thers  or  fathers
 suddenly melting  away  and  taking  knives  and  doing things to
 the unsuspecting, sleeping men of Earth. . . .
      His hands  were  shaking  under  the  covers.  His  body was
 cold. Suddenly  it  was  not  a  theory.  Suddenly  he  was  very
 afraid.
      He lifted  himself  in  bed and listened. The night was very
 quiet The  music  had  stopped.  The  wind  had died. His brother
 lay sleeping beside him.
      Carefully  he  lifted  the  covers,  rolled  them  back.  He
 slipped from  bed  and  was  walking  softly across the room when
 his brother's voice said, "Where are you going?"
      "What?"
      His brother's  voice  was  quite cold. "I said, where do you
 think you're going?"
      "For a drink of water."
      "But you're not thirsty."
      "Yes, yes, I am."
      "No, you're not."
      Captain John  Black  broke  and  ran  across  the  room.  He
 screamed. He screamed twice.
      He never reached the door.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                    August 2001:  THE SETTLERS

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

                 December 2001:  THE GREEN MORNING

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

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

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

                    February 2002: THE LOCUSTS

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

                    August 2002: NIGHT MEETING

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

                     October 2002:  THE SHORE

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

                      February 2003:  INTERIM

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

                    April 2003:  THE MUSICIANS

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

             June 2003:  WAY IN THE MIDDLE OF THE AIR

      "Did you hear about it?"
      "About what?"
      "The niggers, the niggers!"
      "What about 'em?"
      "Them leaving, pulling out, going away; did you hear?"
      "What you mean, pulling out? How can they do that?"
      "They can, they will, they are."
      "Just a couple?"
      "Every single one here in the South!"
      "No."
      "Yes!"
      "I got  to  see that. I don't believe it. Where they going--
 Africa?"
      A silence.
      "Mars."
      "You mean the _planet_ Mars?"
      "That's right."
      The men  stood  up  in  the hot shade of the hardware porch.
 Someone quit  lighting  a  pipe.  Somebody else spat out into the
 hot dust of noon.
      "They can't leave, they can't do that."
      "They're doing it, anyways."
      "Where'd you hear this?"
      "It's everywhere,  on  the  radio  a  minute  ago, just come
 through."
      Like a series of dusty statues, the men came to life.
      Samuel Teece,  the  hardware  proprietor,  laughed uneasily.
 "I _wondered_  what  happened  to Silly. I sent him on my bike an
 hour ago.  He  ain't come back from Mrs. Bordman's yet. You think
 that black fool just pedaled off to Mars?"
      The men snorted.
      "All I  say  is,  he  better  bring  back  my  bike. I don't
 take stealing from no one, by God."
      "Listen!"
      The men collided irritably with each other, turning.
      Far up  the  street  the  levee  seemed  to have broken. The
 black warm  waters  descended  and  engulfed  the  town.  Between
 the blazing  white  banks  of  the  town  stores,  among the tree
 silences, a  black  tide  flowed. Like a kind of summer molasses,
 it  poured  turgidly  forth  upon  the  cinnamon-dusty  road.  It
 surged slow,  slow,  and  it  was  men  and  women and horses and
 barking dogs,  and  it  was  little  boys and girls. And from the
 mouths of  the  people  partaking  of this tide came the sound of
 a  river.   A   summer-day   river   going  somewhere,  murmuring
 and irrevocable.  And  in  that  slow, steady channel of darkness
 that cut  across  the  white  glare  of day were touches of alert
 white, the  eyes,  the  ivory eyes staring ahead, glancing aside,
 as the  river,  the  long  and  endless  river,  took itself from
