The Statue

1

WORLDS of SCIENCE FICTION

JANUARY 1953

All Stories New and Complete

Editor: JAMES L. QUINN

Art Director: HENRY BECKER

Cover by Anton Kurka, suggesting The Ultimate
Re-sowing ef the Human Race — 4000 AD

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SHORT NOVEL

YE OF LITTLE FAITH by Rog Phillips

NOVELETTES

CHECK AND CHECKMATE by Walter Miller, Jr.
THE STATUE by Marl Wolf

SHORT STORIES

THE LAST GENTLEMAN by Rory Magill
SUCCESS STORY by Robert Turner
THE PEACEMAKER by Alfred Coppel
TIME ENOUGH AT LAST by Lynn Venoble

THE ANGLERS OF ARZ by Roger Dee

NO SHIELD FROM THE DEAD by Gordon R. Dickson

FEATURES

A CHAT WITH THE EDITOR
PERSONALITIES IN SCIENCE
SCIENCE BRIEFS
THE POSTMAN COMETH

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■«

/ put my arms around her shoulders
but there was no way I could comfwt
her.

There is a time for doing and a time for going home*
But where is home in an ever-changing universe?

The STATUE

By Marl Wolf

Illustrated by BOB MARTIN

IEWIS," Martha said. "I want
I to go home."

She didn't look at me. I followed
her gaze to Earth, rising in the
east .

It came up over the desert hori-
zon, a clear, bright star at this dis-
tance. Right now it was the Morn-
ing Star. It wasn't long before
dawn.

I looked back at Martha sitting
quietly beside me with her shawl
drawn tightly about her knees. She
had waited to see it also, of course.
It had become almost a ritual with
us these last few yean, staying up
night after night to watch the
earthrise.

She didn't say anything more.
Even the gentle squeak of her rock-
ing chair had fallen silent. Only her
hands moved. I could see them
trembling where they lay folded
in her lap, trembling with emotion
and tiredness and old age. I knew

what she was thinking. After sev-
enty years there can be no secrets.

We sat on the glassed-in veranda
of our Martian home looking up at
the Morning Star. To us it wasn't a
point of light. It was the continents
and oceans of Earth, the moun-
tains and meadows and laughing
streams of our childhood. We saw
Earth still, though we had lived on
Mars for almost sixty-six years.

"Lewis," Martha whispered soft-
ly. "It's very bright tonight, isn't
it?"

"Yes," I said.

"It seems so near."

She sighed and drew the shawl
higher about her waist.

"Only three months by rocket
ship," she said. "We could be back
home in three months, Lewis, if we
went out on this week's run."

I nodded. For years we'd
watched the rocket ships streak up-
ward through the thin Martian at-

81

82

MAR1 WOLF

very

mosphere, and we'd envied the
men who so casually travelled from
world to world. But it had been a
useless envy, something of which
we rarely spoke.

Inside our veranda the air was
cool and slightly moist. Earth air,
perfumed with the scent of Earth
roses. Yet we knew it was only illu-
sion. Outside, just beyond the glass,
the cold night air of Mars lay thin
and alien and smelling of alkali. It
seemed to me tonight that I could
smell that ever-dry Martian dust,
even here. I sighed, fumbling for

my pipe.
"Lewis,"

softly.

"What is it?" I cupped my hands
over the match flame.

"Nothing. It's just that I wish —
I wish we could go home, right
away. Home to Earth. I want to
see it again, before we die."

"We'll go back," I said. "Next
year for sure. We'll have enough
money then."

She sighed. "Next year may be

too late."

I looked over at her, startled.
She'd never talked like that before.
I started to protest, but the words
died away before I could even
speak them. She was right. Next
year might indeed be too late.

Her work-coarsened hands were
thin, too thin, and they never
stopped shaking any more. Her
body was a frail shadow of what it
had once been. Even her voice was
frail now.

She was old. We were both old*
There wouldn't be many more
Martian summers for us ? nor many
years of missing Earth.

"Why can't we go back this year,

SJ

Lewis?"

She smiled at me almost apolo-
getically. She knew the reason as
well as I did.

"We can't," I said. "There's not
enough money.

''There's enough for our tickets."

I'd explained all that to her be-
fore, too. Perhaps she'd forgotten
Lately I often had to explain thing h
more than once.

"You can't buy passage unless
you have enough extra for insur-
ance, and travelers' checks, and
passport tax. The company has to
protect - itself . Unless you're finan-
cially responsible, they won't take
you on the ships."

