty skywhere the sun

wasrising,furnace-red.‘Idon’tseeourfriends.’‘Letmetryagain.’FatherPeregrinewasperspiring.HebuiltanarchitectureofBach,stonebyexquisitestone,raisingamusic

cathedralsovastthatitsfarthestchancelswereinNineveh,itsfarthestdomeatStPeter’slefthand.Themusicstayedanddidnotcrashinruinwhenitwasover, but partook of a series ofwhite clouds andwas carried away amongotherlands.Theskywasstillempty.‘They’llcome!’ButFatherPeregrinefeltthepanicinhischest,verysmall,

growing.‘Letuspray.Letusaskthemtocome.Theyreadminds;theyknow.’TheFathersloweredthemselvesyetagain,inrustlingsandwhispers.They

prayed.And to the East, out of the icy mountains of seven o’clock on Sunday

morningorperhapsThursdaymorningormaybeMondaymorningonMars,camethesoftfieryglobes.They hovered and sank and filled the area around the shivering priests.

‘Thank you; oh, thank you, Lord.’ Father Peregrine shut his eyes tight andplayed the music, and when it was done he turned and gazed upon hiswondrouscongregation.Andavoicetouchedhismind,andthevoicesaid:

‘Wehavecomeforalittlewhile.’‘Youmaystay,’saidFatherPeregrine.‘Foralittlewhileonly,’saidthevoicequietly.‘Wehavecometotellyou

certain things.We should have spoken sooner. Butwe had hoped that youmightgoonyourwayifleftalone.’FatherPeregrinestartedtospeak,butthevoicehushedhim.‘We are the Old Ones,’ the voice said, and it entered him like a blue

gaseous flare and burned in the chambers of his head. ‘We are the oldMartians, who left our marble cities and went into the hills, forsaking themateriallifewehadlived.Soverylongagowebecamethesethingsthatwearenow.Onceweweremen,withbodiesand legsandarmssuchasyours.Thelegendhasitthatoneofus,agoodman,discoveredawaytofreeman’ssoul and intellect, to free him of ills and melancholies, of deaths andtransfigurations,ofillhumoursandsenilities,andsowetookonthelookoflightningandbluefireandhavelivedinthewindsandskiesandhillsforeverafterthat,neitherpridefulnorarrogant,neitherrichnorpoor,passionatenorcold.Wehavelivedapartfromthoseweleftbehind,thoseothermenofthisworld, andhowwecame tobehasbeen forgotten, theprocess lost;butweshallneverdie,nordoharm.WehaveputawaythesinsofthebodyandliveinGod’sgrace.Wecovetnootherproperty;wehavenoproperty.Wedonotsteal,norkill,norlust,norhate.Weliveinhappiness.Wecannotreproduce;wedonoteatordrinkormakewar.Allthesensualitiesandchildishnessandsinsofthebodywerestrippedawaywhenourbodieswereputaside.Wehaveleftsinbehind,FatherPeregrine,anditisburnedliketheleavesintheautumnwicker,anditisgonelikethesoiledsnowofanevilwinter,anditisgonelikethesexualflowersofared-and-yellowspring,anditisgonelikethepantingnightsofhottestsummer,andourseasonistemperateandourclimeisrichinthought.’Father Peregrinewas standing now, for the voice touched him at such a

pitch that it almost shookhim fromhis senses. Itwasanecstasyanda firewashingthroughhim.‘Wewishtotellyouthatweappreciateyoubuildingthisplaceforus,but

wehavenoneedofit,foreachofusisatempleuntohimselfandweneednoplacewhereintocleanseourselves.Forgiveusfornotcomingtoyousooner,but we are separate and apart and have talked to no one for ten thousandyears, norhavewe interfered in anywaywith the lifeof thisplanet. It hascomeintoyourmindnowthatwearetheliliesofthefield;wetoilnot,neitherdowespin.Youareright.Andsowesuggest thatyoutakethepartsofthistempleintoyourowncitiesandtherecleansethem.For,restassured,wearehappy,andatpeace.’

TheFatherswereontheirkneesinthevastbluelight,andFatherPeregrinewasdown, too,andtheywereweeping,anditdidnotmatter that their timehadbeenwasted;itdidnotmattertothematall.Theblue spheresmurmured andbegan to rise oncemore, on abreathof

coldair.‘May I’–criedFatherPeregrine,notdaring toask,eyesclosed– ‘may I

comeagain,someday,thatImaylearnfromyou?’Thebluefiresblazed.Theairtrembled.Yes.Somedayhemightcomeagain.Someday.And then theFireBalloonsblewawayandweregone,andhewas likea

child,onhisknees, tearsstreamingfromhiseyes,cryingtohimself. ‘Comeback,comeback!’AndatanymomentGrandfathermightlifthimandcarryhimupstairstohisbedroominalong-goneOhiotown…

Theyfileddownoutofthehillsatsunset.Lookingback,FatherPeregrinesawthebluefiresburning.No,hethought,wecouldn’tbuildachurchforthelikesofyou.You’reBeautyitself.Whatchurchcouldcompetewiththefireworksofthepuresoul?FatherStonemovedinsilencebesidehim.Andatlasthespoke:‘Theway I see it is there’s aTruthon everyplanet.All parts of theBig

Truth.Onacertaindaythey’llallfittogetherlikethepiecesofajigsaw.Thishasbeenashakingexperience. I’llneverdoubtagain,FatherPeregrine.ForthisTruthhereisastrueasEarth’sTruth,andtheyliesidebyside.Andwe’llgoontootherworlds,addingthesumofthepartsoftheTruthuntilonedaythewholeTotalwillstandbeforeuslikethelightofanewday.’‘That’salot,comingfromyou,FatherStone.’‘I’msorrynow,inaway,we’regoingdowntothetowntohandleourown

kind.Thoseblue lightsnow.When theysettledaboutus,and thatvoice…’FatherStoneshivered.FatherPeregrinereachedouttotaketheother’sarm.Theywalkedtogether.‘And you know,’ said Father Stone finally, fixing his eyes on Brother

Mathias,whostrodeaheadwiththeglassspheretenderlycarriedinhisarms,that glass spherewith the blue phosphorous light glowing forever inside it,‘youknow,FatherPeregrine,thatglobethere—’‘Yes?’‘It’sHim.ItisHim,afterall.’FatherPeregrinesmiled,andtheywalkeddownoutofthehillstowardsthe

newtown.

FEBRUARY2003

Interim

Theybrought in fifteen thousand lumber feetofOregonpine tobuildTenthCity, and seventy-nine thousand feet of California redwood, and theyhammered togetheraclean,neat little townby theedgeof thestonecanals.OnSundaynightsyoucouldseered,blue,andgreenstained-glasslightinthechurchesandhearthevoicessingingthenumberedhymns.‘Wewillnowsing79.Wewillnowsing94.’Andincertainhousesyouheardthehardclatterofatypewriter,thenovelistatwork;orthescratchofapen,thepoetatwork;ornosoundatall,theformerbeachcomberatwork.Itwasasif,inmanyways,agreatearthquakehadshakenloosetherootsandcellarsofanIowatown,andthen,inaninstant,awhirlwindtwisterofOz-likeproportionshadcarriedtheentiretownofftoMarstosetitdownwithoutabump…

APRIL2003

TheMusicians

TheboyswouldhikefaroutintotheMartiancountry.Theycarriedodorouspaperbagsintowhichfromtimetotimeuponthelongwalktheywouldinserttheirnosestoinhaletherichsmellofthehamandmayonnaisedpickles,andto listen to the liquid gurgle of the orange-soda in the warming bottles.Swinging their grocery bags full of cleanwatery green onions and odorousliverwurstandredcatsupandwhitebread,theywoulddareeachotheronpastthelimitssetbytheirsternmothers.Theywouldrun,yelling:‘Firstonetheregetstokick!’Theyhikedinsummer,autumn,orwinter.Autumnwasmostfun,because

then they imagined, like on Earth, they were scuttering through autumnleaves.Theywouldcomelikeascatterofjackstonesonthemarbleflatsbesidethe

canals, the candy-cheeked boyswith blue-agate eyes, panting onion-taintedcommandstoeachother.Fornowthattheyhadreachedthedead,forbiddentownitwasnolongeramatterof‘Lastonethere’sagirl!’or‘FirstonegetstoplayMusician!’Nowthedead town’sdoors laywideand they thought theycouldhearthefaintestcrackle, likeautumnleaves,frominside.Theywouldhush themselves forward, by each other’s elbows, carrying sticks,rememberingtheirparentshadtoldthem,‘Notthere!No,tononeoftheoldtowns!Watchwhereyouhike.You’llget thebeatingofyour lifewhenyoucomehome.We’llcheckyourshoes!’Andtheretheystoodinthedeadcity,aheapofboys,theirhikinglunches

halfdevoured,daringeachotherinshriekywhispers.‘Heregoesnothing!’Andsuddenlyoneof themtookoff, into thenearest

stonehouse,throughthedoor,acrosstheliving-room,andintothebedroom,where, without half looking, he would kick about, thrash his feet, and theblackleaveswouldflythroughtheair,brittle,thinastissuecutfrommidnightsky.Behindhimwouldracesixothers,and thefirstboy therewouldbe theMusician,playing thewhitexylophonebonesbeneath theouter coveringofblackflakes.Agreatskullwouldrolltoview,likeasnowball;theyshouted!Ribs, like spider legs, plangent as a dull harp, and then the black flakes ofmortalityblowingallaboutthemintheirscufflingdance;theboyspushedand

heavedandfell intheleaves, inthedeaththathadturnedthedeadtoflakesanddryness,intoagameplayedbyboyswhosestomachsgurgledwithorangepop.Andthenoutofonehouseintoanother,intoseventeenhouses,mindfulthat

each of the towns in its turn was being burned clean of its horrors by theFiremen, antiseptic warriors with shovels and bins, shovelling away at theebonytattersandpeppermint-stickbones,slowlybutassuredlyseparatingtheterriblefromthenormal;sotheymustplayveryhard,theseboys,theFiremenwouldsoonbehere!Then, luminouswithsweat, theygnashedat their lastsandwiches.Witha

final kick, a final marimba concert, a final autumnal lunge through leaf-stacks,theywenthome.Their mothers examined their shoes for black flakelets which, when

discovered,resultedinscaldingbathsandfatherlybeatings.By the year’s end the Firemen had raked the autumn leaves and white

xylophonesaway,anditwasnomorefun.

JUNE2003

WayupintheMiddleoftheAir

‘Didyouhearaboutit?’‘Aboutwhat?’‘Theniggers,theniggers!’‘Whatabout’em?’‘Themleaving,pullingout,goingaway;didyouhear?’‘Whatdoyoumean,pullingout?Howcantheydothat?’‘Theycan,theywill,theyare.’‘Justacouple?’‘EverysingleonehereintheSouth!’‘No.’‘Yes!’‘Igottoseethat.Idon’tbelieveit.Wheretheygoing–Africa?’Asilence.‘Mars.’‘YoumeantheplanetMars?’‘That’sright.’Themen stoodup in thehot shadeof thehardwareporch.Someonequit

lightingapipe.Somebodyelsespatoutintothehotdustofnoon.‘Theycan’tleave,theycan’tdothat.’‘They’redoingit,anyways.’‘Where’dyouhearthis?’‘It’severywhere,ontheradioaminuteago,justcomethrough.’Likeaseriesofdustystatues,themencametolife.SamuelTeece,thehardwareproprietor,laugheduneasily.‘Iwonderedwhat

happened toSilly. I sent himonmybike anhour ago.He ain’t comebackfromMrsBordman’syet.YouthinkthatblackfooljustpedalledofftoMars?’Themensnorted.‘All I say is, hebetterbringbackmybike. I don’t take stealing fromno

one,byGod.’‘Listen!’Themencollidedirritablywitheachother,turning.Farupthestreettheleveeseemedtohavebroken.Theblack,warmwaters

descended and engulfed the town. Between the blazingwhite banks of thetown stores, among the tree silences, a black tide flowed. Like a kind ofsummermolasses, itpoured turgidly forthupon thecinnamon-dusty road. Itsurgedslow,slow,anditwasmenandwomenandhorsesandbarkingdogs,anditwaslittleboysandgirls.Andfromthemouthsofthepeoplepartakingofthistidecamethesoundofariver.Asummer-dayrivergoingsomewhere,murmuringandirrevocable.Andinthatslow,steadychannelofdarknessthatcut across thewhite glare of daywere touches of alertwhite, the eyes, theivory eyes staring ahead, glancing aside, as the river, the long and endlessriver, took itself from old channels into a new one. From various anduncountabletributaries,increeksandbrooksofcolourandmotion,thepartsof this river had joined, become one mother current, and flowed on. Andbrimming the swell were things carried by the river: grandfather clockschiming, kitchen clocks ticking, caged hens screaming, babieswailing; andswimming among the thickened eddies were mules and; cats, and suddenexcursionsofburstmattressspringsfloatingby,insanehairstuffingstickingout,andboxesandcratesandpicturesofdarkgrandfathers inoak frames–theriverflowingitonwhilethemensatlikenervoushoundsonthehardwareporch,toolatetomendthelevee,theirhandsempty.Samuel Teece wouldn’t believe it. ‘Why, hell, where’d they get the

transportation?Howtheygoin’togettoMars?’‘Rockets,’saidGrandpaQuartermain.‘Allthedamn-foolthings.Where’dtheygetrockets?’‘Savedtheirmoneyandbuiltthem.’‘Ineverheardaboutit.’‘Seemstheseniggerskept itsecret,workedontherocketsall themselves,

don’tknowwhere–inAfrica,maybe.’‘Could they do that?’ demanded Samuel Teece, pacing about the porch.

‘Ain’ttherealaw?’‘Itain’tasiftheydeclarin’war,’saidGrandpaquietly.‘Wheredotheygetoff,Goddamnit,workin’insecret,plottin’?’shouted

Teece.‘Scheduleisforallthistown’sniggerstogatheroutbyLoonLake.Rockets

bethereatoneo’clock,pick’emup,take’emtoMars.’‘Telephonethegovernor,calloutthemilitia,’criedTeece.‘Theyshould’ve

givennotice!’‘Herecomesyourwoman,Teece.’Thementurnedagain.As theywatched,down thehot road in thewindless light first onewhite

womanandthenanotherarrived,allofthemwithstunnedfaces,allofthem

rustlinglikeancientpapers.Someofthemwerecrying,somewerestern.Allcame to find their husbands. They pushed through bar-room swing doors,vanishing.Theyenteredcool,quietgroceries.Theywentinatdrug-shopsandgarages.Andoneofthem,MrsClaraTeece,cametostandinthedustbythehardwareporch,blinkingupatherstiffandangryhusbandastheblackriverflowedbehindher.‘It’sLucinda,Pa;yougottocomehome!’‘I’mnotcomin’homefornodamndarkie!’‘She’sleaving.What’llIdowithouther?’‘Fetchforyourself,maybe.Iwon’tgetdownonmykneestostopher.’‘Butshe’slikeafamilymember,’MrsTeecemoaned.‘Don’t shout! I won’t have you blubberin’ in public this way about no

goddamn—’Hiswife’s small sob stoppedhim.Shedabbedathereyes. ‘Ikept telling

her, “Lucinda,” I said, “you stay on and I raise your pay and you get twonightsoffaweek, ifyouwant,”butshejust lookedset!Ineverseenhersoset,andIsaid,“Don’tyouloveme,Lucinda?”andshesaidyes,butshehadtogobecausethat’sthewayitwas,isall.Shecleanedthehouseanddusteditandputluncheononthetableandthenshewenttotheparlourdoorand–andstoodtherewithtwobundles,onebyeachfoot,andshookmyhandandsaid,“Good-bye, Mrs Teece.” And she went out the door. And there was herluncheononthetable,andallofustooupsettoeveneatit.It’sstilltherenow,Iknow;lasttimeIlookeditwasgettingcold.’Teecealmoststruckher.‘Goddamnit,MrsTeece,yougetthehellhome.

Standin’theremakin’asightofyourself!’‘But,Pa…’Hestrodeawayintothehotdimnessofthestore.Hecamebackoutafew

secondslaterwithasilverpistolinhishand.Hiswifewasgone.Theriverflowedblackbetweenthebuildings,witharustleandacreakand

aconstantwhisperingshuffle.Itwasaveryquietthing,withagreatcertaintytoit;nolaughter,nowildness,justasteady,decided,andceaselessflow.Teece sat on the edge of his hardwood chair. ‘If one of ’em somuch as

laughs,byChrist,I’llkill’em.’Themenwaited.Theriverpassedquietlyinthedreamlandnoon.‘Looks like you goin’ to have to hoe your own turnips, Sam,’ Grandpa

chuckled.‘I’mnotbadatshootin’whitefolksneither.’Teecedidn’tlookatGrandpa.

Grandpaturnedhisheadawayandshutuphismouth.’

‘Hold on there!’ Samuel Teece leaped off the porch. He reached up andseized the reins of a horse ridden by a tall Negroman. ‘You Belter, comedownoffthere!’‘Yes,sir.’Beltersliddown.Teecelookedhimover.‘Now,justwhatyouthinkyou’redoin’?’‘Well,MrTeece…’‘I reckonyou thinkyou’regoin’, just like that song–what’s thewords?

“Wayupinthemiddleoftheair”;ain’tthatit?’‘Yes,sir.’TheNegrowaited.‘Yourecollectyouowemefiftydollars,Belter?’‘Yes,sir.’‘Youtryin’tosneakout?ByGod,I’llhorse-whipyou!’‘Alltheexcitement,anditslippedmymind,sir.’‘Itslippedhismind.’Teecegaveaviciouswinkathismenonthehardware

porch.‘Goddamnmister,youknowwhatyou’regoin’todo?’‘No,sir.’‘You’restayin’heretoworkoutthatfiftybucks,ormynameain’tSamuel

W.Teece.’Heturnedagaintosmileconfidentlyatthemenintheshade.Belter looked at the river going along the street, that dark river flowing

betweentheships,thedarkriveronwheelsandhorsesandindustyshoes,thedark river from which he had been snatched on his journey. He began toshiver.‘Letmego,MrTeece.I’llsendyourmoneyfromupthere,Ipromise!’‘Listen, Belter.’ Teece grasped the man’s braces like two harp-strings,

playing them now and again, contemptuously, snorting at the sky, pointingonebonyfingerstraightatGod.‘Belter,youknowanythingaboutwhat’supthere?’‘Whattheytellsme.’‘What they tellshim!Christ!Hear that?What they tellshim!’He swung

theman’sweightbyhisbraces, idly,ever socasual, flickinga finger in theblack face. ‘Belter, you fly up and up like a July Fourth rocket and bang!Thereyouare,cinders,spreadalloverspace.Themcrackpotscientists,theydon’tknownothin’,theykillyoualloff!’‘Idon’tcare.’‘Glad to hear that. Because you know what’s up on that planet Mars?

