by Mari Wolf
glass, that sheltered the Earth plants and gave them Earth air tobreathe.
* * * * *
When I came to the second farmhouse John Emery hurried out to meet me.
"Morning, Lewis," he said. "Going to town?"
I shut off the motor and nodded. "I want to catch the early shuttleplane to the spaceport," I said. "I'm going to the city to buy somethings...."
I had to lie about it. I didn't want anyone to know we were eventhinking of leaving, at least not until we had our tickets in ourhands.
"Oh," Emery said. "That's right. I suppose you'll be buying Martha ananniversary present."
I stared at him blankly. I couldn't think what anniversary he meant.
"You'll have been here thirty-five years next week," he said. "That'sa long time, Lewis...."
Thirty-five years. It took me a minute to realize what he meant. Hewas right. That was how long we had been here, in Martian years.
The others, those who had been born here on Mars, always used theMartian seasons. We had too, once. But lately we forgot, and countedin Earth time. It seemed more natural.
"Wait a minute, Lewis," Emery said. "I'll ride into the village withyou. There's plenty of time for you to make your plane."
I went up on his veranda and sat down and waited for him to get ready.I leaned back in the swing chair and rocked slowly back and forth,wondering idly how many times I'd sat here.
This was old Tom Emery's house. Or had been, until he died eight yearsago. He'd built this swing chair the very first year we'd been onMars.
Now it was young John's. Young? That showed how old we were getting.John was sixty-three, in Earth years. He'd been born that secondwinter, the month the parasites got into the greenhouses....
He came back out onto the veranda. "Well, I'm ready, Lewis," he said.
We went down to my trike car and got in.
"You and Martha ought to get out more," he said. "Jenny's been askingme why you don't come to call."
I shrugged. I couldn't tell him we seldom went out because when wedid we were always set apart and treated carefully, like children. Heprobably didn't even realize that it was so.
"Oh," I said. "We like it at home."
He smiled. "I suppose you do, after thirty-five years."
I started the motor quickly, and from then on concentrated on mydriving. He didn't say anything more.
* * * * *
It took only a few minutes to get to the village, but even so I wastired. Lately it grew harder and harder to drive, to keep the trikecar on the narrow strip of pavement. I was glad when we pulled up inthe square and got out.
"I'll walk over to the plane with you," Emery said. "I've got plentyof time."
"All right."
"By the way, Lewis, Jenny and I and some of the neighbors thought we'ddrop over on your anniversary."
"That's fine," I said, trying to sound enthusiastic. "Come on over."
"It's a big event," he said. "Deserves a celebration."
The shuttle plane was just landing. I hurried over to the ticketwindow, with him right beside me.
"I just wanted to be sure you'd be home," he said. "We wouldn't wantyou to miss your own party."
"Party?" I said. "But John--"
He wouldn't even let me finish protesting.
"Now don't ask any questions, Lewis. You wouldn't want to spoil thesurprise, would you?"
He chuckled. "Your plane's loading now. You'd better be going. Thanksfor the ride, Lewis."
I went across to the plane and got in. I hoped that somehow wewouldn't have to spend that Martian anniversary being congratulatedand petted and babied. I didn't think Martha could stand it. But therewasn't any polite way to say no.
* * * * *
It wasn't a long trip to the spaceport. In less than an hour the planedropped down to the air strip that flanked the rocket field. But itwas like flying from one civilization to another.
The city was big, almost like an Earth city. There was lots oftraffic, cars and copters and planes. All the bustle of the spacewaysstations.
But although the city looked like Earth, it smelled as dry andalkaline as all the rest of Mars.
I found the ticket office easily enough and went in. The young clerkbarely glanced up at me. "Yes?" he said.
"I want to inquire about tickets to Earth," I said.
My hands were sweating, and I could feel my heart pounding too fastagainst my ribs. But my voice sounded casual, just the way I wanted itto sound.
"Tickets?" the clerk said. "How many?"
"Two. How much would they cost? Everything included."
"Forty-two eighty," he said. His voice was still bored. "I could givethem to you for the flight after next. Tourist class, of course...."
We didn't have that much. We were at least three hundred short.
"Isn't there any way," I said hesitantly, "that I could get them forless? I mean, we wouldn't need insurance, would we?"
He looked up at me for the first time, startled. "You don't mean youwant them for yourself, do you?"
"Why yes. For me and my wife."
He shook his head. "I'm sorry," he said flatly. "But that would beimpossible in any case. You're too old."
He turned away from me and bent over his desk work again.
The words hung in the air. Too old ... too old ... I clutched the edgeof the desk and steadied myself and forced down the panic I could feelrising.
"Do you mean," I said slowly, "that you wouldn't sell us tickets evenif we had the money?"
He glanced up again, obviously annoyed at my persistence. "That'sright. No passengers over seventy carried without special visas.Medical precaution."
I just stood there. This couldn't be happening. Not after all ouryears of working and saving and planning for the future. Not go back.Not even next year. Stay here, because we were old and frail and theships wouldn't be bothered with us anyway.
Martha.... How could I tell her? How could I say, "We can't go home,Martha. They won't let us."
I couldn't say it. There had to be some other way.
"Pardon me," I said to the clerk, "but who should I see about gettinga visa?"
He swept the stack of papers away with an impatient gesture andfrowned up at me.
"Over at the colonial office, I suppose," he said. "But it won't doyou any good."
I could read in his eyes what he thought of me. Of me and all theother farmers who lived in the outlying districts and raised crops andseldom came to the city. My clothes were old and provincial and out ofstyle, and so was I, to him.
"I'll try it anyway," I said.
He started to say something, then bit it back and looked away from meagain. I was keeping him from his work. I was just a rude old maninterfering with the operation of the spaceways.
Slowly I let go of the desk and turned to leave. It was hard to walk.My knees were trembling, and my whole body shook. It was all I coulddo not to cry. It angered me, the quavering in my voice and theweakness in my legs.
I went out into the hall and looked for the directory that would pointthe way to the colonial office. It wasn't far off.
I walked out onto the edge of the field and past the Earth rocket, itssilver nose pointed up at the sky. I couldn't bear to look at it forlonger than a minute.
It was only a few hundred yards to the colonial office, but it seemedlike miles.
* * * * *
This office was larger than the other, and much more comfortable. Theman seated behind the desk seemed friendlier too.
"May I help you?" he asked.
"Yes," I said slowly. "The man at the ticket office told me to comehere. I wanted to see about getting a permit to go back to Earth...."
His smile faded. "For yourself?"
"Yes," I said woodenly. "For myself and my wife."
"Well, Mr...."
"Farwell. Lewis Farwell."
"My name's
Duane. Please sit down, won't you?... How old are you, Mr.Farwell?"
"Eighty-seven," I said. "In Earth years."
He frowned. "The regulations say no space travel for people pastseventy, except in certain special cases...."
I looked down at my hands. They were shaking badly. I knew he couldsee them shake, and was judging me as old and weak and unable to standthe trip. He couldn't know why I was trembling.
"Please," I whispered. "It wouldn't matter if it hurt