She shook her head. "Sometimes
I wonder if we'll ever have
enough."

WE'D SAVED our money for
years, but it was a pitifully
small savings. We weren't rich peo-
ple who could go down to the
spaceport and buy passage on the
rocket ships, no questions asked, no
bond required. We were only farm-
ers, eking our livelihood^ from the
unproductive Martian soil, only
two of the countless little people of
the solar system. In all our lifetime
we'd never been able to save
enough to go home to Earth.

"One more year," I said. "If the
crop prices stay up. .

She smiled, a sad little smile that
didn't reach her eyes. "Yes,
she said. "One more year."

But I couldn't stop thinking of
what she'd said earlier, nor stop see-
ing her thin, tired body. Neither of
us was strong any more, but of the
two I was far stronger than she.

»

THE STATUE

83

When we'd left Earth she'd been
as eager and graceful as a child.
We hadn't been much past child-
hood then, either of us. . . .

"Sometimes I wonder why we
ever came here/' she said.

"It's been a good life."

She sighed. "I know. But now
that it's nearly over, there's nothing
to hold us here."

"No/' I said. "There's not."

If we had had children it might
have been different. As it was, we
lived surrounded by the children
and grandchildren of our friends.
Our friends themselves were dead.
One by one they had died, all of
those who came with us on the
first colonizing ship to Mars. All of
those who came later, on the second
and third ships. Their children
were our neighbors now — and they

were Martian born. It wasn't the
same.

She leaned over and pressed my
hand. "We'd better go in, Lewis/'
she said. "We need our sleep."

Her eyes were raised again to
the green star that was Earth.
Watching her, I knew that I loved
her now as much as when we had
been young together. More, really,
for we had added years of shared
memories. I wanted so much to
give her what she longed for, what
we both longed for. But I couldn't
think of any way to do it. Not this
year.

Once, almost seventy years be-
fore, I had smiled at the girl who
had just promised to become my
;, and I'd said: "I'll give you
the world, darling. All tied up in
pink ribbons."

I didn't want to think about that
now.

We got
house and
behind us.

up and went into the
shut the veranda door

I COULDN'T go to sleep. For
hours I lay in bed staring up at
the shadowed ceiling, trying to
think of some way to raise the
money. But there wasn't any way
that I could see. It would be at

least eight months before enou
of the greenhouse crops were har-
vested.

What would happen, I won-
dered, if I went to the spaceport
and asked for tickets? If I ex-
plained that we couldn't buy in-
surance, that we couldn't put up
the bond guaranteeing we wouldn't
become public charges back on
Earth. . . . But all the time I won-
dered I knew the answer. Rules
were rules. They wouldn't be
broken especially not for two old
farmers who had long outlived
their usefulness and their time.

Martha sighed in her sleep and
turned over. It was light enough
now for me to see her face clearly.
She was smiling. But a minute ago
she had been crying, for the tears
were still wet on her cheeks.

Perhaps she was dreaming of
Earth again.

Suddenly, watching her, I didn't
care if they laughed at me or lec-
tured me on my responsibilities to
the government as if I were a
senile fool. I was going to the space-
port. I was going to find out if,
somehow, we couldn't go back.

I got up and dressed and went
out, walking softly so as not to
awaken her. But even so she heard
me and called out to me.

84

MAR! WOLF

"Lewis. ..."

I turned at the head of the stairs
and looked back into the room.

"Don't get up, Martha," I said.
"Fm going into town."

"AH right, Lewis."

She relaxed, and a minute later
she was asleep again. I tiptoed
downstairs and out the front door
to where the trike car was parked,
and started for the village a mile
to the west

It was desert all the way. Dry,
fine red sand that swirled upward
in choking clouds, if you stepped
off the pavement into it. The nar-
row road cut straight through it,
linking the outlying district farms
to the town. The farms themselves

were planted in the desert. Small,
glassed-in houses and barns, and
large greenhouses roofed with even
more glass, that sheltered the Earth
plants and gave them Earth air to
breathe.

WHEN I came to the second
farmhouse John Emery hurried
out to meet me.

"Morning, Lewis," he said. "Go-
ing to town?"

I shut off the motor and nodded.
"I want to catch the early shuttle
plane to the spaceport," I said.
"I'm going to the city to buy some
things. . .

I had to lie about it. I didn't
want anyone to know we were even
thinking of leaving, at least not un-
til we had our tickets in our hands.

"Oh," Emery said. "That's right.
I suppose you'll be buying Martha
an anniversary 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's a long time, Lewis. . ."