There’smonsterswithbigraweyeslikemushrooms!Youseenthempictureson those futuremagazines you buy at the drug-store for a dime, ain’t you?Well!Themmonstersjumpupandsuckmarrowfromyourbones!’‘Idon’tcare,don’tcareatall,don’tcare.’Belterwatchedtheparadeslide

by,leavinghim.Sweatlayonhisdarkbrow.Heseemedabouttocollapse.‘And it’s cold up there; no air, you fall down, jerk like a fish, gaspin’,

dyin’,stranglin’,stranglin’anddyin’.Youlikethat?’‘LotsofthingsIdon’tlike,sir.Please,sir,letmego.I’mlate.’‘I’llletyougowhenI’mreadytoletyougo.We’lljusttalkherepoliteand

untilIsayyoucanleave,andyouknowitdamnwell.Youwanttotravel,doyou?Well,MisterWayupintheMiddleoftheAir,yougetthehellhomeandworkoutthatfiftybucksyouoweme!Takeyoutwomonthstodothat!’‘ButifIworkitout,I’llmisstherocket,sir!’‘Ain’tthatashamenow?’Teecetriedtolooksad.‘Igiveyoumyhorse,sir.’‘Horse ain’t legal tender. You don’t move until I get my money.’ Teece

laughedinside.Hefeltverywarmandgood.Asmallcrowdofdarkpeoplehadgatheredtohearallthis.NowasBelter

stood,headdown,trembling,anoldmansteppedforward.‘Mister?’Teeceflashedhimaquicklook.‘Well?’‘Howmuchthismanoweyou,mister?’‘Noneofyourdamnbusiness!’TheoldmanlookedatBelter.‘Howmuch,son?’‘Fiftydollars.’The oldman 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 forargument.’‘Here,now!’criedTeece,stiffeningup,tall,tall.Themoneyappeared.Theoldmanfingereditintohishatandgavethehat

toBelter.‘Son,’hesaid,‘youain’tmissin’norocket.’Beltersmiledintothehat.‘No,sir,IguessIain’t.’Teeceshouted:‘Yougivethatmoneybacktothem!’Belterbowedrespectfully,handingthemoneyover,andwhenTeecewould

not touch itheset itdownin thedustatTeece’s feet. ‘There’syourmoney,sir,’he said. ‘Thankyoukindly.’Smiling,hegained the saddleofhishorseandwhippedhishorsealong,thankingtheoldman,whorodewithhimnowuntiltheywereoutofsightandhearing.‘Sonofabitch,’whisperedTeece,staringblindatthesun.‘Sonofabitch.’‘Pickupthemoney,Samuel,’saidsomeonefromtheporch.Itwashappeningallalongtheway.Littlewhiteboys,barefoot,dashedup

withthenews.‘Themthathashelpsthemthathasn’t!Andthatwaytheyallget free! Seen a rich man give a poor man two hundred bucks to pay offsome’un!Seensome’unelsegivesome’unelsetenbucks,fivebucks,sixteen,lotsofthat,allover,everybody!’Thewhitemensatwithsourwaterintheirmouths.Theireyeswerealmost

puffed shut, as if theyhadbeen struck in their facesbywindand sandandheat.TheragewasinSamuelTeece.Heclimbedupontheporchandglaredat

thepassingswarms.Hewavedhisgun.Andafterawhilewhenhehadtodosomething, hebegan to shout at anyone, anyNegrowho lookedup at him.‘Bang! There’s another rocket out in space!’ he shouted so all could hear.‘Bang!ByGod!’The dark heads didn’t flicker or pretend to hear but theireyes slid swiftly over and back. ‘Crash! All of them rockets fallin’!Screamin’,dyin’!Bang!GodAlmighty,I’mgladI’m righthereonold terrafirma.Astheysaysinthatoldjoke,themorefirma,thelessterra!Ha,ha!’Horses clopped along, shuffling up dust. Wagons bumbled on ruined

springs.‘Bang!’Hisvoicewaslonelyintheheat,tryingtoterrifythedustandthe

blazingsunsky.‘Wham!Niggersalloverspace!Jerkedoutarocketslikesomanyminnowshitbyameteor,byGod!Spacefullameteors.Youknowthat?Sure! Thick as buckshot; powie! Shoot down them tin-can rockets like somanyducks,somanyclaypipes!Olesardine-cansfullofblackcod!Bangin’like a stringa lady-fingers, bang, bang, bang! Ten thousand dead here, tenthousandthere.Floatin’inspace,aroundandaroundearth,everandever,coldandwayout,Lord!Youhearthat,youthere!’Silence. The river was broad and continuous. Having entered all cotton

shacks during the hour, having flooded all the valuables out, it was nowcarrying the clocks and the washboards, the silk bolts and curtain rods ondowntosomedistantblacksea.High tidepassed. Itwas twoo’clock.Lowtidecame.Soon the riverwas

driedup, the townsilent, thedustsettlinginafilmonthestores, theseatedmen,thetallhottrees.Silence.Themenontheporchlistened.Hearing nothing, they extended their thoughts and their imaginations out

andoutintothesurroundingmeadows.Intheearlymorningthelandhadbeenfilled with its usual concoctions of sounds. Here and there, with stubbornpersistence to custom, there had been voices singing, the honey laughterunder themimosabranches, thepiccaninniesrushinginclearwater laughterat the creek, movements and bendings in the fields, jokes and shouts ofamusementfromtheshingleshackscoveredwithfreshgreenvine.Nowitwasasifagreatwindhadwashedthelandcleanofsounds.There

wasnothing.Skeletondoorshungopenonleatherhinges.Rubber-tyreswingshunginthesilentair,uninhibited.Thewashingrocksattheriverwereempty,and the water-melon patches, if any, were left alone to heat their hidden

liquorsinthesun.Spidersstartedbuildingnewwebsinabandonedhuts;duststarted to sift in fromunpatched roofs in golden spicules.Here and there afire,forgotteninthelastrush,lingeredandinasuddenaccessofstrengthfeduponthedrybonesofsomelitteredshack.Thesoundofagentlefeedingburnwentupthroughthesilencedair.Themensatonthehardwareporch,notblinkingorswallowing.‘Ican’tfigurewhytheyleftnow.Withthingslookin’up.Imean,everyday

theygotmorerights.Whattheywant,anyway?Here’sthepolltaxgone,andmoreandmorestatespassin’anti-lynchin’bills,andallkindsofequalrights.Whatmoretheywant?Theymakealmostasgoodmoneyasawhiteman,buttheretheygo.’Fardowntheemptystreetabicyclecame.‘I’llbegod-damned,Teece,herecomesyourSillynow.’Thebicyclepulledupbeforetheporch,aseventeen-year-oldcolouredboy

onit,allarmsandfeetandlonglegsandroundwater-melonhead.HelookedupatSamuelTeeceandsmiled.‘Soyougotaguiltyconscienceandcameback,’saidTeece.‘No,sir,Ijustbroughtthebicycle.’‘What’swrong,couldn’tgetitontherocket?’‘Thatwasn’tit,sir.’‘Don’ttellmewhatitwas!Getoff,you’renotgoin’tostealmyproperty!’

Hegave theboyapush.Thebicycle fell. ‘Get insideandstartcleaning thebrass.’‘Begpardon?’Theboy’seyeswidened.‘YouheardwhatIsaid.There’sgunsneedunpackingthere,andacrateof

nailsjustcomefromNatchez—’‘MrTeece.’‘Andaboxofhammersneedfixin’—’‘MrTeece,sir?’‘Youstillstandin’there!’Teeceglared.‘MrTeece,youdon’tmindItakethedayoff,’hesaidapologetically.‘Andtomorrowandthedayaftertomorrowandthedayafterthedayafter

that,’saidTeece.‘I’mafraidso,sir.’‘You should be afraid, boy. Come here.’ Hemarched the boy across the

porchanddrewapaperoutofadesk.‘Rememberthis?’‘Sir?’‘It’syourworkin’paper.Yousignedit,there’syourXrightthere,ain’tit?

Answerme.’‘Ididn’tsignthat,MrTeece.’Theboytrembled.‘AnyonecanmakeanX.’

‘Listen to this,. Silly. Contract: “I will work for Mr Samuel Teece twoyears,startingJuly15,2001,andifintendingtoleavewillgivefourweeks’notice and continue working until my position is filled.” There.’ Teeceslapped the paper, his eyes glittering. ‘You cause trouble, we’ll take it tocourt.’‘Ican’tdo that,’wailed theboy, tears starting to rolldownhis face. ‘If I

don’tgotoday,Idon’tgo.’‘Iknowjusthowyoufeel,Silly;yes,sir,Isympathizewithyou,boy.But

we’ll treatyougoodandgiveyougood food,boy.Nowyou justget insideandstartworkingandforgetallabout thatnonsense,eh,Silly?Sure.’Teecegrinnedandpattedtheboy’sshoulder.Theboy turnedand lookedat theoldmensittingon theporch.Hecould

hardlyseenowforhistears.‘Maybe–maybeoneofthesegentlemenhere…’Themenlookedupin thehot,uneasyshadows, lookingfirstat theboyandthenatTeece.‘Youmeanin’tosayyouthinkawhiteman should takeyourplace,boy?’

askedTeececoldly.GrandpaQuartermaintookhisredhandsoffhisknees.Helookedoutatthe

horizonthoughtfullyandsaid,‘Teece,whataboutme?’‘What?’‘I’lltakeSilly’sjob.’Theporchwassilent.Teecebalancedhimselfintheair.‘Grandpa,’hesaidwarningly.‘Lettheboygo.I’llcleanthebrass.’‘Wouldyou,wouldyou,really?’SillyranovertoGrandpa,laughing,tears

onhischeeks,unbelieving.‘Sure.’‘Grandpa,’saidTeece,‘keepyourdamntrapoutathis.’‘Givethekidabreak,Teece.’Teecewalkedoverandseizedtheboy’sarm.‘He’smine.I’mlockin’himin

thebackroomuntiltonight.’‘Don’t,MrTeece!’Theboybegantosobnow.Hiscryingfilledtheairoftheporch.Hiseyes

were tight. Far down the street an old tin Ford was choking along,approaching,alastloadofcolouredpeopleinit.‘Herecomesmyfamily,MrTeece,ohplease,ohGod,please!’‘Teece,’saidoneoftheothermenontheporch,gettingup,‘lethimgo.’Anothermanrosealso.‘Thatgoesformetoo.’‘Andme,’saidanother.‘What’stheuse?’Themenalltalkednow.‘Cutitout,Teece.’

‘Lethimgo.’Teecefelt forhisgun inhispocket.Hesawthemen’s faces.He tookhis

handawayandlefttheguninhispocketandsaid,‘Sothat’showitis?’‘That’showitis,’someonesaid.Teece let theboygo. ‘All right.Getout.’He jerkedhishandback in the

store. ‘But I hope you don’t think you’re gonna leave any trash behind tocluttermystore.’‘No,sir!’‘Youcleaneverythingoutayourshedinback;burnit.’Sillyshookhishead.‘I’lltakeitwith.’‘Theywon’tletyouputitonthatdamnrocket.’‘I’lltakeitwith,’insistedtheboysoftly.He rushed back through the hardware store. There were sounds of

sweepingandcleaningout,andamomentlaterheappeared,hishandsfulloftops andmarbles and old dusty kites and junk collected through the years.Just then the old tin Ford drove up and Silly climbed in and the doorslammed.Teecestoodontheporchwithabittersmile.‘Whatyougoin’todoupthere?’‘Startin’new,’saidSilly.‘Gonnahavemyownhardware.’‘Goddamnit,youbeenlearnin’mytradesoyoucouldrunoffanduseit!’‘No,sir,Ineverthoughtonedaythis’dhappen,sir,butitdid.Ican’thelpit

ifIlearned,MrTeece.’‘Isupposeyougotnamesforyourrockets?’Theylookedattheironeclockonthedashboardofthecar.‘Yes,sir.’‘LikeElijahandtheChariot,TheBigWheelandTheLittleWheel,Faith,

HopeandCharity,eh?’‘Wegotnamesfortheships,MrTeece.’‘God theSonand theHolyGhost, Iwouldn’twonder?Say,boy,yougot

onenamedtheFirstBaptistchurch?’‘Wegottoleavenow,MrTeece.’Teecelaughed.‘YougotonenamedSwingLow,andanothernamedSweet

Chariot?’Thecarstartedup.‘Good-bye,MrTeece.’‘YougotonenamedRollDemBones?’‘Good-bye,mister!’‘AndanothercalledOverJordan!Ha!Well, tote that rocket,boy, lift that

rocket,boy,goon,getblownup,seeifIcare!’Thecarchurnedoffintothedust.Theboyroseandcuppedhishandstohis

mouth and shouted one last time atTeece: ‘MrTeece,MrTeece,what you

goin’todonightsfromnowon?Whatyougoin’todonights,MrTeece?’Silence.The car fadeddown the road. Itwas gone. ‘What in hell did he

mean?’musedTeece.‘WhatamIgoin’todonights?’Hewatchedthedustsettle,anditsuddenlycametohim.Herememberednightswhenmendrovetohishouse, theirkneessticking

upsharpandtheirshot-gunsstickingupsharper,likeaearfulofcranesunderthe night trees of summer, their eyes mean. Honking the horn and himslamminghis door, a gun in his hand, laughing to himself, his heart racinglikeaten-year-old’s,drivingoffdownthesummer-nightroad,aringofhempropecoiledonthecarfloor,freshshell-boxesmakingeveryman’scoatlookbunchy. How many nights over the years, how many nights of the windrushing in thecar, flopping theirhairover theirmeaneyes, roaring,as theypickedatree,agoodstrongtree,andrappedonashantydoor!‘So that’s what the son of a bitch meant?’ Teece leaped out into the

sunlight.‘Comeback,youbastard!WhatamIgoin’todonights?Why,thatlousy,insolentsonofa…’Itwasagoodquestion.Hesickenedandwasempty.Yes.Whatwillwedo

nights? he thought.Now they’re gone,what?Hewas absolutely empty andnumb.Hepulledthepistolfromhispocket,checkeditsload.‘Whatyougoin’todo,Sam?’someoneasked.‘Killthatsonofabitch.’Grandpasaid,‘Don’tgetyourselfheated.’ButSamuelTeecewasgone aroundbehind the store.Amoment later he

droveoutofthedriveinhisopen-topcar.‘Anyonecomin’withme?’‘I’dlikeadrive,’saidGrandpa,andgotup.‘Anyoneelse?’Nobodyreplied.Grandpagotinandslammedthedoor.SamuelTeeceguttedthecaroutina

greatwhorlofdust.Theydidn’tspeakastheyrusheddowntheroadunderthebrightsky.Theheatfromthedrymeadowswasshimmering.Theystoppedatacrossroad.‘Whichway’dtheygo,Grandpa?’Grandpasquinted.‘Straightonahead,Ifigure.’Theywenton.Underthesummertreestheircarmadealonelysound.The

road was empty, and as they drove along they began to notice something.Teeceslowedthecarandbentout,hisyelloweyesfierce.‘Goddamnit,Grandpa,youseewhatthembastardsdid?’‘What?’askedGrandpa,andlooked.Wheretheyhadbeencarefullysetdownandleft,inneatbundleseveryfew

feetalongtheemptycountryroad,wereoldrollerskates,abandannafullof

knick-knacks, some old shoes, a cartwheel, stacks of pants and coats andancienthats,bitsoforientalcrystalthathadoncetinkledinthewind,tincansof pink geraniums, dishes of waxed fruit, cartons of Confederate money,washtubs, scrub-boards, wash-lines, soap, somebody’s tricycle, someoneelse’shedge shears, a toywagon, a jack-in-the-box, a stained-glasswindowfrom the Negro Baptist Church, a whole set of brake-rims, inner tubes,mattresses,couches,rocking-chairs,jarsofcoldcream,handmirrors.Noneofitflungdown,no,butdepositedgentlyandwithfeeling,withdecorum,uponthedusty edgesof the road, as if awhole cityhadwalkedherewithhandsfull,atwhichtimeagreatbronzetrumpethadsounded,thearticleshadbeenrelinquishedtothequietdust,andoneandall,theinhabitantsoftheearthhadfledstraightupintotheblueheavens.‘Wouldn’t burn them, they said,’ criedTeece angrily. ‘No,wouldn’t burn

themlikeIsaid,buthadtotakethemalongandleavethemwheretheycouldseethemforthelasttime,ontheroad,alltogetherandwhole.Themniggersthinkthey’resmart.’He veered the car wildly, mile after mile, down the road, tumbling,

smashing,breaking,scatteringbundlesofpaper,jewelboxes,mirrors,chairs.‘There,bydamn,andthere!’Thefronttyregaveawhistlingcry.Thecarspilledcrazilyofftheroadinto

aditch,flingingTeeceagainsttheglass.‘Son of a bitch!’He dusted himself off and stood out of the car, almost

cryingwithrage.He lookedat the silent, empty road. ‘We’llnevercatch themnow,never,

never.’Asfarashecouldsee therewasnothingbutbundlesandstacksandmorebundlesneatlyplacedlikelittleabandonedshrinesinthelateday,inthewarm-blowingwind.Teece and Grandpa came walking tiredly back to the hardware store an

hour later. Themenwere still sitting there, listening andwatching the sky.JustasTeecesatdownandeasedhistightshoesoffsomeonecried,‘Look!’‘I’llbedamnedifIwill,’saidTeece.But theothers looked.Andtheysawthegoldenbobbinsrising in thesky

faraway.Leavingflamebehind,theyvanished.In the cotton-fields the wind blew idly among the snow-clusters. In still

farthermeadows thewater-melons lay, unfingerprinted, striped like tortoisecatslyinginthesun.Themenontheporchsatdown,lookedateachother,lookedattheyellow

ropepiledneatonthestoreshelves,glancedat thegun-shellsglintingshinybrass in their cartons, saw the silver pistols and long blackmetal shotgunshung high and quiet in the shadows. Somebody put a straw in his mouth.

Someoneelsedrewafigureinthedust.Finally SamuelTeece held his empty shoe up in triumph, turned it over,

staredatit,andsaid,‘Didyounotice?Rightuptotheverylast,byGod,hesaid“Mister”!’

2004–05

TheNamingofNames

Theycametothestrangebluelandsandputtheirnamesuponthelands.HerewasHinkstonCreekandLustigCornersandBlackRiverandDriscollForestandPeregrineMountain andWilderTown, all the names of people and thethingsthatthepeopledid.HerewastheplacewhereMartianskilledthefirstEarthMen,anditwasRedTownandhadtodowithblood.Andherewherethesecondexpeditionwasdestroyed,anditwasnamedSecondTry,andeachoftheotherplaceswheretherocketmenhadsetdowntheirfierycauldronstoburn the land, the nameswere left like cinders, and of course there was aSpenderHillandNathanielYorkTown…TheoldMartiannameswerenamesofwaterandairandhills.Theywere

thenamesofsnowsthatemptiedsouthinstonecanalstofilltheemptyseas.Andthenamesofsealedandburiedsorcerersandtowersandobelisks.Andtherocketsstruckatthenameslikehammers,breakingawaythemarbleintoshale, shattering the crockery milestones that named the old towns, in therubble of which great pylons were plunged with new names: IRON TOWN,STEEL TOWN, ALUMINIUM CITY, ELECTRIC VILLAGE, CORN TOWN, GRAINVILLA,DETROITII,allthemechanicalnamesandthemetalnamesfromEarth.Andafter the townswerebuiltandnamed, thegraveyardswerebuiltand

namedtoo:GreenHill,MossTown,BootHill,BideaWee;andthefirstdeadwentintotheirgraves…

AUGUST2005

TheOldOnes

And what more natural than that, at last, the old people come to Mars,followinginthetrailleftbytheloudfrontiersmen,thearomaticsophisticates,andtheprofessionaltravellersandromanticlecturersinsearchofnewgrist.And so the dry and crackling people, the people who spent their time

listeningtotheirheartsandfeelingtheirpulsesandspooningsyrupsintotheirwry mouths, these people who had once taken chair cars to California inNovemberandthird-classsteamerstoItalyinApril,thedried-apricotpeople,themummypeople,cameatlasttoMars…

SEPTEMBER2005

TheMartian

Thebluemountains lifted into the rainand the rain felldown into the longcanalsandoldLaFargeandhiswifecameoutoftheirhousetowatch.‘Firstrainthisseason,’LaFargepointedout.‘It’sgood,’saidhiswife.‘Verywelcome.’They shut the door. Inside, they warmed their hands at a fire. They

shivered.Inthedistance,throughthewindow,theysawraingleamingonthesidesoftherocketwhichhadbroughtthemfromEarth.‘There’sonlyonething,’saidLaFarge,lookingathishands.‘What’sthat?’askedhiswife.‘IwishwecouldhavebroughtTomwithus.’‘Oh,now,Lafe!’‘Iwon’tstartagain;I’msorry.’‘We camehere to enjoy our old age in peace, not to think ofTom.He’s

beendeadsolongnow,weshouldtrytoforgethimandeverythingonEarth.’‘You’re right,’ he said, and turned his hands again to the heat.He gazed

intothefire.‘Iwon’tspeakofitanymore.It’sjustImissdrivingouttoGreenLawnParkeverySundaytoputflowersonhismarker.Itusedtobeouronlyexcursion.’Thebluerainfelluponthehouse.Atnineo’clock theywent tobed and layquietly, hand inhand,he fifty-

five,shesixty,intherainingdarkness.‘Anna?’hecalledsoftly.‘Yes?’shereplied.‘Didyouhearsomething?’Theybothlistenedtotherainandthewind.‘Nothing,’shesaid.‘Someonewhistling,’hesaid.‘No,Ididn’thearit.’‘I’mgoingtoget-upandsee,anyhow.’He put on his robe and walked through the house to the front door.

Hesitating,hepulledthedoorwide,andrainfellcolduponhisface.Thewind

blew.Inthedooryardstoodasmallfigure.Lightningcracked thesky,andawashofwhitecolour illumined theface

lookinginatoldLaFargethereinthedoorway.‘Who’sthere?’calledLaFarge,trembling.Noanswer.‘Whoisit?Whatdoyouwant!’Stillnotaword.Hefeltveryweakandtiredanddumb.‘Whoareyou?’hecried.Hiswifeenteredbehindhimandtookhisarm.‘Whyareyoushouting?’‘A small boy’s standing in the yard and won’t answerme,’ said the old

man,trembling.‘HelookslikeTom!’‘Cometobed,you’redreaming.’‘Buthe’sthere;seeforyourself.’Hepulled thedoorwider to lethersee.Thecoldwindblewand the thin

rainfelluponthesoilandthefigurestoodlookingatthemwithdistanteyes.Theoldwomanheldtothedoorway.‘Goaway!’shesaid,wavingonehand.‘Goaway!’‘Doesn’titlooklikeTom?’askedtheoldman.Thefiguredidnotmove.‘I’mafraid,’saidtheoldwoman.‘Lockthedoorandcometobed.Iwon’t

haveanythingtodowithit.’Shevanished,moaningtoherself,intothebedroom.Theoldmanstoodwiththewindrainingcoldnessonhishands.‘Tom,’ he called softly. ‘Tom, if that’s you, if by some chance it is you,

Tom,I’llleavethedoorunlatched.Andifyou’recoldandwanttocomeintowarmyourself,justcomeinlaterandliebythehearth;there’resomefurrugsthere.’Heshutbutdidnotlockthedoor.Hiswifefelthimreturntobed,andshuddered.‘It’saterriblenight.Ifeel

soold,’shesaid,sobbing.‘Hush,hush,’hegentledher,andheldherinhisarms.‘Gotosleep.’Afteralongwhilesheslept.Andthen,veryquietly,ashelistened,heheardthefrontdooropen,therain

andwindcomein,thedoorshut.Heheardsoftfootstepsonthehearthandagentlebreathing.‘Tom,’hesaidtohimself.Lightningstruckintheskyandbroketheblacknessapart.

