d still as the majestic
 vessels of the Martians drew around and hesitated over him.
      "Earth man,"  a  voice  called  from  a high seat somewhere.
 A silverine  mask  moved.  Ruby-rimmed  lips  glittered  with the
 words.
      "I didn't  do  anything!"  Sam  looked  at  all  the  faces,
 one hundred  in  all,  that  surrounded  him.  There weren't many
 Martians left  on  Mars--one  hundred, one hundred and fifty, all
 told. And  most  of  them  were  here  now,  on the dead seas, in
 their resurrected  ships,  by  their  dead  chess  cities, one of
 which had  just  fallen  like  some fragile vase hit by a pebble.
 The silverine masks glinted.
      "It was  all  a  mistake,"  he  pleaded, standing out of his
 ship, his  wife  slumped  behind  him  in  the deeps of the hold,
 like a  dead  woman. "I came to Mars like any honest enterprising
 businessman. I  took  some  surplus  material  from a rocket that
 crashed and  I  built  me  the  finest  little stand you ever saw
 right there  on  that  land  by the crossroads--you know where it
 is. You've  got  to  admit  it's  a  good  job  of building." Sam
 laughed, staring  around.  "And  that  Martian--I  know  he was a
 friend of  yours--came.  His death was an accident, I assure you.
 All I  wanted  to  do  was  have a hot-dog stand, the only one on
 Mars, the  first  and  most  important one. You understand how it
 is? I  was  going  to  serve the best darned hot dogs there, with
 chili and onions and orange juice."
      The  silver   masks   did  not  move.  They  burned  in  the
 moonlight. Yellow  eyes  shone  upon  Sam.  He  felt  his stomach
 clench in, wither, become a rock. He threw his gun in the sand.
      "I give up."
      "Pick up your gun," said the Martians in chorus.
      "What?"
      "Your gun."  A  jeweled  hand  waved from the prow of a blue
 ship. "Pick it up. Put it away."
      Unbelieving he picked up the gun.
      "Now," said  the  voice,  "turn  your  ship  and  go back to
 your stand."
      "Now?"
      "Now," said  the  voice.  "We  will  not  harm  you. You ran
 away before we were able to explain. Come."

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

                   November 2005:  THE WATCHERS

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

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

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

                 December 2005:  THE SILENT TOWNS

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

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

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

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

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

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

                    April 2026:  THE LONG YEARS

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

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

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

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

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

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

             August 2026:  THERE WILL COME SOFT RAINS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

              October 2026:  THE MILLION-YEAR PICNIC

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

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

  Origin: òÜÊ âÒÜÄÂÅÒÉ .RU
  http://www.raybradbury.ru ?   http://www.raybradbury.ru