Thirty-five years. It took me a
minute to realize what he meant.
He was right. That was how Ion
we had been here, in Martian years.

The others, those who had been
born here on Mars, always used the
Martian seasons. We had too, once.
But lately we forgot, and counted
in Earth time. It seemed more
natural.

"Wait a minute, Lewis," Emery
said. "I'll ride into the village with
you. 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 ro
forth, wondering idly how many
times I'd sat here.

This was old Tom Emery's
house. Or had been, until he died
eight years ago. He'd built this
swing chair the very first year we'd
been on Mars.

Now it

99

99

was young jonns.
Young? That showed how old we
were getting. John was sixty-three,
in Earth years. He'd been born
that second winter, the month the
parasites got into the green-
houses. . .

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
asking me why you don't come to
call."

I shrugged. I couldn't tell him

•J

%

THE STATUE

85

we seldom went out because when
we did we were always set apart
and treated carefully, like children.
He probably 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
then on concentrated on my
driving. He didn't say anything
more.

IT TOOK only a few minutes to
get to the village, but even so I
was tired. Lately it grew harder and
harder to drive, to keep the trike
car on the narrow strip of pave-
ment. I was glad when we pulled
up in the square and got out.

"I'll walk over to the plane with
you," Emery said. "I've got plenty
of time."

"All right."

"By the way, Lewis, Jenny and I
and some of the neighbors thought
we'd drop over on your anniver-
sary.

"That's fine," I said, trying to
sound enthusiastic. "Come on

/

over.

"It's a big event," he said. "De-
serves a celebration."

The shuttle plane was just land-
ing. I hurried over to the ticket win-
dow, with him right beside me.

"I just wanted to be sure you'd
be home," he said. "We wouldn't
want you 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

the surprise, would you?"

He chuckled. "Your plane's load-
ing now. You'd better be going.
Thanks for the ride, Lewis."

I went across to the plane and
got in. I hoped that somehow we
wouldn't have to spend that Mar-
tian anniversary being congratula-
ted and petted and babied. I didn't
think Martha could stand it. But
there wasn't any polite way to say
no.

IT WASN'T a long trip to the
spaceport. In less than an hour
the plane dropped down to the air
strip that flanked the rocket field.
But it was like flying from one civi-
lization to another.

The city was big, almost like an
Earth city. There was lots of traffic,
cars and copters and planes. All the
bustle of the space ways stations.

But although the city looked like
Earth, it smelled as dry and alka-
line as all the rest of Mars.

I found the ticket office easily
enough and went in. The young
clerk barely 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
fast against my ribs. But my voice
sounded casual, just the way I
wanted it to 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 give
them to you for the flight after
next. Tourist class, of course ..."

86

MARI WOLF

4

* fc

We didn't have that much. We
were at least three hundred short.

"Isn't there any way/' I said hesi-
tantly, "that I could get them for
less? I mean, we wouldn't need in-
surance, would we?"

He looked up at me for the first
time, startled. "You don't mean you
want 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 be
impossible 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
edge of the desk and steadied my-
self and forced down the panic I
could feel rising.

"Do you mean," I said slowly,
"that you wouldn't sell us tickets
even if we had the money?"

He glanced up again, obviously
annoyed at my persistence. "That's
right. No passengers over seventy
carried without special visas. Medi-
cal precaution."

I just stood there. This couldn't
be happening. Not after all our
years of working and saving and
planning for the future. Not go
back Not even next year. Stay
because we were old and frail and
the ships 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 get-
ting a visa?"

He swept the stack of papers

away with an impatient gesture and
frowned up at me.

"Over at the colonial office, I
suppose," he said. "But it won't do
you any good."

I could read in his eyes what he
thought of me. Of me and all the
other farmers who lived in the out-
lying districts and raised crops and
seldom came to the city. My clothes
were old and provincial and out of
style, 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
me again. I was keeping him from
his work. I was just a rude old man
interfering 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 could do not to cry. It angered
me, the quavering in my voice and
the weakness in my legs.

I went out into the hall and
looked for the directory that would
point the way to the colonial office.
It wasn't far off.

I walked out onto the edge of the
field and past the Earth rocket, its
silver nose pointed up at the sky. I
couldn't bear to look at it for longer
than a minute.

It was only a few hundred yards
to the colonial office, but it seemed
like miles.