Inthemorningthesunwasveryhot.MrLaFarge opened the door into the living-room and glanced all about,

quickly.Thehearthrugswereempty.LaFargesighed.‘I’mgettingold,’hesaid.Hewentouttowalktothecanaltofetchabucketofclearwatertowashin.

At the frontdoorhealmostknockedyoungTomdowncarrying inabucketalreadyfilledtothebrim.‘Goodmorning,Father!’‘Morning, Tom.’ The old man fell aside. The young boy, barefooted,

hurriedacrosstheroom,setthebucketdown,andturned,smiling.‘It’safineday!’‘Yes,itis,’saidtheoldmanincredulously.Theboyactedasifnothingwas

unusual.Hebegantowashhisfacewiththewater.Theoldmanmovedforward.‘Tom,howdidyougethere?You’realive?’‘Shouldn’tIbe?’Theboyglancedup.‘But,Tom,GreenLawnPark,everySunday, theflowersand…’LaFarge

hadtositdown.Theboycameandstoodbeforehimandtookhishand.Theoldmanfeltthefingers,warmandfirm.‘You’rereallyhere,it’snotadream?’‘Youdowantmetobehere,don’tyou?’Theboyseemedworried.‘Yes,yes,Tom!’‘Thenwhyaskquestions?Acceptme!’‘Butyourmother;theshock…’‘Don’tworryabouther.DuringthenightIsangtobothofyou,andyou’ll

acceptmemorebecauseofit,especiallyher.Iknowwhattheshockis.Waittill she comes, you’ll see.’He laughed, shakinghisheadof coppery, curledhair.Hiseyeswereveryblueandclear.‘Goodmorning,Lafe,Tom.’Mothercame from thebedroom,puttingher

hairupintoabun.‘Isn’titafineday?’Tomturnedtolaughinhisfathersface.‘Yousee?’Theyateaverygoodlunch,allthreeofthemintheshadebehindthehouse.

MrsLaFargehadfoundanoldbottleofsunflowerwineshehadputaway,andthey all had a drink of that.MrLaFarge had never seen hiswife’s face sobright. If therewasanydoubt inhermindaboutTomshedidn’tvoice it. Itwas a completelynatural thing toher.And itwas alsobecomingnatural toLaFargehimself.WhileMotherclearedthedishesLaFargeleanedtowardshissonandsaid

confidentially,‘Howoldareyounow,Son?’‘Don’tyouknow,Father?Fourteen,ofcourse.’‘Whoareyou,really?Youcan’tbeTom,butyouaresomeone.Who?’‘Don’t.’Startled,theboyputhishandstohisface.‘You can tell me,’ said the old man. ‘I’ll understand. You’re aMartian,

aren’t you? I’ve heard tales of theMartians; nothingdefinite. Stories about

how rareMartians are andwhen they come among us they come as EarthMen.There’ssomethingaboutyou–you’reTomandyetyou’renot.’‘Why can’t you accept me and stop talking?’ cried the boy. His hands

completelyshieldedhisface.Don’tdoubt,pleasedon’tdoubtme!’Heturnedandranfromthetable.‘Tom,comeback!’Buttheboyranoffalongthecanaltowardsthedistanttown.‘Where’sTomgoing!’askedAnna,returningformoredishes.She looked

atherhusband’sface.‘Didyousaysomethingtobotherhim?’‘Anna,’hesaid,takingherhand.‘Anna,doyourememberanythingabout

GreenLawnPark,amarket,andTomhavingpneumonia?’‘Whatareyoutalkingabout?’Shelaughed.‘Nevermind,’hesaidquietly.InthedistancethedustdrifteddownafterTomhadrunalongthecanalrim.

Atfiveintheafternoon,withthesunset,Tomreturned.Helookeddoubtfullyathisfather.‘Areyougoingtoaskmeanything?’hewantedtoknow.‘Noquestions,’saidLaFarge.Theboysmiledhiswhitesmile.‘Swell.’‘Where’veyoubeen?’‘Nearthetown.Ialmostdidn’tcomeback.Iwasalmost’–theboysought

foraword–‘trapped.’‘Howdoyoumean,“trapped”?’‘I passed a small tin house by the canal and I was almost made so I

couldn’tcomebackhereeveragaintoseeyou.Idon’tknowhowtoexplainittoyou,there’snoway,Ican’ttellyou,evenIdon’tknow;it’sstrange,Idon’twanttotalkaboutit.’‘Wewon’tthen.Betterwashup,boy.Supper-time.’Theboyran.Perhaps ten minutes later a boat floated down the serene surface of the

canal,atall,lankmanwithblackhairpolingitalongwithleisurelydrivesofhisarms.‘Evening,BrotherLaFarge,’hesaid,pausingathistask.‘Evening,Saul.What’stheword?’‘All kinds ofwords tonight.You know that fellownamedNomlandwho

livesdownthecanalinthetinhut?’LaFargestiffened.‘Yes?’‘Youknowwhatsortofrascalhewas?’‘RumourhaditheleftEarthbecausehekilledaman.’Saulleanedonhiswetpole,gazingatLaFarge.‘Rememberthenameofthe

manhekilled?’

‘Gillings,wasn’tit?’‘Right.Gillings.Well,abouttwohoursagoMrNomlandcamerunningto

towncryingabouthowhehadseenGillings,alive,hereonMars,today,thisafternoon!Hetriedtogetthejail tolockhimupsafe.Thejailwouldn’t.SoNomlandwent home, and twentyminutes ago, as I get the story, blew hisbrainsoutwithagun.Ijustcamefromthere.’‘Well,well,’saidLaFarge.‘Thedarnedestthingshappen,’saidSaul.‘Well,goodnight,LaFarge.’‘Goodnight.’Theboatdriftedondowntheserenecanalwaters.‘Supper’shot,’calledtheoldwoman.MrLaFargesatdowntohissupperand,knifeinhand,lookedoveratTom.

‘Tom,’hesaid,‘whatdidyoudothisafternoon?’‘Nothing,’saidTom,hismouthfull.‘Why?’‘Justwantedtoknow.’Theoldmantuckedhisnapkinin.

Atseventhatnighttheoldwomanwantedtogototown.‘Haven’tbeenthereinmonths,’shesaid.ButTomdesisted.‘I’mafraidofthetown,’hesaid.‘Thepeople.Idon’twanttogothere.’‘Such talk foragrownboy,’ saidAnna. ‘Iwon’t listen to it.You’llcome

along.Isayso.’‘Anna,iftheboydoesn’twantto…’startedtheoldman.But therewasnoarguing.Shehustled them into thecanal-boat, and they

floatedupthecanalundertheeveningstars,Tomlyingonhisback,hiseyesclosed; asleep or not, there was no telling. The old man looked at himsteadily,wondering.Whoisthis,hethought,inneedofloveasmuchaswe?Whoisheandwhatishe,that,outofloneliness,hecomesintothealiencampand assumes the voice and face ofmemory and stands among us, acceptedandhappyat last?Fromwhatmountain,what cave,what small last raceofpeopleremainingonthisworldwhentherocketscamefromEarth?Theoldmanshookhishead.Therewasnoway toknow.This, toallpurposes,wasTom.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:PerhapsthisiswrongtokeepTombutalittlewhile,whennothingcancomeofitbuttroubleandsorrow,buthowarewetogiveuptheverythingwe’vewanted, nomatter if it stays only a day and is gone,making the emptinessemptier, the dark nights darker, the rainy nightswetter?Youmight aswellforcethefoodfromourmouthsastakethisonefromus.And he looked at the boy slumbering so peacefully at the bottom of the

boat.Theyboywhimperedwithsomedream.‘Thepeople,’hemurmuredinhissleep.‘Changingandchanging.Thetrap.’‘There,there,boy.’LaFargestrokedtheboy’ssoftcurlsandTomceased.

LaFargehelpedwifeandsonfromtheboat.‘Hereweare!’Annasmiledatallthelights,listeningtothemusicfromthe

drinking-houses, thepianos, thephonographs,watchingpeople,arm inarm,stridingbyinthecrowdedstreets.‘IwishIwashome,’saidTom.‘You never talked that way before,’ said the mother. ‘You always liked

Saturdaynightsintown.’‘Stayclosetome,’whisperedTom.‘Idon’twanttogettrapped.’Annaoverheard.‘Stoptalkingthatway;comealong!’LaFargenoticedthattheboyheldhishand.LaFargesqueezedit.‘I’llstick

with you,Tommy-boy.’He looked at the throngs coming and going, and itworriedhimalso.‘Wewon’tstaylong.’‘Nonsense,we’llspendtheevening,’saidAnna.They crossed a street, and three drunkenmen careened into them.There

wasmuchconfusion,aséparation,awheelingabout,andthenLaFargestoodstunned.Tomwasgone.‘Where is he?’ askedAnna irritably. ‘Him always running off alone any

chancehegets.Tom!’shecalled.MrLaFargehurriedthroughthecrowd,butTomwasgone.‘He’llcomeback;he’llbeattheboatwhenweleave,’saidAnnacertainly,

steering her husband back towards themotion-picture theatre. Therewas asuddencommotioninthecrowd,andamanandawomanrushedbyLaFarge.Herecognizedthem.JoeSpauldingandhiswife.Theyweregonebeforehecouldspeaktothem.Looking back anxiously, he purchased the tickets for the theatre and

allowedhiswifetodrawhimintotheunwelcomedarkness.

Tomwasnotatthelandingateleveno’clock.MrsLaFargeturnedverypale.‘Now,Mother,’saidLaFarge,‘don’tworry.I’llfindhim.Waithere.’‘Hurryback.’Hervoicejadedintotherippleofthewater.He walked through the night streets, hands in pockets. All about, lights

weregoingoutonebyone.Afewpeoplewerestillleaningouttheirwindows,forthenightwaswarm,eventhoughtheskystillheldstorm-cloudsfromtimeto time among the stars. As he walked he recalled the boy’s constantreferencestobeingtrapped,hisfearofcrowdsandcities.Therewasnosense

init,thoughttheoldmantiredly.Perhapstheboywasgoneforever,perhapshe had never been. LaFarge turned in at a particular alley, watching thenumbers.‘Hellothere,LaFarge.’Amansatinhisdoorway,smokingapipe.‘Hello,Mike.’‘Youandyourwomanquarrel?Yououtwalkingitoff?’‘No.Justwalking.’‘You look like you lost something. Speaking of lost things,’ said Mike,

‘somebodygotfoundthisevening.YouknowJoeSpaulding?YourememberhisdaughterLavinia?’‘Yes.’LaFargewascold. Itall seemeda repeateddream.Heknewwhich

wordswouldcomenext.‘Laviniacamehometonight,’saidMike,smoking.‘Yourecall,shewaslost

on thedeadsea-bottomsaboutamonthago?Theyfoundwhat they thoughtwasherbody,badlydeteriorated,andeversincetheSpauldingfamily’sbeennogood.Joewentaroundsayingshewasn’tdead,thatwasn’treallyherbody.Guesshewasright.TonightLaviniashowedup.’‘Where?’LaFargefelthisbreathcomeswiftly,hisheartpounding.‘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 ascene.Shedidn’tknowthemfirstoff.Theyfollowedherhalfdownastreetandspoketoher.Thensheremembered.’‘Didyouseeher?’‘No,butIheardhersinging.Rememberhowsheusedtosing“TheBonnie

BanksofLochLomond”? Iheardher trillingout forher fatherawhileagoover there in their house. Itwas good to hear; her such a beautiful girl.Ashame,Ithought,herdead;andnowwithherbackagainit’sfine.Herenow,youlookweakyourself.Bettercomeinforaspotofwhisky…’‘Thanks, no,Mike.’Theoldmanmoved away.HeheardMike say good

night and did not answer, but fixed his eyes upon the two-storey buildingwhereramblingclustersofcrimsonMartianflowerslayuponthehighcrystalroof. Around back, above the garden, was a twisted iron balcony, and thewindowsabovewerelighted.Itwasverylate,andstillhethoughttohimself:WhatwillhappentoAnnaifIdon’tbringTomhomewithme?Thissecondshock,thisseconddeath,whatwillitdotoher?Willsherememberthefirstdeath,too,andthisdreamandthesuddenvanishing?0 God, I’ve got to find Tom or what will become of Anna? Poor Anna,waitingthereatthelanding.Hepausedandliftedhishead.Somewhereabove,voices bade other soft voices good night, doors turned and shut, lights

dimmed,andagentlesingingcontinued.Amomentlateragirlnomorethaneighteen,verylovely,cameoutuponthebalcony.LaFargecalledupthroughthewindthatwasblowing.Thegirlturnedandlookeddown.‘Who’sthere?’shecried.‘It’sme,’saidtheoldman,andrealizingthisreplytobesillyandstrange,

fell silent, his lipsworking. Should he call out, ‘Tom,my son, this is yourfather?’Howtospeaktoher?Shewouldthinkhimquiteinsaneandsummonherparents.Thegirlbentforwardintheblowinglight.‘Iknowyou,’sherepliedsoftly.

‘Pleasego;there’snothingyoucando.’‘You’vegottocomeback!’ItescapedLaFargebeforehecouldpreventit.Themoonlitfigureabovedrewintoshadow,sotherewasnoidentity,only

avoice.‘I’mnotyoursonanymore,’itsaid.‘Weshouldneverhavecometotown.’‘Anna’swaitingatthelanding!’‘I’msorry,’saidthequietvoice.‘ButwhatcanIdo?I’mhappyhere,I’m

loved,evenasyoulovedme.IamwhatIam,andItakewhatcanbetaken;it’stoolatenow,they’vecaughtme.’‘ButAnna,theshocktoher.Thinkofthat.’‘The thoughts are too strong in this house; it’s like being imprisoned. I

can’tchangemyselfback.’‘YouareTom,youwereTom,weren’tyou?Youaren’tjokingwithanold

man;you’renotreallyLaviniaSpaulding?’‘I’mnotanyone,I’mjustmyself;whereverIam,Iamsomething,andnow

I’msomethingyoucan’thelp.’‘You’renotsafeinthetown.It’sbetteroutonthecanalwherenoonecan

hurtyou,’pleadedtheoldman.‘That’s true.’Thevoicehesitated. ‘But Imustconsider thesepeoplenow.

Howwouldtheyfeelif,inthemorning,Iwasgoneagain,thistimeforgood?Anyway,themotherknowswhatIam;sheguessed,evenasyoudid.Ithinktheyallguessed,butdidn’tquestion.Youdon’tquestionProvidence. Ifyoucan’thavethereality,adreamisjustasgood.PerhapsI’mnottheirdeadoneback, but I’m something almost better to them; an ideal shaped by theirminds.Ihaveachoiceofhurtingthemoryourwife.’‘They’reafamilyoffive.Theycanstandyourlossbetter!’‘Please,’saidthevoice.‘I’mtired.Theoldman’s voice hardened. ‘You’vegot to come. I can’t letAnnabe

hurtagain.You’reourson.You’remyson,andyoubelongtous.’‘No,please!’Theshadowtrembled.‘Youdon’tbelongtothishouseorthesepeople!’

‘No,don’tdothistome!’‘Tom,Tom,Son,listentome.Comeback,slipdownthevines,boy.Come

along,Anna’swaiting;we’llgiveyouagoodhome,everythingyouwant.’Hestaredandstaredupward,willingittobe.Theshadowsdrifted,thevinesrustled.Atlastthequietvoicesaid,‘Allright,Father.’‘Tom!’In the moonlight the quick figure of a boy slid down though the vines.

LaFargeputuphisarmstocatchhim.Theroomlightsaboveflashedon.Avoice issuedfromoneof thegrilled

windows.‘Who’sdownthere?’‘Hurry,boy!’Morelights,morevoices.‘Stop,Ihaveagun!Vinny,areyouallright?’A

runningoffeet.Togethertheoldmanandtheboyranacrossthegarden.Ashotsounded.Thebulletstruckthewallastheyslammedthegate.‘Tom,yougothatway;I’llgohereandleadthemoff!Runtothecanal;I’ll

meetyouthereintenminutes,boy!’Theyparted.Themoonhidbehindacloud.Theoldmanranindarkness.‘Anna,I’mhere!’Theoldwomanhelpedhim,trembling,intotheboat.‘Where’sTom?’‘He’llbehereinaminute,’pantedLaFarge.Theyturnedtowatchthealleysandthesleepingtown.Latestrollerswere

still out: a policeman, a nightwatchman, a rocket pilot, several lonelymencominghomefromsomenocturnalrendezvous,fourmenandwomenissuingfromabar,laughing.Musicplayeddimlysomewhere.‘Whydon’thecome?’askedtheoldwoman,‘He’ll come, he’ll come.’But LaFargewas not certain. Suppose the boy

hadbeencaughtagain,somehow,someway,inhistraveldowntothelanding,runningthroughthemidnightstreetsbetweenthedarkhouses.Itwasalongrun,evenforayoungboy.Butheshouldhavereachedherefirst.Andnow,faraway,alongthemoonlitavenue,afigureran.LaFarge cried out and then silenced himself, for also far away was the

soundofvoicesandrunningfeet.Lightsblazedoninwindowafterwindow.Across theopenplaza leading to the landing, theone figure ran, ItwasnotTom;itwasonlyarunningshapewithafacelikesilvershininginthelightoftheglobesclusteredabouttheplaza,Andasitrushednearer,nearer,itbecamemorefamiliar,untilwhenit reachedthe landing itwasTom!Annaflungupherhands,LaFargehurriedtocastoff.Butalreadyitwastoolate.

For out of the avenue and across the silent plaza now came one man,another,awoman,twoothermen,MrSpaulding,allrunning.Theystopped,bewildered.Theystaredabout,wantingtogobackbecausethiscouldbeonlyanightmare,itwasquiteinsane.Buttheycameonagain,hesitantly,stopping,starting.It was too late. The night, the event, was over. LaFarge twisted the

mooring-ropeinhisfingers.Hewasverycoldandlonely.Thepeopleraisedandputdowntheirfeetinthemoonlight,driftingwithgreatspeed,wide-eyed,untilthecrowd,alltenofthem,haltedatthelanding.Theypeeredwildlyintotheboat.Theycriedout.‘Don’tmove,Lafarge!’Spauldinghadagun.And now it was evident what had happened. Tom flashing through the

moonlit streets, alone, passing people. A policeman seeing the figure dartpast. The policeman pivoting, staring at the face, calling a name, givingpursuit.‘You,stop!’Seeingacriminalface.Allalongtheway,thesamething,men here, women there, night watchmen, rocket pilots. The swift figuremeaningeverythingtothem,allidentities,allpersons,allnames.Howmanydifferentnameshadbeenutteredinthelastfiveminutes?HowmanydifferentfacesshapedoverTom’sface,allwrong?All down the way the pursued and the pursuing the dream and the

dreamers, the quarry and the hounds. All down the way the suddenrevealment, the flash of familiar eyes, the cry of an old, old name, theremembrances of other times, the crowd multiplying. Everyone leapingforwardas, likean image reflected fromten thousandmirrors, ten thousandeyes,therunningdreamcameandwent,adifferentfacetothoseahead,thosebehind,thoseyettobemet,thoseunseen.Andheretheyallarenow,attheboat,wantingthedreamfortheirown,just

aswewant him to beTom, not Lavinia orWilliam orRoger or any other,thoughtLaFarge.Butit’salldonenow.Thethinghasgonetoofar.‘Comeup,allofyou!’Spauldingorderedthem.Tomsteppedupfromtheboat,Spauldingseizedhiswrist.‘You’recoming

homewithme.Iknow.‘Wait,’saidthepoliceman.‘He’smyprisoner.Name’sDexter:wantedfor

murder.’‘No!’awomansobbed.‘It’smyhusband!IguessIknowmyhusband!’Othervoicesobjected.Thecrowdmovedin.MrsLaFargeshieldedTom.‘This ismyson;youhavenoright toaccuse

himofanything.We’regoinghomerightnow!’AsforTom,hewastremblingandshakingviolently.Helookedverysick.