 old channels  into  a  new  one.  From  various  and  uncountable
 tributaries, in  creeks  and  brooks  of  color  and  motion, the
 parts of  this  river  had  joined,  become  one  mother current,
 and flowed  on.  And  brimming  the  swell were things carried by
 the river:  grandfather  clocks  chiming, kitchen clocks ticking,
 caged  hens   screaming,   babies  wailing;  and  swimming  among
 the thickened  eddies  were mules and cats, and sudden excursions
 of burst  mattress  springs  floating  by,  insane  hair stuffing
 sticking  out,   and  boxes  and  crates  and  pictures  of  dark
 grandfathers in  oak  frames--  the river flowing it on while the
 men sat  like  nervous  hounds on the hardware porch, too late to
 mend the levee, their hands empty.
      Samuel Teece  wouldn't  believe it. "Why, hell, where'd they
 get the transportation? How they goin' to _get_ to Mars?"
      "Rockets," said Grandpa Quartermain.
      "All the damn-fool things. Where'd they get rockets?"
      "Saved their money and built them."
      "I never heard about it."
      "Seems these  niggers  kept it secret, worked on the rockets
 all themselves, don't know where--in Africa, maybe."
      "Could  they  _do_  that?"  demanded  Samuel  Teece,  pacing
 about the porch. "Ain't there a law?"
      "It  ain't  as  if  they're  declarin'  war,"  said  Grandpa
 quietly.
      "Where do  they  get  off,  God  damn it, workin' in secret,
 plottin'?" shouted Teece.
      "Schedule is  for  all  this town's niggers to gather out by
 Loon Lake.  Rockets  be  there  at one o'clock, pick 'em up, take
 'em to Mars."
      "Telephone  the  governor,  call  out  the  militia,"  cried
 Teece. "They should've given notice!"
      "Here comes your woman, Teece."
      The men turned again.
      As they  watched,  down  the  hot road in the windless light
 first one  white  woman  and  then  another  arrived, all of them
 with stunned  faces,  all  of  them rustling like ancient papers.
 Some of  them  were  crying,  some  were  stern. All came to find
 their  husbands.   They   pushed  through  barroom  swing  doors,
 vanishing. They  entered  cool,  quiet groceries. They went in at
 drug shops  and  garages. And one of them, Mrs. Clara Teece, came
 to stand  in  the  dust by the hardware porch, blinking up at her
 stiff and  angry  husband  as  the black river flowed full behind
 her.
      "It's Lucinda, Pa; you got to come home!"
      "I'm not comin' home for no damn darkie!"
      "She's leaving. What'll I do without her?"
      "Fetch for  yourself,  maybe.  I  won't get down on my knees
 to stop her."
      "But she's like a family member," Mrs. Teece moaned.
      "Don't shout!  I  won't  have  you blubberin' in public this
 way about no goddamn--"
      His wife's  small  sob  stopped him. She dabbed at her eyes.
 "I kept  telling  her,  'Lucinda,'  I  said,  'you  stay on and I
 raise your  pay,  and  you  get  _two_  nights off a week, if you
 want,' but  she  just  looked  set!  I never seen her so set, and
 I said,  'Don't  you  _love_  me, Lucinda?' and she said yes, but
 she had  to  go  because  that's  the  way  it  was,  is all. She
 cleaned the  house  and  dusted  it and put luncheon on the table
 and then  she  went  to the parlor door and--and stood there with
 two bundles,  one  by  each  foot,  and  shook  my hand and said,
 'Good-by, Mrs.  Teece.'  And she went out the door. And there was
 her luncheon  on  the  table, and all of us too upset to even eat
 it. It's  still  there  now,  I  know;  last time I looked it was
 getting cold."
      Teece almost  struck  her. "God damn it, Mrs. Teece, you get
 the hell home. Standin' there makin' a sight of yourself!"
      "But, Pa . . ."
      He strode  away  into  the hot dimness of the store. He came
 back out a few seconds later with a silver pistol in his hand.
      His wife was gone.
      The  river  flowed  black  between  the  buildings,  with  a
 rustle and  a  creak  and  a  constant whispering shuffle. It was
 a very  quiet  thing,  with a great certainty to it; no laughter,
 no wildness, just a steady, decided, and ceasel