The crowd thickened about him, putting out their wild hands, seizing and

demanding.Tomscreamed.Before their eyeshechanged.HewasTomand Jamesandamannamed

Switchman,anothernamedButterfield;hewasthetownmayorandtheyounggirl Judith and the husbandWilliam and thewifeClarisse.Hewasmeltingwaxshapingtotheirminds.Theyshouted,theypressedforward,pleading.Hescreamed, threwout his hands, his face dissolving to each demand, ‘Tom!’criedLaFarge.‘Alice!’another.‘William!’Theysnatchedhiswrists,whirledhimabout,untilwithonelastshriekofhorrorhefell.Helayonthestones,meltedwaxcooling,hisfaceallfaces,oneeyeblue,

theothergolden,hairthatwasbrown,red,yellow,black,oneeyebrowthick,onethin,onehandlarge,onesmall.Theystoodoverhimandputtheirfingerstotheirmouths.Theybentdown.‘He’sdead,’someonesaidatlast.Itbegantorain.Therainfelluponthepeople,andtheylookedupatthesky.Slowly, and then more quickly, they turned and walked away and then

startedrunning,scatteringfromthescene.Inaminutetheplacewasdesolate.OnlyMrandMrsLaFargeremained,lookingdown,handinhand,terrified.Therainfellupontheupturned,unrecognizableface.Annasaidnothingbutbegantocry.‘Comealonghome,Anna,there’snothingwecando,’saidtheoldman.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 theirhands.Theywenttobedandlaytogether,coldandthin,listeningtotherainreturnedtotheroofabovethem.‘Listen,’saidLaFargeatmidnight.‘Didyouhearsomething?’‘Nothing,nothing.’‘I’llgolookanyway.’Hefumbledacrossthedarkroomandwaitedbytheouterdoorforalong

timebeforeheopenedit.Hepulledthedoorwideandlookedout.Rainpoured from theblack skyupon the emptydooryard, into the canal

andamongthebluemountains.Hewaitedfiveminutesandthensoftly,hishandswet,heshutandbolted

thedoor.

NOVEMBER2005

TheLuggageStore

Itwasaveryremotething,whentheluggage-storeproprietorheardthenewson the night radio, received all theway fromEarth on a light-sound beam.Theproprietorfelthowremoteitwas.TherewasgoingtobeawaronEarth.Hewentouttopeerintothesky.Yes,thereitwas,Earth,intheeveningheavens,followingthesunintothe

hills.Thewordsontheradioandthatgreenstarwereoneandthesame.‘Idon’tbelieveit,’saidtheproprietor.‘It’sbecauseyou’renotthere,’saidFatherPeregrine,whohadstoppedby

topassthetimeofevening.‘Whatdoyoumean,Father?’‘It’slikewhenIwasaboy,’saidFatherPeregrine.‘Weheardaboutwarsin

China.Butweneverbelievedthem.Itwastoofaraway.Andthereweretoomany people dying. It was impossible. Even when we saw the motion-pictureswedidn’tbelieveit.Well,that’showitisnow.EarthisChina.It’ssofarawayit’sunbelievable.It’snothere.Youcan’ttouchit.Youcan’tevenseeit. All you see is a green light. Two billion people living on that light?Unbelievable!War?Wedon’theartheexplosions.’‘Wewill,’said theproprietor. ‘Ikeep thinkingaboutall thosepeople that

weregoingtocometoMarsthisweek.Whatwasit?Ahundredthousandorsocomingupinthenextmonthorso.Whataboutthemifthewarstarts?’‘Iimaginethey’llturnback.They’llbeneededonEarth.’‘Well,’said theproprietor, ‘I’llgetmy luggagedustedoff. Igota feeling

there’llbearushsalehereanytime.’‘DoyouthinkeveryonenowonMarswillgobacktoEarthifthisistheBig

Warwe’veallbeenexpectingforyears?’‘It’s a funny thing,Father,butyes, I thinkwe’llallgoback. Iknow,we

cameupheretogetawayfromthings–politics,theatombomb,war,pressuregroups,prejudice,laws–Iknow.Butit’sstillhomethere.Youwaitandsee.When the firstbombdropsonAmerica thepeopleuphere’ll start thinking.Theyhaven’tbeenherelongenough.Acoupleyearsisall.Ifthey’dbeenherefortyyears,it’dbedifferent,buttheygotrelativesdownthere,andtheirhome

towns.Me,Ican’tbelieveinEarthanymore;Ican’timagineitmuch.ButI’mold.Idon’tcount.Imightstayonhere.’‘Yes,Iguessyou’reright.’Theystoodontheporchwatchingthestars.FinallyFatherPeregrinepulled

somemoneyfromhispocketandhandedittotheproprietor.‘Cometothinkofit,you’dbettergivemeanewvalise.Myoldone’sinprettybadcondition…’

NOVEMBER2005

TheOffSeason

Sam Parkhill motioned with the broom, sweeping away the blue Martiansand.‘Herewe are,’ he said. ‘Yes, sir, look at that!’He pointed. ‘Look at that

sign.SAM’SHOTDOGS!Ain’tthatbeautiful,Elma.’‘Sure,Sam,’saidhiswife.‘Boy,whatachangeforme!IftheboysfromtheFourthExpeditioncould

seemenow.Am I glad to be in businessmyselfwhile all the rest of themguys’reoffsoldieringaroundstill.We’llmakethousands,Elma,thousands.’Hiswifelookedathimforalongtime,notspeaking.‘Whateverhappened

toCaptainWilder?’ sheasked finally. ‘Thatcaptain thatkilled theguywhothoughthewasgoingtokilloffeveryotherEarthMan,whatwashisname?’‘Spender,thatnut.Hewastoodamnparticular.Oh,CaptainWilder?He’s

offonarockettoJupiter,Ihear.Theykickedhimupstairs.Ithinkhewasalittle batty about Mars too. Touchy, you know. He’ll be back down fromJupiterandPlutoinabouttwentyyearsifhe’slucky.That’swhathegetsforshootingoffhismouth.Andwhilehe’sfreezingtodeath,lookatme,lookatthisplace!’This was a crossroads where two dead highways came and went in

darkness.Here SamParkhill had flung up this riveted aluminium structure,garishwithwhitelight,tremblingwithjuke-boxmelody.Hestoopedtofixaborderofbrokenglasshehadplacedonthefootpath.

HehadbrokentheglassfromsomeoldMartianbuildingsinthehills.‘Besthotdogson twoworlds!FirstmanonMarswithahot-dogstand!Thebestonions and chili andmustard!You can’t say I’mnot alert.Here’s themainhighways,overthereis thedeadcityandthemineraldeposits.ThosetrucksfromEarthSettlement101willhavetopassheretwenty-fourhoursaday!DoIknowmylocations,ordon’tI?’Hiswifelookedatherfingernails.‘Youthinkthosetenthousandnew-typeworkrocketswillcomethroughto

Mars?’shesaidatlast.‘Inamonth,’hesaidloudly.‘Whyyoulooksofunny?’‘Idon’ttrustthoseEarthpeople,’shesaid.‘I’llbelieveitwhenIseethem

ten thousand rockets arrive with the one hundred thousand Mexicans andChineseonthem.’‘Customers.’ He lingered on the word. ‘One hundred thousand hungry

people.’‘If,’saidhiswifeslowly,watchingthesky,’there’snoatomicwar.Idon’t

trustnoatombombs.There’ssomanyofthemonEarthnow,younevercantell.’‘Ah,’saidSamandwentonsweeping.Fromthecornersofhiseyeshecaughtablueflicker.Somethingfloatedin

theairgentlybehindhim.Heheardhiswifesay,‘Sam.Afriendofyourstoseeyou.’Samwhirledtoseethemaskseeminglyfloatinginthewind.‘Soyou’rebackagain!’AndSamheldhisbroomlikeaweapon.Themasknodded.Itwascutfrompaleblueglassandwasfittedabovea

thinneck,underwhichwereblowinglooserobesofthinyellowsilk.Fromthesilktwomeshsilverhandsappeared.ThemaskmouthwasaslotfromWhichmusicalsounds issuednowas the robes, themask, thehands increased toaheight,decreased.‘MrParkhill, I’vecomeback to speak toyouagain,’ thevoice said from

behindthemask.‘I thought I toldyouIdon’twantyounearhere!’criedSam.‘Goon, I’ll

giveyoutheDisease!’‘I’ve already had the Disease,’ said the voice. ‘I was one of the few

survivors.Iwassickalongtime.’‘Goonandhideinthehills;that’swhereyoubelong,that’swhereyou’ve

been.Whyyoucomeondownandbotherme?Now,allofasudden.Twiceinoneday.’‘Wemeanyounoharm.’‘ButImeanyouharm!’saidSambackingup.‘Idon’tlikestrangers.Idon’t

likeMartians. I never seen one before. It ain’t natural.All these years youguyshide,andallofasuddenyoupickonme.Leavemealone.’‘Wecomeforanimportantreason,’saidthebluemask.‘If it’s about this land, it’smine. I built this hot-dog standwithmy own

hands.’‘Inawayitisabouttheland.’‘Look here,’ said Sam. ‘I’m from New York City. Where I come from

there’stenmillionothersjustlikeme.YouMartiansareacoupledozenleft,gotnotcities,youwanderaround in thehills,no leaders,no laws,andnowyoucome tellmeabout this land.Well, theoldgot togiveway to thenew.That’sthelawofgiveandtake.Igotagunhere.AfteryouleftthismorningI

gotitoutandloadedit.’‘WeMartiansare telepathic,’saidthecold,bluemask.‘Weare incontact

withoneofyourtownsacrossthedeadsea.Haveyoulistenedonyourradio?’‘Myradio’sbusted.’‘Thenyoudon’tknow.There’sbignews.ItconcernsEarth—’Asilverhandgestured.Abronzetubeappearedinit.‘Letmeshowyouthis.’‘Agun,’criedSamParkhill.Aninstantlaterhehadyankedhisowngunfromhishipholsterandfired

intothemist,therobe,thebluemask.Themasksustaineditselfamoment,Then,likeasmallcircustentpulling

up its stakes and dropping soft fold on fold, the silks rustled, the maskdescended,thesilverclawstinkledonthestonepath.Themasklayonasmallhuddleofsilentwhitebonesandmaterial.Samstoodgasping.Hiswifeswayedoverthehuddledpile.‘That’snoweapon,’shesaidbendingdown.Shepickedupthebronzetube.

‘Hewasgoingtoshowyouamessage.It’sallwrittenoutinsnake-script,allthebluesnakes.Ican’treadit.Canyou?’‘No, that Martian picture-writing, it wasn’t anything. Let it go!’ Sam

glancedhastily around. ‘Theremaybeothers!We’vegot to get himout ofsight.Gettheshovel!’‘What’reyougoingtodo?’‘Buryhim,ofcourse!’‘Youshouldn’thaveshothim.’‘Itwasamistake.Quick!’Silentlyshefetchedhimtheshovel.Ateighto’clockhewasbacksweepingthefrontofthehot-dogstandself-

consciously.Hiswifestood,armsfolded,inthebrightdoorway.‘I’m sorry what happened,’ he said. He looked at her, then away. ‘You

knowitwaspurelythecircumstancesofFate.’‘Yes,’saidhiswife.‘Ihatedlikehelltoseehimtakeoutthatweapon.’‘Whatweapon?’‘Well,Ithoughtitwasone!I’msorry,I’msorry!HowmanytimesdoIsay

it!’‘Ssh,’saidElma,puttingonefingertoherlips.‘Ssh.’‘Idon’tcare,’hesaid.‘IgotthewholeEarthSettlements,Inc,backofme!’

hesnorted.‘TheseMartianswon’tdare—’‘Look,’saidElma.

Helookedoutontothedeadsea-bottom.Hedroppedhisbroom.Hepickeditupandhismouthwasopen,alittlefreedropofsalivaflewontheair,andhewassuddenlyshivering.‘Elma,Elma,Elma!’hesaid.‘Heretheycome,’saidElma.Across the ancient sea floor a dozen tall, blue-sailedMartian sand-ships

floated,likeblueghosts,likebluesmoke.‘Sand-ships!Buttherearen’tanymore,Elma,nomoresand-ships.’‘Thoseseemtobesand-ships,’shesaid.‘Buttheauthoritiesconfiscatedallofthem!Theybrokethemup,soldsome

atauction!I’mtheonlyoneinthiswholedamnterritory’sgotoneandknowshowtorunone.’‘Notanymore,’shesaid,noddingatthesea.‘Comeon,let’sgetoutofhere!’‘Why?’sheaskedslowly,fascinatedwiththeMartianvessels.‘They’llkillme!Getinourtruck,quick!’Elmadidn’tmove.Hehadtodragheraroundbackofthestandwherethetwomachinesstood:

histruck,whichhehadusedsteadilyuntilamonthago,andtheoldMartiansand-shipwhichhehadbidforatauction,smiling,andwhich,duringthelastthreeweeks,hehadusedtocarrysuppliesbackandforthovertheglassyseafloor.Helookedathistrucknowandremembered.Theenginewasoutontheground;hehadbeenputteringwithitfortwodays.‘Thetruckdon’tseemtobeinrunningcondition,’saidElma.‘Thesand-ship.Getin!’‘Andletyoudrivemeinasand-ship?Ohno.’‘Getin!Icandoit!’Heshovedherin,jumpedinbehindher,andflappedthetiller,letthecobalt

sailuptotaketheeveningwind.ThestarswerebrightandtheblueMartianshipswereskimmingacrossthe

whisperingsands.Atfirsthisownshipwouldnotmove,thenherememberedthesandanchorandyankeditin.‘There!’The wind hurled the sand-ship keening over the dead sea-bottom, over

long-buriedcrystals,pastup-endedpillars,pastdeserteddocksofmarbleandbrass, past deadwhite chess cities, past purple foothills, into distance. ThefiguresoftheMartianshipsrecededandthenbegantopaceSam’sship.‘Guess I showed them, by God!’ cried Sam. ‘I’ll report to the Rocket

Corporation.They’llgivemeprotection!I’mprettyquick.’‘Theycouldhavestoppedyouiftheywanted,’Elmasaidtiredly.‘Theyjust

didn’tbother.’Helaughed.‘Comeoffit.Whyshouldtheyletmegetoff?No,theyweren’t

quickenough,isall.’‘Weren’tthey?’Elmanoddedbehindthem.Hedidnotturn.Hefeltacoldwindblowing.Hewasafraidtoturn.Hefelt

somethingintheseatbehindhim,somethingasfrailasyourbreathonacoldmorning, something as blue as hickory-wood smoke at twilight, somethinglikeoldwhitelace,somethinglikeasnowfall,somethingliketheicyrimeofwinteronthebrittlesedge.There was a sound as of a thin plate of glass broken – laughter. Then

silence.Heturned.Theyoungwoman sat at the tiller benchquietly.Herwristswere thin as

icicles,hereyesasclearasthemoonandaslarge,steadyandwhite.Thewindblewather and, like an imageoncoldwater, she rippled, silk standingoutfromherfrailbodyintattersofbluerain.‘Goback,’shesaid.‘No.’ Sam was quivering, the fine, delicate fear-quivering of a hornet

suspendedintheair,undecidedbetweenfearandhate.‘Getoffmyship!’‘This isn’tyour ship,’ said thevision. ‘It’sold asourworld. It sailed the

sandseastenthousandyearsagowhentheseaswerewhisperedawayandthedockswereempty,andyoucameandtookit,stoleit.Nowturnitaround,goback to the crossroad place. We have need to talk with you. Somethingimportanthashappened.’‘Getoffmyship!’saidSam.Hetookagunfromhisholsterwithacreakof

leather.Hepointeditcarefully.‘JumpoffbeforeIcountthreeor—’‘Don’t!’criedthegirl.‘Iwon’thurtyou.Neitherwilltheothers.Wecome

inpeace!’‘One,’saidSam.‘Sam!’saidElma.‘Listentome,’saidthegirl.‘Two,’saidSamfirmly,cockingthegun-trigger.‘Sam!’criedElma.‘Three,’saidSam.‘Weonly—’saidthegirl.Thegunwentoff.Inthesunlight,snowmelts,crystalsevaporateintoasteam,intonothing.In

thefirelight,vapoursdanceandvanish.Inthecoreofavolcano,fragilethingsburst and disappear.The girl, in the gunfire, in the heat, in the concussion,folded likea soft scarf,melted likeacrystal figurine.Whatwas leftofher,ice,snowflake,smoke,blewawayinthewind.Thetillerseatwasempty.

Sambolsteredhisgunanddidnotlookathiswife.‘Sam,’ she said after a minute more of travelling, whispering over the

moon-colouredseaofsand,‘stoptheship.’He lookedather,andhis facewaspale. ‘Noyoudon’t.Notafterall this

time,you’renotpullingoutonme.’She lookedathishandonhisgun. ‘Ibelieveyouwould,’ she said. ‘You

actuallywould.’Hejerkedhisheadfromsidetoside,handtightonthetillerbar.‘Elma,this

iscrazy.We’llbeintowninaminute,we’llbeokay!’‘Yes,’saidhiswife,lyingbackcoldintheship.‘Elma,listentome.’‘There’snothingtohear,Sam.’‘Elma!’Theywere passing a littlewhite chess city, and in his frustration, in his

rage,hesentsixbulletscrashingamongthecrystaltowers.Thecitydissolvedin a shower of ancient glass and splintered quartz. It fell away like carvedsoap, shattered. It was no more. He laughed and fired again, and one lasttower,onelastchess-piece,tookfire,ignited,andinblueflinderswentuptothestars.‘I’llshowthem!I’llshoweverybody!’‘Goahead,showus,Sam.’Shelayintheshadows.‘Herecomesanothercity!’Samreloadedthegun.‘Watchmefixit!’Thebluephantomships loomedupbehind them,drawingsteadilyapace.

He did not see them at first.Hewas only aware of awhistling and a highwindyscreaming,asofsteelonsand,anditwasthesoundofthesharprazorprows of the sand-ships preening the sea-bottoms, their red pennants, bluepennants unfurled. In the blue light ships were blue dark images, maskedmen,menwithsilveryfaces,menwithbluestarsforeyes,menwithcarvedgolden ears,menwith tinfoil cheeks and ruby-studded lips,menwith armsfolded,menfollowinghim,Martianmen.One,two,three.Samcounted.TheMartianshipsclosedin.‘Elma,Elma,Ican’tholdthemalloff!’Elmadidnotspeakorrisefromwhereshehadslumped.Samfiredhisguneighttimes.Oneofthesand-shipsfellapart,thesail,the

emerald body, the bronze hull points, the moon-white tiller, and all theseparate images in it. Themaskedmen, all of them, dug into the sand andseparatedoutintoorangeandthensmoke-flame.Buttheothershipsclosedin.‘I’moutnumbered,Elma!’hecried.‘They’llkillme!’He threw out the anchor. Itwas 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 andhesitatedoverhim.‘EarthMan,’avoicecalledfromahighseatsomewhere.Asilverinemask

moved.Ruby-rimmedlipsglitteredwiththewords.‘Ididn’tdoanything!’Samlookedatallthefaces,onehundredinall,that

surroundedhim.Thereweren’tmanyMartians left onMars–onehundred,onehundredandfifty,alltold.Andmostofthemwereherenow,onthedeadseas, in their resurrectedships,by theirdeadchesscities,oneofwhichhadjustfallenlikesomefragilevasehitbyapebble.Thesilverinemasksglinted.‘Itwasallamistake,’hepleaded,standingoutofhisship,hiswifeslumped

behindhiminthedeepsofthehold,likeadeadwoman.‘IcametoMarslikeany honest enterprising business-man. I took some surplusmaterial from arocketthatcrashed,andIbuiltthefinestlittlestandyoueversawrightthereonthatlandbythecrossroads–youknowwhereitis.You’vegottoadmitit’sagoodjobofbuilding.’Samlaughed,staringaround.‘AndthatMartian–Iknowhewasa friendofyours–came.Hisdeathwasanaccident, I assureyou.AllIwantedtodowashaveahot-dogstand,theonlyoneonMars,thefirstandmostimportantone.Youunderstandhowitis?Iwasgoingtoservethebestdarnedhotdogsthere,withchiliandonionsandorange-juice.’Thesilvermasksdidnotmove.Theyburnedinthemoonlight.Yelloweyes

shoneuponSam.He felt his stomach clench in,wither, becomea rock.Hethrewhisguninthesand.‘Igiveup.’‘Pickupyourgun,’saidtheMartiansinchorus.‘What?’‘Yourgun.’Ajewelledhandwavedfromtheprowofablueship.‘Pickit

up.Putitaway.’Unbelieving,hepickedupthegun.‘Now,’saidthevoice,‘turnyourshipandgobacktoyourstand.’‘Now?’‘Now,’ said the voice. ‘Wewill not harm you. You ran away before we

wereabletoexplain.Come.’

Now the great ships turned as lightly as moon thistles. Their wing-sailsflappedwithasoundofsoftapplauseontheair.Themaskswerecoruscating,turning,firingtheshadows.‘Elma!’Samtumbledintotheship.‘Getup,Elma.We’regoingback.’He

wasexcited,healmostgibberedwithrelief.Theyaren’tgoingtohurtme,killme,Elma.Getup,honey,getup.’

‘What–what?’Elmablinkedaroundslowlyas theshipwassent into thewindagain,shehelpedherself,asinadream,backuptoaseatandslumpedtherelikeasackofstones,sayingnomore.The sand slid under the ship. In half an hour they were back at the

crossroads,theshipsplanted,allofthemoutoftheships.The Leader stood before Sam and Elma, his mask beaten of polished

bronze,theeyesonlyemptyslitsofendlessblue-black,themouthaslotoutofwhichwordsdriftedintothewind.‘Ready your stand,’ said the voice. A diamond-gloved hand waved.

‘Preparetheviands,preparethefoods,preparethestrangewines,fortonightisindeedagreatnight!’‘Youmean,’saidSam,‘you’llletmestayonhere?’‘Yes.’‘You’renotmadatme?’Themaskwasrigidandcarvedandcoldandsightless.‘Prepareyourplaceoffood,’saidthevoicesoftly.‘Andtakethis.’‘Whatisit?’Samblinkedat thesilver-foil scroll thatwashandedhim,uponwhich, in

hieroglyph,snake-figuresdanced.‘Itisthelandgranttoalltheterritoryfromthesilvermountainstotheblue

hills, from the dead salt sea there to the distant valleys of moonstone andemerald,’saidtheLeader.‘M-mine?’saidSam,incredulous.‘Yours.’‘Onehundredthousandmilesofterritory?’‘Yours.’‘Didyouhearthat,Elma?’Elma was sitting on the ground, leaning against the aluminium hot-dog

stand,eyesshut.‘Butwhy,why–whyareyougivingmeallthis?’askedSam,tryingtolook

intothemetalslotsoftheeyes.That is not all. Here.’ Six other scrolls were produced. The nameswere

declared,theterritoriesannounced.‘Why,that’shalfofMars!IownhalfofMars!’Samrattledthescrollsinhis

fists.HeshookthematElma,insanewithlaughing.‘Elma,didyouhear?’‘Iheard,’saidElma,lookingupatthesky.Sheseemedtobewatchingforsomething.Shewasbecomingalittlemore

alertnow.‘Thankyou,oh,thankyou,’saidSamtothebronzemask.Tonightisthenight,’saidthemask.‘Youmustbeready.’

‘Iwillbe.Whatisit–asurprise?Aretherocketscomingthroughearlierthan we thought, a month earlier from Earth? All ten thousand rockets,bringing the settlers, the miners, the workers and their wives, all hundredthousandofthem?Won’tthatbeswell,Elma?Yousee,Itoldyou.Itoldyou,thattowntherewon’talwayshavejustonethousandpeopleinit.There’llbefifty thousand more coming, and the month after that a hundred thousandmore, andby theendof theyear fivemillionEarthMen.Andmewith theonlyhot-dogstandstakedoutonthebusiesthighwaytothemines!’Themaskfloatedonthewind.‘Weleave.Prepare.Thelandisyours.’In the blowingmoonlight, likemetal petals of some ancient flower, like

blueplumes, like cobalt butterflies immenseandquiet, theold ships turnedandmovedovertheshiftingsands,themasksbeamingandglittering,untilthelastshine,thelastbluecolour,waslostamongthehills.‘Elma, why did they do it?Why didn’t they kill me? Don’t they know

anything?What’swrongwiththem?Elma,doyouunderstand?’Heshookhershoulder.‘IownhalfofMars!’Shewatchedthenightsky,waiting.‘Come on,’ he said. ‘We’ve got to get the place fixed. All the hot dogs

boiling, the bunswarm, the chili cooking, the onions peeled anddiced, therelishlaidout,thenapkinsintheclips,theplacespotless!Hey!’Hedidalittlewild dance, kicking his heels. ‘Oh boy, I’m happy; yes, sir, I’m happy,’ hesang,offkey.‘Thisismyluckyday!’Heboiledthehotdogs,cutthebuns,slicedtheonionsinafrenzy.‘Just think, thatMartian said a surprise. That can only mean one thing,

Elma.Thosehundredthousandpeoplecominginaheadofschedule,tonight,ofallnights!We’llbeflooded!We’llbeworking longhours fordays,whatwithtouristsridingaroundseeingthings,Elma.Thinkofthemoney!’Hewentoutandlookedatthesky.Hedidn’tseeanything.‘In a minute, maybe,’ he said snuffing the cool air gratefully, arms up,

beatinghischest.‘Ah!’Elma said nothing.Shepeeledpotatoes forFrench fries quietly, her eyes

alwaysonthesky.‘Sam,’shesaidhalfanhourlater.‘Thereitis.Look.’Helookedandsawit.Earth.Itrosefullandgreen,likeafine-cutstoneabovethehills.‘GoodoldEarth,’hewhisperedlovingly.‘GoodoldwonderfulEarth.Send

me your hungry and your starved. Something, something – how does thepoemgo?Sendmeyourhungry,oldEarth.Here’sSamParkhill,hishotdogsall boiled, his chili cooking, everythingneat as a pin.Comeon, youEarth,

sendmeyourrockets!’Hewentouttolookathisplace.Thereitsat,perfectasafresh-laideggon

the dead sea-bottom, the only nucleus of light and warmth in hundreds ofmiles of lonelywasteland. Itwas like a heart beating alone in a great darkbody.Hefeltalmostsorrowfulwithpride,gazingatitwithweteyes.‘Itsuremakesyouhumble,’hesaidamongthecookingodoursofwieners,

warm buns, rich butter. ‘Step up,’ he invited the various stars in the sky.‘Who’llbethefirsttobuy?’‘Sam,’saidElma.Earthchangedintheblacksky,Itcaughtfire.Partofitseemedtocomeapartinamillionpieces,asifagiganticjigsaw

had exploded. It burned with an unholy dripping glare for a minute, threetimesnormalsize,thendwindled.‘Whatwasthat?’Samlookedatthegreenfireinthesky.‘Earth,’saidElma,holdingherhandstogether.‘Thatcan’tbeEarth,that’snotEarth!No,thatain’tEarth!Itcan’tbe.’‘Youmeanitcouldn’tbeEarth,’saidElma,lookingathim.‘Thatjustisn’t

Earth.No,that’snotEarth;isthatwhatyoumean?’‘NotEarth–ohno,itcouldn’tbe,’hewailed.Hestoodthere,hishandsathissides,hismouthopen,hiseyeswideand

dull,notmoving.‘Sam.’Shecalledhisname.Forthefirsttimeindayshereyeswerebright.

‘Sam?’Helookedupatthesky.‘Well,’ she said. She glanced around for aminute or so in silence. Then

brisklysheflappedawettoweloverherarm.‘Switchonmorelights,turnupthemusic, open the doors.There’ll be another batch of customers along inaboutamillionyears.Gottabeready,yes,sir.’Samdidnotmove.‘What a swell spot for a hot-dog stand,’ she said. She reached over and

pickedatoothpickoutofajarandputitbetweenherfrontteeth.‘Letyouinonalittlesecret,Sam,’shewhispered,leaningtowardshim.‘Thislookslikeit’sgoingtobeanoffseason.’

NOVEMBER2005

TheWatchers

Theyallcameoutandlookedattheskythatnight.Theylefttheirsuppersortheirwashing-uportheirdressingfortheshow,andtheycameoutupontheirnow-not-quite-as-new porches andwatched the green star of Earth there. Itwasamovewithoutconsciouseffort;theyalldidit,tohelpthemunderstandthenewstheyhadheardontheradioamomentbefore.TherewasEarthandthere the coming war, and there hundreds of thousands of mother orgrandmothersorfathersorbrothersorauntsorunclesorcousins.TheystoodontheporchesandtriedtobelieveintheexistenceofEarth,muchastheyhadoncetriedtobelieveintheexistenceofMars;itwasaproblemreversed.Toallintentsandpurposes,Earthnowwasdead;theyhadbeenawayfromitforthree or four years. Space was anaesthetic; seventy million miles of spacenumbed you, putmemory to sleep, depopulatedEarth, erased the past, andallowedthesepeopleheretogoonwiththeirwork.Butnow,tonight,thedeadwere risen, Earth was reinhabited, memory awoke, a million names werespoken:Whatwasso-and-sodoingtonightonEarth?Whataboutthisoneandthatone?Thepeopleontheporchesglancedsidewiseateachother’sfaces.Atnineo’clockEarthseemedtoexplode,catchfire,andburn.Thepeopleontheporchesputuptheirhandsasiftobeatthefireout.Theywaited.Bymidnight the firewasextinguished.Earthwasstill there.Therewasa

sigh,likeanautumnwind,fromtheporches.‘Wehaven’theardfromHarryforalongtime.’‘He’sallright.’‘WeshouldsendamessagetoMother.’‘She’sallright.’‘Isshe?’‘Now,don’tworry.’‘Willshebeallright,doyouthink?’‘Ofcourse,ofcourse;nowcomebacktobed.’Butnobodymoved.Latedinnerswerecarriedoutontothenightlawnsand

setuponcollapsibletables,andtheypickedattheseslowlyuntiltwoo’clockand the light-radio message flashed from Earth. The could read the great

Morse-codeflasheswhichflickeredlikeadistantfirefly:

AUSTRALIAN CONTINENT ATOMIZED IN PREMATURE EXPLOSION OF ATOMICSTOCKPILE.LOSANGELES,LONDONBOMBED.WAR.COMEHOME.COMEHOME.COMEHOME.

Theystoodupfromtheirtables.COMEHOME.COMEHOME.COMEHOME.‘HaveyouheardfromyourbrotherTedthisyear?’‘Youknow.WithmailratesfivebucksalettertoEarth,Idon’twritemuch.’COMEHOME.‘I’vebeenwonderingaboutJane;yourememberJane,mykidsister?’COMEHOME.At three in thechillymorning the luggage-storeproprietorglancedup.A

lotofpeoplewerecomingdownthestreet.‘Stayedopenlateonpurpose.What’llitbe,mister?’Bydawntheluggagewasgonefromhisshelves.

DECEMBER2005

TheSilentTowns

TherewasalittlewhitesilenttownontheedgeofthedeadMartiansea.Thetownwasempty.Noonemoved in it.Lonely lightsburned in thestoresallday.Theshopdoorswerewide,as ifpeoplehadrunoffwithoutusingtheirkeys.Magazines, brought from Earth on the silver rocket a month before,fluttered,untouched,burningbrown,onwire racks fronting the silentdrug-stores.Thetownwasdead.Itsbedswereemptyandcold.Theonlysoundwasthe

powerhumofelectriclinesanddynamos,stillalive,allbythemselves.Waterran in forgotten bathtubs, poured out into living-rooms, on to porches, anddownthroughlittlegardenplotstofeedneglectedflowers.Inthedarktheatresgumunderthemanyseatsbegantohardenwithtoothimpressionsstillinit.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 youdroppedadimeinthetelescopeandpointeditatEarth,perhapsyoucouldseethe big war happening there. Perhaps you could see New York explode.MaybeLondoncouldbeseen,coveredwithanewkindoffog.PerhapsthenitmightbeunderstoodwhythissmallMartiantownisabandoned.Howquickwastheevacuation?Walkinanystore,bangtheNoSALEkey.Cashdrawersjumpout,allbrightandjinglywithcoins.ThewaronEarthmustbeverybad…Alongtheemptyavenuesofthistown,now,whistlingsoftly,kickingatin

can ahead of him in deepest concentration came a tall, thinman.His eyesglowedwithadark,quietlookofloneliness.Hemovedhisbonyhandsinhispockets,whichweretinklingwithnewdimes.Occasionallyhetossedadimetotheground.Helaughedtemperately,doingthis,andwalkedon,sprinklingbrightdimeseverywhere.HisnamewasWalterGripp.Hehadaplacermineandaremoteshackfar

upintheblueMartianhillsandhewalkedtotownonceeverytwoweekstosee ifhecouldmarryaquietand intelligentwoman.Over theyearshehadalwaysreturnedtohisshack,aloneanddisappointed.Aweekago,arrivingintown,hehadfounditthisway!Thatdayhehadbeenso surprised thathe rushed toadelicatessen, flung

wideacase,andorderedatriple-deckerbeefsandwich.‘Comingup!’hecried,atowelonhisarm.Heflourishedmeatsandbreadbakedthedaybefore,dustedatable,invited

himself to sit, and ate until he had to go find a soda-fountain, where heordered a bicarbonate. The druggist, being one Walter Gripp, wasastoundinglypoliteandfizzedonerightupforhim!He stuffed his jeans with money, all he could find. He loaded a boy’s

wagonwith ten-dollarbillsandran lickety-split throughtown.Reachingthesuburbs, he suddenly realized how shamefully silly hewas.He didn’t needmoney.Herodetheten-dollarbillsbacktowherehe’dfoundthem,countedadollar from his own wallet to pay for the sandwiches, dropped it in thedelicatessentill,andaddedaquartertip.ThatnightheenjoyedahotTurkishbath,a succulent filletcarpetedwith

delicatemushrooms,importeddrysherry,andstrawberriesinwine.Hefittedhimselfforanewblueflannelsuit,andarichgreyHomburgwhichbalancedoddlyatophisgaunthead.Heslidmoneyintoajuke-boxwhichplayedThatOldGangofMine.’Hedroppednickels in twentyboxesallover town.Thelonelystreetsand thenightwere fullof thesadmusicofThatOldGangofMine’ashewalked, talland thinandalone,hisnewshoesclumpingsoftly,hiscoldhandsinhispockets.Butthatwasaweekpast.HesleptinagoodhouseonMarsAvenue,rose

morningsatnine,bathed,and idled to town forhamandeggs.Nomorningpassedthathedidn’tfreezeatonofmeats,vegetables,andlemon-creampies,enoughtolasttenyears,untiltherocketscamebackfromEarth,iftheyevercame.Now, tonight, he drifted up and down, seeing the wax women in every

colourful shopwindow,pink andbeautiful. For the first timeheknewhowdeadthetownwas.Hedrewaglassofbeerandsobbedgently.‘Why,’hesaid,‘I’mallalone.’He entered theEliteTheatre to showhimself a film, to distract hismind

fromhisisolation.Thetheatrewashollow,empty,likeatombwithphantomscrawling grey and black on the vast screen. Shivering, he hurried from thehauntedplace.Havingdecidedtoreturnhome,hewasstrikingdownthemiddleofaside

street,almostrunning,whenheheardthephone.Helistened.‘Phoneringinginsomeone’shouse.’Heproceededbriskly.‘Someoneshouldanswerthatphone,’hemused.Hesatonthekerbtopickarockfromhisshoe,idly.

‘Someone!’ he screamed, leaping. ‘Me! Good Lord, what’s wrong withme!’heshrieked.Hewhirled.Whichhouse?Thatone!Heracedoverthelawn,upthesteps,intothehouse,downadarkhall.Heyankedupthereceiver.‘Hello!’hecried.Buzzzzzzzz.‘Hello,hello!’Theyhadhungup.‘Hello!’heshouted,andbangedthephone.‘Youstupididiot!’hecried to

himself.‘Sittingonthatkerb,youfool!Oh,youdamnedandawfulfool!’Hesqueezedthephone.‘Comeon,ringagain.Comeon!’HehadneverthoughttheremightbeothersleftonMars.Intheentireweek

hehadseennoone.Hehadfiguredthatallothertownswereasemptyasthisone.Now, staring at this terrible little black phone, he trembled. Interlocking

dialsystemsconnectedeverytownonMars.Fromwhichofthirtycitieshadthecallcome?Hedidn’tknow.He waited. He wandered to the strange kitchen, thawed some iced

huckleberries,atethemdisconsolately.Therewasn’tanyoneontheotherendofthatcall,’hemurmured.‘Maybea

poleblewdownsomewhereandthephonerangbyitself.’Buthadn’theheardaclick,whichmeantsomeonehadhungupfaraway?He stood in thehall the rest of thenight. ‘Notbecauseof thephone,’ he

toldhimself.‘Ijusthaven’tanythingelsetodo.’Helistenedtohiswatchtick.‘Shewon’tphoneback,’hesaid.‘Shewon’tevercallanumberthatdidn’t

answer.She’sprobablydiallingotherhousesintownrightnow!AndhereIsit—Waitaminute!’Helaughed.‘WhydoIkeepsaying“she”?’Heblinked.‘Itcouldaseasilybea“he”,couldn’tit?’Hisheartslowed.Hefeltverycoldandhollow.Hewantedverymuchforittobea‘she’.He walked out of the house and stood in the centre of the early, dim

morningstreet.Helistened.Notasound.Nobirds.Nocars.Onlyhisheartbeating.Beat

andpauseandbeatagain.Hisfaceachedwithstrain.Thewindblewgently,ohsogently,flappinghiscoat.‘Sh,’hewhispered.‘Listen.’He swayed in a slow circle, turning his head from one silent house to

another.

She’ll phonemore andmore numbers, he thought. Itmust be awoman.Why? Only a woman would call and call. A man wouldn’t. A man’sindependent. Did I phone anyone? No! Never thought of it. It must be awoman.Ithastobe,byGod!Listen.Faraway,underthestars,aphonerang.He ran.Hestopped to listen.The ringing, soft.He rana fewmore steps.

Louder,heraceddownanalley.Louderstill!Hepassedsixhouses,sixmore.Muchlouder!Hechoseahouseanditsdoorwaslocked.Thephoneranginside.‘Damnyou!’Hejerkedthedoor-knob.Thephonescreamed.Heheavedaporchchairthroughtheparlourwindow,leapedinafterit.Beforeheeventouchedthephone,itwassilent.He stalked through the house then and brokemirrors, tore down drapes,

andkickedinthekitchenstove.Finally,exhausted,hepickedupthethindirectorywhichlistedeveryphone

onMars.Fiftythousandnames.Hestartedwithnumberone.AmeliaAmes.HedialledhernumberinNewChicago,onehundredmiles

overthedeadsea.Noanswer.NumbertwolivedinNewNewYork,fivethousandmilesacrosstheblue

mountains.Noanswer.Hecalled three, four, five,six,seven,eight,his fingers jerking,unable to

gripthereceiver.Awoman’svoiceanswered,‘Hello?’Waltercriedbackather,‘Hello,ohLord,hello!’‘Thisisarecording,’recitedthewoman’svoice.‘MissHelenArasumianis

nothome.Willyou leaveamessageon thewirespool soshemaycallyouwhenshe returns?Hello?This isa recording.MissArasumian isnothome.Willyouleaveamessage—’Hehungup.Hesatwithhismouthtwitching.Onsecondthoughtheredialledthatnumber.‘WhenMissHelenArasumiancomeshome,’hesaid,Tellhertogotohell!’

He phoned Mars Junction, New Boston, Arcadia, and Roosevelt Cityexchanges, theorizing that theywould be logical places for persons to dial

from; after that he contacted local cityhalls andotherpublic institutions ineachtown.Hephonedthebesthotels.Leaveittoawomantoputherselfupinluxury.Suddenlyhestopped,clappedhishandssharplytogether,andlaughed.Of

course!Hecheckedthedirectoryanddialleda long-distancecall throughtothebiggestbeautyparlourinNewTexasCity.Ifevertherewasaplacewherea woman would putter around, patting mud-packs on her face and sittingunderadrier,itwouldbeavelvet-soft,diamond-gembeautyparlour!Thephonerang.Someoneattheotherendliftedthereceiver.Awoman’svoice,‘Hello?’‘Ifthisisarecording,’announcedWalterGripp,‘I’llcomeoverandblow

theplaceup.’‘This isn’t a record,’ said thewoman’s voice. ‘Hello!Oh, hello, there is

someonealive!Whereareyou?’Shegaveadelightedscream.Walteralmostcollapsed.‘You!’Hestoodupjerkily,eyeswild.‘GoodLord,

whatluck,what’syourname?’‘Genevieve Selsor!’ Shewept into the receiver. ‘Oh, I’m so glad to hear

fromyou,whoeveryouare!’‘WalterGripp!’‘Walter,hello,Walter!’‘Hello,Genevieve!’‘Walter.It’ssuchanicename.Walter,Walter!’‘Thankyou.’‘Walter,whereareyou?’Hervoicewassokindandsweetandfine.Heheld thephonetight tohis

earsoshecouldwhispersweetlyintoit.Hefelthisfeetdriftoffthefloor.Hischeeksburned.‘I’minMarlinVillage,’hesaid‘I—’Buzz.‘Hello?’hesaid.Buzz.Hejiggledthehook.Nothing.Somewhereawindhadblowndownapole.Asquicklyasshehadcome,

GenevieveSelsorwasgone.Hedialled,butthelinewasdead.‘Iknowwheresheis,anyway.’Heranoutofthehouse.Thesunwasrising

ashebackedabeetle-carfromthestranger’sgarage,filleditsbackseatwithfoodfromthehouse,andsetoutateightymilesanhourdownthehighway,headingforNewTexasCity.Athousandmiles,hethought.GenevieveSelsor,sittight,you’llhearfrom

me!Hehonkedhishornoneveryturnoutoftown.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 greyHomburgoverhiswearyeyes.Hisbreathingbecameslowand regular.Thewindblewandthestarsshonegentlyuponhiminthenewdusk.TheMartianmountains lay all around, millions of years old. Starlight glittered on thespiresof a littleMartian town, nobigger than agameof chess, in thebluehills.He lay in the half-place between awakeness and dreams. He whispered.

Genevieve.Oh,Genevieve, sweetGenevieve, he sang softly, the yearsmaycome, the years may go. But, Genevieve, sweetGenevieve… There was awarmth in him. He heard her quiet, sweet, cool voice sighing.Hello, oh,hello,Walter!Thisisnorecord.Whereareyou,Walter,whereareyou?Hesighed,puttingupahandtotouchherinthemoonlight.Longdarkhair

shakinginthewind;beautifulitwas.Andherlipslikeredpeppermints.Andhercheekslikefresh-cutwetroses.Andherbodylikeaclearvaporousmist,whilehersoft,cool,sweetvoicecroonedtohimoncemorethewordstotheoldsadsong,Oh,Genevieve,sweetGenevieve,theyearsmaycome,theyearsmaygo…Heslept.HereachedNewTexasCityatmidnight.HehaltedbeforetheDeluxeBeautySalon,yelling.Heexpectedhertorushout,allperfume,alllaughter.Nothinghappened.‘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

canvasawning.Heswungtheglassdoorwideandsteppedin.‘Hey!’Helaugheduneasily.‘Don’thide!Iknowyou’rehere!’Hesearchedeverybooth.Hefoundatinyhandkerchiefonthefloor.Itsmelledsogoodhealmostlost

hisbalance.‘Genevieve,’hesaid.He drove the car through the empty streets but sawnothing. ‘If this is a

practicaljoke…’Heslowed thecar. ‘Waitaminute.Wewerecutoff.Maybeshedrove to

MarlinVillagewhileIwasdrivinghere!SheprobablytooktheoldSeaRoad.Wemissedeachotherduring theday.How’dsheknowI’dcomegether? Ididn’t say I would. And she was so afraid when the phone died that she

rushed toMarlinVillage to findme!Andhere I am,byGod,whata fool Iam!’Givingthehornablow,heshotoutoftown.Hedroveallnight.Hethought,Whatifsheisn’tinMarlinVillagewaiting

whenIarrive?Hewouldn’t think of that. Shemust be there.And hewould run up and

holdherandperhapsevenkissher,once,onthelips.Genevieve, sweet Genevieve, he whistled, stepping it up to one hundred

milesanhour.

MarlinVillagewasquietatdawn,yellowlightswerestillburninginseveralstores,andajuke-boxthathadplayedsteadilyforonehundredhoursfinally,with a crackle of electricity, ceased,making the silence complete. The sunwarmedthestreetsandwarmedthecoldandvacantsky.WalterturneddownMainStreet,thecarlightsstillon,honkingthehorna

double toot, six times at one corner, six times at another.He peered at thestorenames.Hisfacewaswhiteand tired,andhishandsslidon thesweatysteeringwheel.‘Genevieve!’hecalledintheemptystreet.Thedoortoabeautysalonopened.‘Genevieve!’Hestoppedthecar.GenevieveSelsorstoodintheopendoorofthesalonasheranacrossthe

street.Aboxofcreamchocolateslayopeninherarms.Herfingers,cuddlingit,wereplumpandpallid.Herface,asshesteppedintothelight,wasroundandthick,andhereyeswereliketwoimmenseeggsstuckintoawhitemessofbreaddough.Herlegswereasbigaroundasthestumpsoftrees,andshemoved with an ungainly shuffle. Her hair was an indiscriminate shade ofbrownthathadbeenmadeandre-made,itappeared,asanestforbirds.Shehadno lipsatallandcompensated thisbystencillingona largered,greasymouththatnowpoppedopenindelight,nowshut insuddenalarm.Shehadpluckedherbrowstothinantennalines.Walterstopped.Hissmiledissolved.Hestoodlookingather.Shedroppedhercandyboxtothesidewalk.‘Areyou–GenevieveSelsor?’Hisearsrang.‘AreyouWalterGriff?’sheasked.‘Gripp.’‘Gripp,’shecorrectedherself.‘Howdoyoudo,’hesaidwitharestrainedvoice.‘Howdoyoudo.’Sheshookhishand.Herfingerswerestickywithchocolate.

‘Well,’saidWalterGripp.‘What?’askedGenevieveSelsor.‘Ijustsaid,“Well,”’saidWalter.‘Oh.’Itwas nine o’clock at night. They had spent the day picnicking, and for

supperhehadprepareda filetmignonwhich shedidn’t likebecause itwastoorare,sohebroileditsomemoreanditwastoomuchbroiledorfriedorsomething.Helaughedandsaid,‘We’llseeamovie!’Shesaidokayandputherchocolatyfingersonhiselbow.Butallshewantedtoseewasafifty-year-oldfilmofClarkGable.‘Doesn’thejustkillyou?’Shegiggled.‘Doesn’thekillyou,now?’Thefilmended.‘Runitoffagain,’shecommanded.‘Again?’heasked. ‘Again,’shesaid.Andwhenhereturnedshesnuggledupandputherpawsalloverhim.‘You’renotquitewhatIexpected,butyou’renice,’sheadmitted. ‘Thanks,’ he said, swallowing. ‘Oh, that Gable,’ she said, andpinchedhisleg.‘Ouch,’hesaid.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 perfumebottleonherhair,sheresembledadrownedsheep-dog.‘Howoldareyou?’heinquired.‘Guess.’Dripping,sheledhimdownthestreet.‘Oh,thirty,’hesaid.‘Well,’sheannouncedstiffly,‘I’monlytwenty-seven,sothere!’‘Here’sanothercandystore!’shesaid. ‘Honest, I’ve led the lifeofReilly

sinceeverythingexploded.Ineverlikedmyfolks,theywerefools.TheyleftforEarthtwomonthsago.Iwassupposedtofollowonthelastrocket,butIstayedon;youknowwhy?’‘Why?’‘Becauseeveryonepickedonme.SoIstayedwhereIcouldthrowperfume

onmyselfalldayanddrinktenthousandmaltsandeatcandywithoutpeoplesaying.“Oh,that’sfullofcalories!”SohereIam!’‘Hereyouare.’Waltershuthiseyes.‘It’sgettinglate,’shesaid,lookingathim.‘Yes.’‘I’mtired,’shesaid.‘Funny.I’mwideawake.’‘Oh,’shesaid.‘I feel like staying up all night,’ he said. ‘Say, there’s a good record at

Mike’s.Comeon,I’llplayitforyou.’‘I’mtired.’Sheglancedupathimwithsly,brighteyes.‘I’mveryalert,’hesaid.‘Strange.’‘Comebacktothebeautyshop,’shesaid.‘Iwanttoshowyousomething.’

She took him in through the glass door andwalked him over to a largewhitebox.‘WhenIdrovefromTexasCity,’shesaid,‘Ibroughtthiswithme.’Sheuntiedthepinkribbon.‘Ithought:Well,hereIamtheonlyladyonMars,andhereistheonlyman,and,well…’Sheliftedthelidandfoldedbackcrisplayersofwhisperypinktissue-paper.Shegaveitapat.‘There.’WalterGrippstared.‘Whatisit?’heasked,beginningtotremble.‘Don’t you know, silly? It’s all lace and all white and all fine and

everything.’‘No,Idon’tknowwhatitis.’‘It’saweddingdress,silly!’‘Isit?’Hisvoicecracked.Heshuthiseyes.Hervoicewasstillsoftandcoolandsweet,asithadbeen

onthephone.Butwhenheopenedhiseyesandlookedather…Hebackedup.‘Hownice,’hesaid.‘Isn’tit?’‘Genevieve.’Heglancedatthedoor.‘Yes?’‘Genevieve,I’vesomethingtotellyou.’‘Yes?’Shedrifted towards him, the perfume smell thick about her round

whiteface.‘ThethingIhavetosaytoyouis…’hesaid.‘Yes?’‘Good-bye!’Andhewasoutofthedoorandintohiscarbeforeshecouldscream.Sheranandstoodonthekerbasheswungthecarabout.‘WalterGriff,comebackhere!’shewailed,flingingupherarms.‘Gripp,’hecorrectedher.‘Gripp!’sheshouted.The carwhirled awaydown the silent street, regardless of her stampings

andshriekings.Theexhaustfromitflutteredthewhitedressshecrumpledinherplumphands,andthestarsshonebright,andthecarvanishedoutontothedesertandawayintoblackness.

Hedroveallnightandalldayforthreenightsanddays.Oncehethoughthesaw a car following, and he broke into a shivering sweat and took anotherhighway, cuttingoff across the lonelyMartianworld, past little dead cities,and he drove for a week and a day, until he had put ten thousand milesbetweenhimselfandMarlinVillage.ThenhepulledintoasmalltownnamedHoltvilleSprings,wherethereweresometinystoreshecouldlightupatnight

andrestaurantstositin,orderingmeals.Andhe’slivedthereeversince,withtwodeepfreezespackedwithfoodtolasthimonehundredyears,andenoughcigarstolasttenthousanddays,andagoodbedwithasoftmattress.Andwhenonceinawhileoverthelongyearsthephonerings–hedoesn’t

answer.

APRIL2026

TheLongYears

Wheneverthewindcamethroughthesky,heandhissmallfamilywouldsitinthestonehutandwarmtheirhandsoverawoodfire.Thewindwouldstirthecanalwatersandalmostblowthestarsoutof thesky,butMrHathawaywould sit contented and talk to hiswife, and hiswifewould reply, and hewouldspeaktohistwodaughtersandhissonabouttheolddaysonEarth,andtheywouldallanswerneatly.It was the twentieth year after the GreatWar. Mars was a tomb planet.

WhetherornotEarthwas thesamewasamatter formuchsilentdebate forHathawayandhisfamilyonthelongMartiannights.Thisnightoneof theviolentMartiandust-stormshadcomeover the low

Martian graveyards, blowing through ancient towns and tearing away theplasticwallsofthenewer,American-builtcitythatwasmeltingdownintothesand,desolated.Thestormabated.HathawaywentoutintotheclearedweathertoseeEarth

burninggreenon thewindy sky.Heput his handup as onemight reach toadjustadimlyburningglobeintheceilingofadarkroom.Helookedacrossthe long-deadsea-bottoms.Notanother living thingon thisentireplanet,hethought.Justmyself.Andthem.Helookedbackwithinthestonehut.WhatwashappeningonEarthnow?Hehadseennovisiblesignofchange

inEarth’saspectthroughhisthirty-inchtelescope.Well,hethought,I’mgoodforanother twentyyears if I’mcareful.Someonemightcome.Eitheracrossthedeadseasoroutofspaceinarocketonalittlethreadofredflame.Hecalledintothehut,‘I’mgoingtotakeawalk.’‘Allright,’hiswifesaid.Hemovedquietlydownthroughaseriesofruins.‘MadeinNewYork,’he

readfromapieceofmetalashepassed.‘AndallthesethingsfromEarthwillbe gone long before the OldMartian towns.’ He looked towards the fifty-centuries-oldvillagethatlayamongthebluemountains.HecametoasolitaryMartiangraveyard,aseriesofsmallhexagonalstones

onahillsweptbythelonelywind.Hestoodlookingdownatfourgraveswithcrudewoodencrossesonthem,

andnames.Tearsdidnotcometohiseyes.Theyhaddriedlongago.

‘Doyou forgiveme forwhat I’vedone?’he askedof the crosses. ‘Iwasverymuchalone.Youdounderstand,don’tyou?’Hereturnedtothestonehutandoncemore,justbeforegoingin,shadedhis

eyes,searchingtheblacksky.‘You keep waiting and waiting and looking,’ he said, ‘and one night

perhaps—’Therewasatinyredflameonthesky.Hesteppedawayfromthelightofthehut.‘—andyoulookagain,’hewhispered.Thetinyredflamewasstillthere.‘Itwasn’ttherelastnight,’hewhispered.Hestumbledandfell,pickedhimselfup,ranbehindthehut,swivelledthe

telescope,andpointeditatthesky.Aminutelater,afteralong,wildstaring,heappearedinthelowdoorofthe

hut.Thewifeand the twodaughters and the son turned theirheads tohim.Finallyhewasabletospeak.‘Ihavegoodnews,’hesaid,‘Ihavelookedatthesky.Arocketiscomingto

takeusallhome.Itwillbehereintheearlymorning.’Heputhishandsdownandputhishead intohishandsandbegan tocry

gently.HeburnedwhatwasleftofNewNewYorkthatmorningatthree.Hetookatorchandmovedintotheplasticcityandwiththeflametouched

thewallshereorthere.Thecitybloomedupingreattossesofheatandlight.Itwasa squaremileof illumination,bigenough tobe seenout in space. ItwouldbeckontherocketdowntoMrHathawayandhisfamily.Hisheartbeatingrapidlywithpain,hereturnedtothehut.‘See?’heheldup

a dusty bottle into the light. ‘Wine I saved, just for tonight. I knew thatsomedaysomeonewouldfindus!Wellhaveadrinktocelebrate!’Hepouredfiveglassesfull.‘It’sbeenalongtime,’hesaid,gravelylookingintohisdrink.‘Remember

the day the war broke? Twenty years and seven months ago. And all therocketswerecalledhomefromMars.AndyouandIandthechildrenwereoutinthemountains,doingarchaeologicalwork,researchontheancientsurgicalmethodsoftheMartians.Weranourhorses,almostkillingthem,remember?Butwe got here to the city aweek late. Everyonewas gone.America hadbeen destroyed; every rocket had left without waiting for stragglers,remember, remember?And it turned outwewere theonly ones left?Lord,Lord, how the years pass! I couldn’t have stood itwithout you here, all ofyou.I’dhavekilledmyselfwithoutyou.Butwithyou,itwasworthwaiting.Here’s to us, then.’He lifted his glass. ‘And to our longwait together.’He

drank.Thewifeandthetwodaughtersandthesonraisedtheirglassestotheirlips.Thewinerandownoverthechinsofallfourofthem.

Bymorning the citywas blowing in great black soft flakes across the sea-bottom.Thefirewasexhausted,butithadserveditspurpose;theredspotontheskygrewlarger.From thestonehutcame the richbrownsmellofbakedgingerbread.His

wife stood over the table, setting down the hot pans of new bread asHathaway entered. The two daughterswere gently sweeping the bare stonefloorwithstiffbrooms,andthesonwaspolishingthesilverware.‘We’ll have a huge breakfast for them,’ laughedHathaway. ‘Put on your

bestclothes!’Hehurried acrosshis land to thevastmetal storage shed. Insidewas the

cold-storage unit and power plant he had repaired and restored with hisefficient,small,nervousfingersovertheyears,justashehadrepairedclocks,telephones,andspoolrecordersinhissparetime.Theshedwasfullofthingshe had built, some senseless mechanisms, the functions of which were amysteryeventohimselfnowashelookeduponthem.Fromthedeepfreezehefetchedrimedcartonsofbeansandstrawberries,

twenty years old. Lazarus come forth, he thought, and pulled out a coolchicken.Theairwasfullofcookingodourswhentherocketlanded.Likeaboy,Hathawayraceddownthehill.Hestoppedoncebecauseofa

suddensickpaininhischest.Hesatonarocktoregainhisbreath,thenranalltherestoftheway.He stood in the hot atmosphere generated by the fiery rocket. A port

opened.Amanlookeddown.Hathawayshieldedhiseyesandatlastsaid,‘CaptainWilder!’‘Who is it?’ asked Captain Wilder, and jumped down and stood there

lookingattheoldman.Heputhishandout.‘GoodLord,it’sHathaway!’‘That’sright.’Theylookedintoeachother’sfaces.‘Hathaway,frommyoldcrew,fromtheFourthExpedition.’‘It’sbeenalongtime,Captain.’‘Toolong.It’sgoodtoseeyou.’‘I’mold,’saidHathawaysimply.‘I’mnotyoungmyselfanymore. I’vebeenout toJupiterandSaturnand

Neptunefortwentyyears.’‘I heard they had kicked you upstairs so you wouldn’t interfere with

colonialpolicyhereonMars.’Theoldmanlookedaround.You’vebeengonesolongyoudon’tknowwhat’shappened—’Wildersaid,‘Icanguess.We’vecircledMarstwice.Foundonlyoneother

man,nameofWalterGripp,abouttenthousandmilesfromhere.Weofferedtotakehimwithus,buthesaidno.Thelastwesawofhimhewassittinginarocking-chair in themiddle of the highway, smoking a pipe,waving to us.Marsisprettywelldead,notevenaMartianalive.WhataboutEarth?’‘Youknow asmuch as I do.Once in awhile I get theEarth radio, very

faintly.Butit’salwaysinsomeotherlanguage.I’msorrytosayIonlyknowLatin.Afewwordscomethrough.ItakeitmostofEarth’sashambles,butthewargoeson.Areyougoingback,sir?’‘Yes.We’recurious,ofcourse.Wehadnoradiocontactsofaroutinspace.

We’llwanttoseeEarth,nomatterwhat.’‘You’lltakeuswithyou?’The captain started. ‘Of course, your wife, I remember her. Twenty-five

yearsago,wasn’tit?WhentheyopenedFirstTownandyouquittheserviceandbroughtheruphere.Andtherewerechildren—’‘Mysonandtwodaughters.’‘Yes,Iremember.They’rehere?’‘Upatourhut.There’safinebreakfastwaitingallofyouupthehill.Will

youcome?’‘We would be honoured, Mr Hathaway.’ Captain Wilder called to the

rocket,‘Abandonship!’

They walked up the hill, Hathaway and Captain Wilder, the twenty crewmembersfollowing,takingdeepbreathsofthethin,coolmorningair.Thesunroseanditwasagoodday.‘DoyourememberSpender,Captain?’‘I’veneverforgottenhim.’‘AboutonceayearIwalkuppasthistomb.Itlookslikehegothiswayat

last. He didn’t want us to come here, and I suppose he’s happy now thatwe’veallgoneaway.’‘Whatabout–whatwashisname?–Parkhill,SamParkhill?’‘Heopenedahot-dogstand.’‘Itsoundsjustlikehim.’‘AndwentbacktoEarththenextweekforthewar.’Hathawayputhishand

tohischestandsatdownabruptlyuponaboulder.‘I’msorry.Theexcitement.Seeingyouagainafteralltheseyears.Havetorest.’Hefelthisheartpound.Hecountedthebeats.Itwasverybad.‘We’vegotadoctor,’saidWilder.‘Excuseme,Hathaway,Iknowyouare

one,butwe’dbettercheckyouwithourown—’Thedoctorwassummoned.‘I’ll be all right,’ insisted Hathaway. ‘The waiting, the excitement.’ He

couldhardlybreathe.His lipswereblue. ‘Youknow,’ he said as thedoctorplacedastethoscopetohim,‘it’sasifIkeptalivealltheseyearsjustforthisday,andnowyou’reheretotakemebacktoEarth,I’msatisfiedandIcanjustliedownandquit.’‘Here.’Thedoctorhandedhimayellowpellet.‘We’dbetterletyourest.’‘Nonsense.Just letmesitamoment. It’sgood toseeallofyou.Good to

hearnewvoicesagain.’‘Isthepelletworking?’‘Fine.Herewego!’Theywalkedonupthehill.

‘Alice,comeseewho’shere!’Hathawayfrownedandbentintothehut.‘Alice,didyouhear?’Hiswife appeared.Amoment later the two daughters, tall and gracious,

cameoutfollowedbyaneventallerson.‘Alice,yourememberCaptainWilder?’ShehesitatedandlookedatHathawayasifforinstructionsandthensmiled.

‘Ofcourse,CaptainWilder!’‘Iremember,wehaddinnertogetherthenightbeforeItookoffforJupiter,

MrsHathaway.’Sheshookhishandvigorously.‘Mydaughters,MargueriteandSusan.My

son,John.Yourememberthecaptain,surely?’Handswereshakenamidlaughterandmuchtalk.CaptainWildersniffedtheair,‘Isthatgingerbread?’‘Willyouhavesome?’Everyone moved. Folding tables were hurried out while hot foods were

rushed forth and plates and fine damask napkins and good silverwarewerelaid.CaptainWilderstoodlookingfirstatMrsHathawayandthenathersonandher two tall,quiet-movingdaughters.He looked into their facesas theydarted past and he followed everymove of their youthful hands and everyexpression of their wrinkleless faces. He sat upon a chair the son brought.‘Howoldareyou,John?’Thesonreplied,‘Twenty-three.’Wilder shifted his silverware clumsily. His face was suddenly pale. The

mannexttohimwhispered,‘CaptainWilder,thatcan’tberight.’Thesonmovedawaytobringmorechairs.‘What’sthat,Williamson?’‘I’mforty-threemyself,Captain. Iwas in school thesame timeasyoung

JohnHathawaythere,twentyyearsago.Hesayshe’sonlytwenty-threenow;heonlylookstwenty-three.Butthat’swrong.Heshouldbeforty-two,atleast.What’sitmean,sir?’‘Idon’tknow.’‘Youlookkindofsick,sir.’‘Idon’tfeelwell.Thedaughters, too,Isawthemtwentyyearsorsoago;

theyhaven’tchanged,notawrinkle.Willyoudomeafavour?Iwantyoutorunanerrand,Williamson.I’lltellyouwheretogoandwhattocheck.Lateinthebreakfast,slipaway.Itshouldtakeyouonlytenminutes.Theplaceisn’tfarfromhere.Isawitfromtherocketaswelanded.’‘Here! What are you talking about so seriously?’ Mrs Hathaway ladled

quick spoons of soup into their bowls. ‘Smile now; we’re all together, thetrip’sover,andit’slikehome!’‘Yes.’CaptainWilder laughed. ‘You certainly look verywell and young,

MrsHathaway!’‘Isn’tthatlikeaman!’Hewatched her drift away, driftwith her pink facewarm, smooth as an

apple, unwrinkled and colourful. She chimed her laugh at every joke, shetossed salads neatly, never once pausing for breath. And the bony son andcurved daughterswere brilliantlywitty, like their father, telling of the longyearsandtheirsecretlife,whiletheirfathernoddedproudlytoeach.Williamsonslippedoffdownthehill.‘Where’shegoing?’askedHathaway.‘Checkingtherocket,’saidWilder.‘But,asIwassaying,Hathaway,there’s

nothingon Jupiter, nothing at all formen.That includesSaturn andPluto.’Wilder talked mechanically, not hearing his words, thinking only ofWilliamson running down the hill and climbing back to tell what he hadfound.‘Thanks.’MargueriteHathawaywasfillinghiswater-glass.Impulsivelyhe

touchedherarm.Shedidnotevenmind.Herfleshwaswarmandsoft.Hathaway,acrossthetable,pausedseveraltimes,touchedhischestwithhis

fingers, painfully, thenwent on listening to themurmuring talk and suddenloudchattering,glancingnowandagainwithconcernatWilder,whodidnotseemtolikechewinghisgingerbread.Williamsonreturned.Hesatpickingathisfooduntilthecaptainwhispered

asidetohim,‘Well?’‘Ifoundit,sir.’‘And?’Williamson’scheekswerewhite.Hekepthiseyesonthelaughingpeople.

The daughters were smiling gravely and the son was telling a joke.

Williamsonsaid,‘Iwentintothegraveyard.’‘Thefourcrosseswerethere?’‘The four crosseswere there, sir. The nameswere still on them. Iwrote

them down to be sure.’ He read from a white paper: ‘Alice, Marguerite,Susan,andJohnHathaway.Diedofunknownvirus.July2007.’‘Thankyou,Williamson.’Wilderclosedhiseyes.‘Nineteenyearsago,sir.’Williamson’shandtrembled.‘Yes.’‘Thenwhoarethese?‘Idon’tknow.’‘Whatareyougoingtodo?’‘Idon’tknowthateither.’‘Willwetelltheothermen?’‘Later.Goonwithyourfoodasifnothinghappened.’‘I’mnotveryhungrynow,sir.’Themeal endedwithwine brought from the rocket.Hathaway arose. ‘A

toast to all of you; it’s good to bewith friends again.And tomywife andchildren, without whom I couldn’t have survived alone. It is only throughtheirkindnessincaringformethatI’velivedon,waitingforyourarrival.’Hemovedhiswine-glasstowardshisfamily,wholookedbackself-consciously,loweringtheireyesatlastaseveryonedrank.Hathawaydrankdownhiswine.Hedidnotcryoutashefellforwardonto

thetableandslippedtotheground.Severalmeneasedhimtorest.Thedoctorbent to him and listened.Wilder touched the doctor’s shoulder. The doctorlooked up and shook his head.Wilder knelt and took the old man’s hand.‘Wilder?’Hathaway’svoicewasbarelyaudible.‘Ispoiledthebreakfast.’‘Nonsense.’‘Saygood-byetoAliceandthechildrenforme.’‘Justamoment,I’llcallthem.’‘No,no,don’t!’gaspedHathaway.‘Theywouldn’tunderstand.Iwouldn’t

wantthemtounderstand!Don’t!’Wilderdidnotmove.Hathawaywasdead.Wilderwaited for a long time.Thenhe arose andwalkedaway from the

stunnedgrouparoundHathaway.HewenttoAliceHathaway,lookedintoherface,andsaid,‘Doyouknowwhathasjusthappened?’‘Somethingaboutmyhusband?’‘He’sjustpassedaway;hisheart,’saidWilder,watchingher.‘I’msorry,’shesaid.‘Howdoyoufeel?’heasked.

‘Hedidn’twantustofeelbadly.Hetoldusitwouldhappenonedayandhedidn’twantustocry.Hedidn’tteachushow,youknow.Hedidn’twantustoknow.Hesaiditwastheworstthingthatcouldhappentoamantoknowhowtobelonelyandknowhowtobesadandthentocry.Sowe’renottoknowwhatcryingis,orbeingsad.’Wilderglancedatherhands, thesoftwarmhandsandthefinemanicured

nailsandthetaperedwrists.Hesawherslender,smoothwhiteneckandherintelligenteyes.Finallyhesaid,‘MrHathawaydidafinejobonyouandyourchildren.’‘Hewouldhavelikedtohearyousaythat.Hewassoproudofus.Aftera

whileheevenforgotthathehadmadeus.Attheendhelovedandtookusashisrealwifeandchildren.And,inaway,weare,’‘Yougavehimagooddealofcomfort.’‘Yes, for years on endwe sat and talked.He somuch loved to talk.He

likedthestonehutandtheopenfire.Wewouldhavelivedinaregularhouseinthetown,buthelikedituphere,wherehecouldbeprimitiveifheliked,ormodernifheliked.Hetoldmeallabouthislaboratoryandthethingshedidin it.Hewired the entire deadAmerican town belowwith sound speakers.Whenhepressedabuttonthetownlitupandmadenoisesasiftenthousandpeoplelivedinit.Therewereairplanenoisesandcarnoisesandthesoundsofpeopletalking.Hewouldsitandlightacigarandtalktous,andthesoundsofthetownwouldcomeuptous,andonceinawhilethephonewouldringanda recorded voice would askMrHathaway scientific and surgical questionsand he would answer them. With the phone ringing and us here and thesoundsofthetownandhiscigar,MrHathawaywasquitehappy.There’sonlyone thinghecouldn’tmakeusdo,’shesaid. ‘Andthatwas togrowold.Hegotoldereveryday,butwestayedthesame.Iguesshedidn’tmind.Iguesshewantedusthisway.’‘We’llburyhimdownintheyardwheretheotherfourcrossesare.Ithink

hewouldlikethat.’Sheputherhandonhiswrist,lightly.‘I’msurehewould.’Ordersweregiven.Thefamilyfollowedthelittleprocessiondownthehill.

TwomencarriedHathawayonacoveredstretcher.Theypassedthestonehutand the storage shed where Hathaway, many years before, had begun hiswork,Wilderpausedwithintheworkshopdoor.Howwould itbe,hewondered, to liveonaplanetwithawifeand three

children and have them die, leaving you alone with the wind and silence?Whatwouldapersondo?Burythemwithcrossesinthegraveyardandthencomebackuptotheworkshopand,withallthepowerofmindandmemoryandaccuracyoffingerandgenius,puttogether,bitbybit,allthosethingsthat

werewife,son,daughter.WithanentireAmericancitybelowfromwhichtodrawneededsupplies,abrilliantmanmightdoanything.Thesoundoftheirfootstepswasmuffledinthesand.Atthegraveyard,as

theyturnedin,twomenwerealreadyspadingouttheearth.

Theyreturnedtotherocketinthelateafternoon.Williamsonnoddedatthestonehut.‘Whatarewegoingtodoaboutthem?’‘Idon’tknow,’saidthecaptain.‘Areyougoingtoturnthemoff?’‘Off?’Thecaptainlookedfaintlysurprised.‘Itneverenteredmymind.’‘You’renottakingthembackwithus?’‘No,itwouldbeuseless.’‘Youmeanyou’regoingtoleavethemhere,likethat,astheyare!’ThecaptainhandedWilliamsonagun.‘Ifyoucandoanythingaboutthis,

you’reabettermanthanI.’FiveminuteslaterWilliamsonreturnedfromthehut,sweating.‘Here,take

yourgun. Iunderstandwhatyoumeannow.Iwent in thehutwith thegun.Oneofthedaughterssmiledatme.Sodidtheothers.Thewifeofferedmeacupoftea.Lord,it’dbemurder!’Wildernodded.‘There’llneverbeanythingasfineasthemagain.They’re

builttolast;ten,fifty,twohundredyears.Yes,they’veasmuchrightto–tolife as you or I or any of us.’He knocked out his pipe. ‘Well, get aboard.We’retakingoff.Thiscity’sdonefor,we’llnotbeusingit.’Itwaslateintheday.Acoldwindwasrising.Themenwereaboard.The

captainhesitated.Williamsonsaid,‘Don’ttellmeyou’regoingbacktosay–good-bye–tothem?’ThecaptainlookedatWilliamsoncoldly.‘Noneofyourbusiness.’Wilderstrodeuptowardsthehutthroughthedarkeningwind.Themenin

the rocket saw his shadow lingering in the stone-hut doorway. They saw awoman’sshadow.Theysawthecaptainshakeherhand.Momentslaterhecamerunningbacktotherocket.

Onnightswhen thewindcomesover thedeadsea-bottomsand through thehexagonalgraveyard,overfouroldcrossesandonenewone,thereisalightburninginthelowstonehut,andinthathut,asthewindroarsbyandthedustwhirls and the cold stars burn, are four figures, awoman, twodaughters, ason,tendingalowfirefornoreasonandtalkingandlaughing.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 longmoment,lookingatthegreenburningofEarth,notknowingwhyshelooks,andthen

shegoesbackandthrowsastickonthefire,andthewindcomesupandthedeadseagoesonbeingdead.

AUGUST2026

ThereWillComeSoftRains

Intheliving-roomthevoice-clocksang,Tick-tock,seveno’clock,timetogetup,timetogetup,seveno’clock!asifitwereafraidthatnobodywould.Themorninghouselayempty.Theclocktickedon,repeatingitssoundsintotheemptiness.Seven-nine,breakfasttime,seven-nine!Inthekitchenthebreakfaststovegaveahissingsighandejectedfromits

warminteriorseightpiecesofperfectlybrownedtoast,eighteggssunny-sideup,sixteenslicesofbacon,twocoffees,andtwocoolglassesofmilk.‘TodayisAugust4,2026,’saidasecondvoicefromthekitchenceiling,‘in

the city of Allendale, California.’ It repeated the date three times formemory’ssake.TodayisMrFeatherstone’sbirthday.Todayistheanniversaryof Tilita’s marriage. Insurance is payable, as are the water, gas, and lightbills.’Somewhereinthewalls,relaysclicked,memorytapesglidedunderelectric

eyes.Eight-one,tick-tock,eight-oneo’clock,offtoschool,offtowork,run,run,

eight-one! but no doors slammed, no carpets took the soft tread of rubberheels.Itwasrainingoutside.Theweatherboxonthefrontdoorsangquietly:‘Rain,rain,goaway;rubbers,raincoatsfortoday…’Andtheraintappedontheemptyhouse,echoing.Outside, the garage chimed and lifted its door to reveal the waiting car.

Afteralongwaitthedoorswungdownagain.At eight-thirty the eggswere shrivelled and the toastwas like stone.An

aluminiumwedgescrapedthemintothesink,wherehotwaterwhirledthemdownametalthroatwhichdigestedandflushedthemawaytothedistantsea.Thedirtydishesweredroppedintoahotwasherandemergedtwinklingdry.Nine-fifteen,sangtheclock,timetoclean.Outofwarrensinthewall,tinyrobotmicedarted.Theroomswerea-crawl

with thesmallcleaninganimals,all rubberandmetal.Theythuddedagainstchairs, whirling their moustached runners, kneading the rug nap, suckinggentlyathiddendust.Then,likemysteriousinvaders,theypoppedintotheirburrows.Theirpinkelectriceyesfaded.Thehousewasclean.Teno’clock.Thesuncameoutfrombehindtherain.Thehousestoodalone

inacityofrubbleandashes.Thiswastheonehouseleftstanding.Atnighttheruinedcitygaveoffaradioactiveglowwhichcouldbeseenformiles.Ten-fifteen.Thegarden sprinklerswhirledup ingolden founts, filling the

soft morning air with scatterings of brightness. The water pelted window-panes,runningdownthecharredwestsidewherethehousehadbeenburnedevenly freeof itswhitepaint.The entirewest faceof thehousewasblack,save for five places.Here the silhouette in paint of amanmowing a lawn.Here, as in a photograph, awoman bent to pick flowers. Still farther over,theirimagesburnedonwoodinonetitanicinstant,asmallboy,handsflunginto theair;higherup, the imageofa thrownball, andoppositehimagirl,handsraisedtocatchaballwhichnevercamedown.The five spots of paint – the man, the woman, the children, the ball –

remained.Therestwasathincharcoaledlayer.Thegentlesprinklerrainfilledthegardenwithfallinglight.Untilthisday,howwellthehousehadkeptitspeace!Howcarefullyithad

inquired, ‘Who goes there?What’s the password?’ and, getting no answerfrom lonely foxes andwhining cats, it had shut up itswindows and drawnshadesinanold-maidenlypreoccupationwithself-protectionwhichborderedonamechanicalparanoia.Itquiveredateachsound, thehousedid. Ifasparrowbrushedawindow,

theshadesnappedup.Thebird,startled,flewoff!No,notevenabirdmusttouchthehouse!Thehousewasanaltarwithtenthousandattendants,big,small,servicing,

attending,inchoirs.Butthegodshadgoneaway,andtheritualofthereligioncontinuedsenselessly,uselessly.Twelvenoon.Adogwhined,shivering,onthefrontporch.Thefrontdoorrecognizedthedogvoiceandopened.Thedog,oncehuge

and fleshy, but now gone to bone and covered with sores, moved in andthrough the house, tracking mud. Behind it whirred angry mice, angry athavingtopickupmud,angryatinconvenience.For not a leaf fragment blew under the door but what the wall-panels

flippedopenandthecopperscrapratsflashedswiftlyout.Theoffendingdust,hairorpaper,seizedinminiaturesteeljaws,wasracedbacktotheburrows.There,downtubeswhichfedintothecellar, itwasdroppedintothesighingventofanincineratorwhichsatlikeevilBaalinadarkcorner.Thedogranupstairs,hystericallyyelpingtoeachdoor,atlastrealizing,as

thehouserealized,thatonlysilencewashere.Itsniffedtheairandscratchedthekitchendoor.Behindthedoor,thestove

wasmakingpancakeswhichfilledthehousewitharichbakedodourandthe

scentofmaplesyrup.Thedogfrothedatthemouth,lyingatthedoor,sniffing,itseyesturnedto

fire.Itranwildlyincircles,bitingatitstail,spuninafrenzy,anddied.Itlayintheparlourforanhour.Twoo’clock,sangavoice.Delicately sensing decay at last, the regiments of mice hummed out as

softlyasblowgreyleavesinanelectricalwind.Two-fifteen.Thedogwasgone.Inthecellar,theincineratorglowedsuddenlyandawhirlofsparksleaped

upthechimney.Twothirty-five.Bridgetablessproutedfrompatiowalls.Playing-cardsflutteredontopads

ina showerofpips.Martinismanifestedonanoakenbenchwithegg-saladsandwiches.Musicplayed.Butthetablesweresilentandthecardsuntouched.At four o’clock the tables folded like great butterflies back through the

panelledwalls.

Four-thirty.Thenurserywallsglowed.Animals took shape: yellow giraffes, blue lions, pink antelopes, lilac

panthers cavorting in crystal substance. Thewallswere glass. They lookedout upon colour and fantasy. Hidden films clocked through well-oiledsprockets, and thewalls lived. The nursery floorwaswoven to resemble acrisp,cerealmeadow.Overthisranaluminiumroachesandironcrickets,andinthehot,stillairbutterfliesofdelicateredtissuewaveredamongthesharparomasofanimalspoors!Therewasthesoundlikeagreatmattedyellowhiveofbeeswithinadarkbellows, the lazybumbleofapurring lion.And therewasthepatterofokapifeetandthemurmurofafreshjunglerain,likeotherhoofs,fallinguponthesummer-starchedgrass.Nowthewallsdissolvedintodistancesofparchedweed,mileonmile,andwarm,endlesssky.Theanimalsdrewawayintothornbrakesandwater-holes.Itwasthechildren’shour.

Fiveo’clock.Thebathfilledwithclearhotwater.Six,seven,eighto’clock.Thedinnerdishesmanipulatedlikemagictricks,

and in thestudyaclick. In themetal standopposite thehearthwherea firenowblazedupwarmly,acigarpoppedout,halfaninchofsoftgreyashonit,smoking,waiting.

Nineo’clock.Thebedswarmedtheirhiddencircuits,fornightswerecoolhere.Nine-five. A voice spoke from the study ceiling: ‘MrsMcClellan, which

poemwouldyoulikethisevening?’Thehousewassilent.The voice said at last, ‘Since you express no preference, I shall select a

poemat random.’Quietmusic rose to back the voice. ‘SaraTeasdale.As Irecall,yourfavourite…

‘Therewillcomesoftrainsandthesmelloftheground,Theswallowscirclingwiththeirshimmeringsound;

Andfrogsinthepoolssingingatnight,Andwildplum-treesintremulouswhite;

Robinswillweartheirfeatheryfire,Whistlingtheirwhimsonalowfence-wire;

Andnotonewillknowofthewar,notoneWillcareatlastwhenitisdone.

Notonewouldmind,neitherbirdnortree,Ifmankindperishedutterly;

AndSpringherself,whenshewokeatdawn,Wouldscarcelyknowthatweweregone.’

Thefireburnedonthestonehearthandthecigarfellawayintoamoundofquiet ash on its tray. The empty chairs faced each other between the silentwalls,andthemusicplayed.

Atteno’clockthehousebegantodie.Thewindblew.Afallingtree-boughcrashedthroughthekitchenwindow.

Cleaningsolvent,bottled,shatteredoverthestove.Theroomwasablazeinaninstant!‘Fire!’screamedavoice.Thehouse-lightsflashed,water-pumpsshotwater

from the ceilings. But the solvent spread on the linoleum, licking, eating,underthekitchendoor,whilethevoicestookitupinchorus:‘Fire,fire,fire!’Thehousetriedtosaveitself.Doorssprangtightlyshut,butthewindows

werebrokenbytheheat,andthewindblewandsuckeduponthefire.Thehousegavegroundasthefireintenbillionangrysparksmovedwith

flaming ease from room to room and then up the stairs. While scurryingwater-rats squeaked from thewalls, pistolled theirwater, and ran formore.Andthewall-spraysletdownshowersofmechanicalrain.But too late. Somewhere, sighing, a pump shrugged to a stop. The

quenchingrainceased.Thereservewatersupplywhichhadfilledbathsandwasheddishesformanyquietdayswasgone.Thefirecrackledupthestairs.ItfeduponthePicassosandMatissesinthe

upper halls, like delicacies, baking off the oily flesh, tenderly crisping thecanvasesintoblackshavings.Nowthefirelayinbeds,stoodinwindows,changedthecoloursofdrapes!Andthen,reinforcements.Fromattic trap-doors, blind robot faces peered downwith faucetmouths

gushinggreenchemical.Thefirebackedoff,asevenanelephantmustatthesightofadeadsnake.

Nowthereweretwentysnakeswhippingoverthefloor,killingthefirewithaclear,coldvenomofgreenfroth.Butthefirewasclever.Ithadsentflameoutsidethehouse,upthroughthe

attic to the pumps there. An explosion! The attic brain which directed thepumpswasshatteredintobronzeshrapnelonthebeams.Thefirerushedbackintoeveryclosetandfelttheclotheshungthere.Thehouseshuddered,oakboneonbone, itsbaredskeletoncringingfrom

theheat,itswire,itsnervesrevealedasifasurgeonhadtorntheskinofftolettheredveinsandcapillariesquiverinthescaldedair.Help,help!Fire!Run,run! Heat snapped mirrors like the first brittle winter ice. And the voiceswailedFire,fire,run,run,likeatragicnurseryrhyme,adozenvoices,high,low,likechildrendyinginaforest,alone,alone.Andthevoicesfadingasthewirespopped their sheathings likehot chestnuts.One, two, three, four, fivevoicesdied.Inthenurserythejungleburned.Bluelionsroared,purplegiraffesbounded

off. The panthers ran in circles, changing colour, and ten million animals,runningbeforethefire,vanishedofftowardsadistantsteamingriver…Tenmore voices died. In the last instant under the fire avalanche, other

choruses, oblivious, could be heard announcing the time, playing music,cuttingthelawnbyremotecontrolmower,orsettinganumbrellafranticallyoutandintheslammingandopeningfrontdoor,athousandthingshappening,likeaclock-shopwheneachclockstrikesthehourinsanelybeforeoraftertheother,asceneofmaniacconfusion,yetunity;singing,screaming,afewlastcleaningmice darting bravely out to carry the horrid ashes away!And onevoice,withsublimedisregardforthesituation,readpoetryaloudinthefierystudy, until all the film-spools burned, until all the wires withered and the

circuitscracked.Thefireburstthehouseandletitslamflatdown,puffingoutskirtsofspark

andsmoke.Inthekitchen,aninstantbeforetherainoffireandtimber,thestovecould

beseenmakingbreakfastsatapsychopathicrate,tendozeneggs,sixloavesof toast, twenty dozen bacon strips, which, eaten by fire, started the stoveworkingagain,hystericallyhissing!The crash. The attic smashing into kitchen and parlour. The parlour into

cellar,cellarintosub-cellar.Deepfreeze,arm-chair,filmtapes,circuits,beds,andalllikeskeletonsthrowninaclutteredmounddeepunder.Smokeandsilence.Agreatquantityofsmoke.Dawnshowedfaintly in theeast.Among the ruins,onewall stoodalone.

Withinthewall,alastvoicesaid,overandoveragainandagain,evenasthesunrosetoshineupontheheapedrubbleandsteam:‘TodayisAugust5,2026,todayisAugust5,2026,todayis…’

OCTOBER2026

TheMillion-YearPicnic

Somehow the ideawas brought up byMom that perhaps thewhole familywould enjoy a fishing trip. But theyweren’tMom’swords; Timothy knewthat.TheywereDad’swords,andMomusedthemforhimsomehow.Dad shuffled his feet in a clutter of Martian pebbles and agreed. So

immediately therewas a tumult and a shouting, and very quickly the campwastuckedintocapsulesandcontainers,Momslippedintotravellingjumpersandblouse,Dad stuffedhis pipe fullwith tremblinghands, his eyes on theMartiansky,andthethreeboyspiledyellingintothemotorboat,noneofthemreallykeepinganeyeonMomandDad,exceptTimothy.Dadpushedastud.Thewater-boatsentahummingsoundupintothesky.

The water shook back and the boat nosed ahead, and the family cried,‘Hurrah!’TimothysatinthebackoftheboatwithDad,hissmallfingersatopDad’s

hairyones,watchingthecanaltwist,leavingthecrumbledplacebehindwherethey had landed in their small family rocket all the way from Earth. Heremembered the night before they left Earth, the hustling and hurrying, therocketthatDadhadfoundsomewhere,somehow,andthetalkofavacationonMars.Alongwaytogoforavacation,butTimothysaidnothingbecauseofhisyoungerbrothers.TheycametoMarsandnow,firstthing,orsotheysaid,theyweregoingfishing.Dadhad a funny look inhis eyes as theboatwent up-canal.A look that

Timothy couldn’t figure. It was made of strong light and maybe a sort ofrelief.Itmadethedeepwrinkleslaughinsteadofworryorcry.Sotherewentthecoolingrocket,aroundabend,gone.‘Howfararewegoing?’Robert splashedhishand. It looked likeasmall

crabjumpinginthevioletwater.Dadexhaled.‘Amillionyears.’‘Gee,’saidRobert.‘Look,kids.’Motherpointedonesoft,longarm.‘There’sadeadcity.’Theylookedwithferventanticipation,andthedeadcitylaydeadforthem

alone, drowsing in a hot silence of summer made on Mars by a Martianweather-man.

AndDadlookedasifhewaspleasedthatitwasdead.It was a futile spread of pink rocks sleeping on a rise of sand, a few

tumbledpillars,onelonelyshrine,andthenthesweepofsandagain.Nothingelseformiles.Awhitedesertaroundthecanalandabluedesertoverit.Just thenabird flewup.Likea stone thrownacrossabluepond,hitting,

fallingdeep,andvanishing.Dadgotafrightenedlookwhenhesawit.‘Ithoughtitwasarocket.’Timothylookedatthedeepoceansky,tryingtoseeEarthandthewarand

theruinedcitiesandthemenkillingeachothersincethedayhewasborn.Buthesawnothing.Thewarwasasremovedandfaroffastwofliesbattlingtothedeathinthearchofagreathighandsilentcathedral.Andjustassenseless.WilliamThomaswipedhisforeheadandfeltthetouchofhisson’shandon

hisarm,likeayoungtarantula,thrilled.Hebeamedathisson.‘HowgoesitTimothy?’‘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–andthehotblueeyeslikeagatemarblesyouplaywithafterschoolin summer back on Earth, and the long, thick columnar legs in the looseriding-breeches.‘Whatareyoulookingatsohard,Dad?’‘IwaslookingforEarthianlogic,commonsense,goodgovernment,peace

andresponsibility.’‘Allthatupthere?’‘No. I didn’t find it. It’s not there anymore.Maybe it’ll never be there

again.Maybewefooledourselvesthatitwaseverthere.’‘Huh?’‘Seethefish,’saidDad,pointing.

Thereroseasopranoclamourfromallthreeboysastheyrockedtheboatinarching their tender necks to see. They oohed and ahed. A silver ring fishfloated by them, undulating, and closing like an iris, instantly, around foodparticles,toassimilatethem.Dadlookedatit.Hisvoicewasdeepandquiet.‘Just like war.War swims along, see food, contracts. A moment later –

Earthisgone.’‘William,’saidMom.‘Sorry,’saidDad.Theysatstillandfeltthecanalwaterrushcool,swift,andglassy.Theonly

soundwasthemotorhum,theglideofwater,thesunexpandingtheair.

‘WhendoweseetheMartians?’criedMichael.‘Quitesoon,perhaps,’saidFather.‘Maybetonight.’‘Oh,buttheMartiansareadeadracenow,’saidMom.‘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.

Vacationsandfishingandlooksbetweenpeople.Theotherboyswerealreadyengagedmakingshelvesoftheirsmallhands

andpeeringunderthemtowardstheseven-footbanksofthecanal,watchingforMartians.‘Whatdotheylooklike?’demandedMichael.‘You’llknowthemwhenyouseethem.’Dadsortoflaughed,andTimothy

sawapulsebeatingtimeinhischeek.Motherwasslenderandsoft,withawovenplaitofspun-goldhairoverher

headinatiara,andeyesthecolourofthedeep,coolcanalwater,whereitraninshadow,almostpurple,withflecksofambercaughtinit.Youcouldseeherthoughts swimmingaround inher eyes, like fish– somebright, somedark,somefast,quick,someslowandeasy,andsometimes,likewhenshelookedupwhereEarthwas,beingnothingbutcolourandnothingelse.Shesatintheboat’sprow,onehandrestingonthesidelip,theotheronthelapofherdarkblue breeches, and a line of sunburnt soft neck showing where her blouseopenedlikeawhiteflower.Shekeptlookingaheadtoseewhatwasthere,and,notbeingabletoseeit

clearly enough, she lookedbackward towardsher husband, and throughhiseyes, reflected then, she saw what was ahead; and since he added part ofhimself to this reflection, a determined firmness, her face relaxed and sheaccepteditandsheturnedback,knowingsuddenlywhattolookfor.Timothylookedtoo.Butallhesawwasastraightpencillineofcanalgoing

violet through a wide, shallow valley penned by low, eroded hills, and onuntilitfelloverthesky’sedge.Andthiscanalwentonandon,throughcitiesthat would have rattled like beetles in a dry skull if you shook them. Ahundred or two hundred cities dreaming hot summer-day dreams and coolsummer-nightdreams…Theyhad comemillions ofmiles for this outing – to fish.But there had

been agunon the rocket.Thiswas a vacation.Butwhy all the food,morethan enough to last them years and years, left hidden back there near therocket?Vacation. Justbehind theveilof thevacationwasnotasoft faceoflaughter,butsomethinghardandbonyandperhapsterrifying.Timothycouldnotlift theveil,andthetwootherboyswerebusybeingtenandeightyearsold,respectively.

‘NoMartians yet. Nuts.’ Robert put hisV-shaped chin on his hands andglaredatthecanal.Dadhadbroughtanatomicradioalong,strappedtohiswrist.Itfunctioned

onanold-fashionedprinciple:youhelditagainstthebonesnearyourearanditvibratedsingingortalkingtoyou.Dadlistenedtoitnow.HisfacelookedlikeoneofthosefallenMartiancities,cavedin,suckeddry,almostdead.ThenhegaveittoMomtolisten.Herlipsdroppedopen.‘What—’Timothystartedtoquestion,butneverfinishedwhathewishedto

say.Forat thatmoment therewere twotitanic,marrow-joltingexplosions that

grewuponthemselves,followedbyahalf-dozenminorconcussions.Jerkinghisheadup,Dadnotchedtheboatspeedhigher immediately.The

boatleapedandjouncedandspanked.ThisshookRobertoutofhisfunkandelicited yelps of frightened but ecstatic joy from Michael, who clung toMom’slegsandwatchedthewaterpourbyhisnoseinawettorrent.Dadswervedtheboat,cutspeed,andduckedthecraft intoa littlebranch

canalandunderanancient,crumblingstonewharfthatsmelledofcrab-flesh.Theboat rammed thewharfhardenough to throw themall forward,butnoonewashurt,andDadwasalreadytwistedtoseeif theripplesonthecanalwereenoughtomaptheir route intohiding.Water-lineswentacross, lappedthestonesandrippledbacktomeeteachother,settling,tobedappledbythesun.Itallwentaway.Dadlistened.Sodideverybody.Dad’s breathing echoed like fists beating against the cold, wet, wharf

stones. In theshadowMom’scateyes justwatchedFather for someclue towhatnext.Dadrelaxedandblewoutabreath,laughingathimself.‘Therocket,ofcourse.I’mgettingjumpy.Therocket.’Michaelsaid,‘Whathappened,Dad,whathappened?’‘Oh, we just blew up our rocket, is all,’ said Timothy, trying to sound

matter-of-fact.‘I’veheardrocketsblownupbefore.Oursjustblew.’‘Whydidweblowupourrocket?’askedMichael.‘Huh,Dad?’‘It’spartofthegame,silly!’saidTimothy.‘Agame!’MichaelandRobertlovedtheword.‘Dadfixeditsoitwouldblowupandnoone’dknowwherewelandedor

went!Incasetheyevercamelooking,see?’‘Oh,boy,asecret!’‘Scaredbymyownrocket,’admittedDadtoMom.‘Iamnervous.It’ssilly

to think there’ll everbeanymore rockets.Exceptone, perhaps, ifEdwardsandhiswifegetthroughwiththeirship.’

Heput his tiny radio to his ear again.After twominutes he dropped hishandasyouwoulddroparag.‘It’soveratlast,’hesaidtoMom.‘Theradiojustwentofftheatomicbeam.

Everyotherworldstation’sgone.Theydwindleddowntoacoupleinthelastfewyears.Nowtheair’scompletelysilent.It’llprobablyremainsilent.’‘Forhowlong?’askedRobert.‘Maybe–yourgreat-grandchildrenwillhearitagain,’saidDad.Hejustsat

there, and the childrenwere caught in the centreofhis aweanddefeat andresignationandacceptance.Finallyheputtheboatoutintothecanalagain,andtheycontinuedinthe

directioninwhichtheyhadoriginallystarted.Itwasgettinglate.Alreadythesunwasdownthesky,andaseriesofdead

citieslayaheadofthem.Dadtalkedveryquietlyandgentlytohissons.Manytimesinthepasthe

hadbeenbrisk,distant, removedfromthem,butnowhepatted themon theheadwithjustawordandtheyfeltit.‘Mike,pickacity.’‘What,Dad?’‘Pickacity,Son.Anyoneofthesecitieswepass.’‘Allright,’saidMichael.‘HowdoIpick?’‘Pick theoneyou like themost.You, too,Robert andTim.Pick the city

youlikebest.’‘IwantacitywithMartiansinit,’saidMichael.‘You’llhavethat,’saidDad.‘Ipromise.’Hislipswereforthechildren,but

hiseyeswereforMom.They passed six cities in twentyminutes. Dad didn’t say anythingmore

abouttheexplosions;heseemedmuchmoreinterestedinhavingfunwithhissons,keepingthemhappy,thananythingelse.Michael liked the first city they passed, but this was vetoed because

everyonedoubtedquickfirstjudgments.Thesecondcitynobodyliked.Itwasan EarthMan’s settlement, built ofwood and already rotting into sawdust.Timothy liked the thirdcitybecause itwas large.The fourthand fifthweretoo small, and the sixth brought acclaim from everyone, includingMother,whojoinedintheGees,Goshes,andLook-at-thats!Therewere fiftyor sixtyhugestructures still standing, streetsweredusty

butpaved,andyoucouldseeoneortwooldcentrifugalfountainsstillpulsingwetlyintheplazas.Thatwastheonlylife–waterleapinginthelatesunlight.‘Thisisthecity,’saideverybody.Steeringtheboattoawharf,Dadjumpedout.‘Hereweare.Thisisours.Thisiswherewelivefromnowon!’

‘Fromnowon?’Michaelwasincredulous.Hestoodup,looking,andthenturnedtoblinkbackatwheretherocketusedtobe.‘Whatabouttherocket?WhataboutMinnesota?’‘Here,’saidDad.HetouchedthesmallradiotoMichael’sblondhead.‘Listen.’Michaellistened.‘Nothing,’hesaid.‘That’sright.Nothing.Nothingatallanymore.NomoreMinneapolis,no

morerockets,nomoreEarth.’Michaelconsideredthelethalrevelationsandbegantosoblittledrysobs.‘Waitamoment,’saidDadthenextinstant.‘I’mgivingyoualotmorein

exchange,Mike!’‘What?’Michaelheldoffthetears,curious,butquitereadytocontinuein

caseDad’sfurtherrevelationwasasdisconcertingastheoriginal.‘I’mgivingyouthiscity,Mike.It’syours.’‘Mine?’‘ForyouandRobertandTimothy,allthreeofyou,toownforyourselves.’Timothybounded from theboat. ‘Look,guys,all forus!Allof that!’He

wasplaying the gamewithDad, playing it large andplaying itwell.Later,afteritwasalloverandthingshadsettled,hecouldgooffbyhimselfandcryfor tenminutes.But now itwas still a game, still a family outing, and theotherkidsmustbekeptplaying.MikejumpedoutwithRobert.TheyhelpedMom.‘Becarefulofyoursister,’saidDad,andnobodyknewwhathemeantuntil

later.Theyhurriedintothegreatpink-stonedcity,whisperingamongthemselves,

becausedeadcitieshaveawayofmakingyouwanttowhisper,towatchthesungodown.‘In about five days,’ said Dad quietly. ‘I’ll go back down to where our

rocketwasandcollectthefoodhiddenintheruinsthereandbringithere;andI’llhuntforBertEdwardsandhiswifeanddaughtersthere.’‘Daughters?’askedTimothy.‘Howmany?’‘Four.’‘Icanseethat’llcausetroublelater.’Momnoddedslowly.‘Girls.’MichaelmadeafacelikeanancientMartianstoneimage.‘Girls.’‘Aretheycominginarockettoo?’‘Yes.Iftheymakeit.FamilyrocketsaremadefortraveltotheMoon,not

Mars.Wewereluckywegotthrough.’‘Where did you get the rocket?’ whispered Timothy, for the other boys

wererunningahead.

‘Isavedit.Isaveditfortwentyyears,Tim.Ihadithiddenaway,hopingI’dneverhavetouse it. IsupposeIshouldhavegivenit to thegovernmentforthewar,butIkeptthinkingaboutMars…’‘Andapicnic!’‘Right.Thisisbetweenyouandme.WhenIsaweverythingwasfinishing

onEarth,afterI’dwaiteduntilthelastmoment,Ipackedusup.BertEdwardshadashiphidden,too,butwedecideditwouldbesafertotakeoffseparately,incaseanyonetriedtoshootusdown.’‘Why’dyoublowuptherocket,Dad?’‘Sowecan’tgoback,ever.Andsoifanyofthoseevilmenevercometo

Marstheywon’tknowwe’rehere.’‘Isthatwhyyoulookupallthetime?’‘Yes,it’ssilly.Theywon’tfollowus,ever.Theyhaven’tanythingtofollow

with.I’mbeingtoocareful,isall.’Michaelcamerunningback.‘Isthisreallyourcity,Dad?’‘Thewholedarnplanetbelongstous,kids.Thewholedarnplanet.’They stood there, King of theHill, Top of theHeap, Ruler ofAll They

Surveyed, Unimpeachable Monarchs and Presidents, trying to understandwhatitmeanttoownaworldandhowbigaworldreallywas.Nightcamequicklyinthethinatmosphere,andDadlefttheminthesquare

by the pulsing fountain, went down to the boat, and came walking backcarryingastackofpaperinhisbighands.He laid thepapers in a clutter in anold courtyard and set themafire.To

keepwarm, they crouched around the blaze and laughed, andTimothy sawthe little letters leap like frightened animals when the flames touched andengulfedthem.Thepaperscrinkledlikeanoldman’sskin,andthecremationsurroundedinnumerablewords:‘GOVERNMENT BONDS; Business Graph, 1999; Religious Prejudice: An

Essay;TheScienceofLogistics;ProblemsofthePan-AmericanUnity;StockReportforJuly3,1998;TheWarDigest…’Dadhadinsistedonbringingthesepapersforthispurpose.Hesatthereand

fedthemintothefire,onebyone,withsatisfaction,andtoldhischildrenwhatitallmeant.‘It’s time I toldyoua few things. Idon’t suppose itwas fair, keeping so

muchfromyou.Idon’tknowifyou’llunderstand,butIhavetotalk,evenifonlypartofitgetsovertoyou.’Hedroppedaleafinthefire.‘I’mburningawayoflife,justlikethatwayoflifeisbeingburnedcleanof

Earthrightnow.ForgivemeifItalklikeapolitician.Iam,afterall,aformerstategovernor,andIwashonestandtheyhatedmeforit.LifeonEarthnever

settleddowntodoinganythingverygood.Sciencerantoofaraheadofustooquickly, and the people got lost in a mechanical wilderness, like childrenmaking over pretty things, gadgets, helicopters, rockets; emphasizing thewrongitems,emphasizingmachinesinsteadofhowtorunthemachines.Warsgot bigger and bigger and finally killed Earth. That’swhat the silent radiomeans.That’swhatweranawayfrom.‘Wewerelucky.Therearen’tanymorerocketsleft.It’stimeyouknewthis

isn’t a fishing trip at all. I put off telling you.Earth is gone. Interplanetarytravelwon’tbebackforcenturies,maybenever.Butthatwayoflifeproveditselfwrong and strangled itselfwith its own hands.You’re young. I’ll tellyouthisagaineverydayuntilitsinksin.’Hepausedtofeedmorepaperstothefire.‘Nowwe’realone.Weandahandfulofotherswho’ll landinafewdays.

Enoughtostartover.EnoughtoturnawayfromitallbackonEarthandstrikeoutonanewline—’Thefireleapeduptoemphasizehistalking.Andthenall thepaperswere

goneexceptone.AllthelawsandbeliefsofEarthwereburntintosmall,hotasheswhichsoonwouldbecarriedoffinawind.TimothylookedatthelastthingthatDadtossedinthefire.Itwasamapof

theWorld,anditwrinkledanddistorteditselfhotlyandwent–flimpf–andwasgonelikeawarm,blackbutterfly.Timothyturnedaway.‘NowI’mgoingtoshowyoutheMartians,’saidDad.‘Comeon,allofyou.

Here,Alice.’Hetookherhand.Michaelwascrying loudly, andDadpickedhimupandcarriedhim, and

theywalkeddownthroughtheruinstowardsthecanal.Thecanal.Wheretomorroworthenextdaytheirfuturewiveswouldcome

upinaboat,small,laughinggirlsnow,withtheirfatherandmother.The night came down around them, and there were stars. But Timothy

couldn’tfindEarth.Ithadalreadyset.Thatwassomethingtothinkabout.Anightbirdcalledamongtheruinsastheywalked.Dadsaid,‘Yourmother

andIwilltrytoteachyou.Perhapswe’llfail.Ihopenot.We’vehadagoodlot to see and learn from.We planned this trip years ago, before youwereborn.Eveniftherehadn’tbeenawarwewouldhavecometoMars,Ithink,toliveandformourownstandardofliving.ItwouldhavebeenanothercenturybeforeMarswouldhavebeenreallypoisonedbytheEarthcivilization.Now,ofcourse—’They reached the canal. It was long and straight and cool and wet and

reflectiveinthenight.‘I’vealwayswantedtoseeaMartian,’saidMichael.‘Wherearethey,Dad?

Youpromised.’

‘There they are,’ said Dad, and he shifted Michael on his shoulder andpointedstraightdown.TheMartianswerethere.Timothybegantoshiver.TheMartianswere there– in the canal – reflected in thewater.Timothy

andMichaelandRobertandMomandDad.The Martians stared back at them for a long, long silent time from the

ripplingwater…

IfyouenjoyedTheMartianChronicles,checkouttheseothergreatRayBradburytitles.

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AlsobytheAuthorFAHRENHEIT451

THEMARTIANCHRONICLES

THEILLUSTRATEDMAN

DEATHISALONELYBUSINESS

QUICKERTHANTHEEYE

ISINGTHEBODYELECTRIC

GOLDENAPPLESOFTHESUN

THEOCTOBERCOUNTRY

FROMTHEDUSTRETURNED

DRIVINGBLIND

GREENSHADOWS,WHITEWHALES

THEGRAVEYARDFORLUNATICS

LET’SALLKILLCONSTANCE

THEDAYITRAINEDFOREVER

LONGAFTERMIDNIGHT

THEMACHINERIESOFJOY

SUMMERMORNING,SUMMERNIGHT

SISFORSPACE

RISFORROCKET

DARKCARNIVAL

THEHALLOWEENTREE

THEHAUNTEDCOMPUTERANDTHEANDROIDPOPE

WHENELEPHANTSLASTINTHEDOORYARDBLOOMED

WHEREROBOTMICEANDROBOTMENRUNROUNDINROBOTTOWNS

SWITCHONTHENIGHT

AbouttheAuthorRay Bradbury (August 22, 1920–June 5, 2012) published some 500 shortstories,novels,playsandpoemssincehisfirststoryappearedinWeirdTaleswhen he was twenty years old. Among his many famous works areFahrenheit451,TheIllustratedMan,andTheMartianChronicles.

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