THIS OFFICE was larger than
the other, and much more com-
fortable. The man seated behind
the desk seemed friendlier too.
"May I help you?" he asked.
"Yes," I said slowly. "The man

THE STATUE

87

at the ticket office told me to come
here. I wanted to see about getting
a permit to go back to Earth . . ."

His smile faded. "For yourself?"

"Yes," I said woodenly. "For my-
self 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. "Th6 regulations
say no space travel for people past
seventy, except in certain special

CciSCS • - .»

I looked down at my hands. They
were shaking badly. I knew he
could see them shake, and was
judging me as old and weak and
unable to stand the trip. He
couldn't know why I was trembling.

"Please," I whispered. "It
wouldn't matter if it hurt us. It's
just that we want to see Earth
again. It's been so long . . ."

"How long have you been here,
Mr. Farwell ?" It was merely polite-
ness. There wasn't any promise in
his voice.

"Sixty-five years." I looked up at
him. "Isn't there some way — "

"Sixty-five years? But that means
you must have come here on the
first colonizing ship."

"Yes," I said. "We did."

"I can't believe it," he said slow-
ly* "I can't believe I'm actually
looking at one of the pioneers," He
shook his head. "I didn't even know
any of them were still on Mars."

"We're the last ones," I said.
"That's the main reason we want
to go back. It's awfully hard stay-
ing on when your friends are dead."

DUANE got up and crossed the
room to the window and looked
out over the rocket field.

"But what good would it do to
go back, Mr. Farwell?" he asked.
"Earth has changed very much in
the last sixty-five years."

He was trying to soften the dis-
appointment. But nothing could. If
only I could make him realize that.

"I know it's changed," I said.
"But it's home. Don't you see?
We're Earthmen still. I guess that
never changes. And now that we're
old, we're aliens here."

"We're all aliens here, Mr. Far-
well."

"No," I said desperately. "May-
be you are. Maybe a lot of the city
people are. But our neighbors were
born on Mars. To them Earth is a
legend. A place where their ances-
tors once lived. It's not real to
them. . . ."

He turned and crossed the room
and came back to me. His smile was
pitying. "If you went back/ he
said, "you'd find you were a Mar-
tian, too."

I couldn't reach him. He was
friendly and pleasant and he was
trying to make things easier, and it
wasn't any use talking. I bent my
head and choked back the sobs I
could feel rising in my throat.

"You've lived a full life," Duane
said. "You were one of the pioneers.
I remember reading about your
ship when I was a boy, and wishing
I'd been born sooner so that I could
have been on it."

Slowly I raised my head and
looked up at him.

"Please," I said. "I know that.
I'm glad we came here. If we had
our lives to live over, we'd come

88

MARI WOLF

again* We'd go through all the
hardships of those first few years,
and enjoy them just as much. We'd
be just as thrilled over proving that
it's possible to farm a world like
this, where it's always freezing and
the air is thin and nothing will grow
outside the greenhouses. You don't
need to tell me what we've done, or
what we've gotten out of it. We
know. We've had a wonderful life
here."

"But you still want to go back?"

"Yes," I said. "We still want to
go back. We' re tired of living in the
past, with our friends dead and
nothing to do except remember."

He looked at me for a long mo-
ment. Then he said slowly, "You
realize, don't you, that if you went
back to Earth you'd have to stay
there? You couldn't return to
Mars. ..."

"I realize that," I said. "That's
what we want. We want to die at
home. On Earth."

tCT»

FOR A LONG, long moment his
eyes never left mine. Then, slow-
ly, he sat down at his desk and
reached for a pen.

"All right, Mr. Farwell," he said.

I'll give you a visa."

I couldn't believe it. I stared at
him, sure that I'd misunderstood.

"Sixty-five years . . ." He shook
his head. "I only hope I'm doing
the right thing. I hope you won't
regret this."

"We won't," I whispered.

Then I remembered that we were
still short of money. That that was
why I'd come to the spaceport
originally. I was almost afraid to
mention it, for fear I'd lose every-

thing.

"Is there — is there some way we
could be excused from the insur-
ance?" I said. "So we could go back
this year? We're three hundred
short."

He smiled. It was a very reassur-
ing smile. "You don't need to worry
about the money," he said. "The
colonial office can take care of that.
After all, we owe your generation a
great debt, Mr. Farwell. A passport
tax and the fare to Earth are little
enough to pay for a planet."

I didn't quite understand him,
but that didn't matter. The only
thing that mattered was that we
were going home. Back to Earth. I
could see Martha's face when I told
her. I could see her tears of happi-
ness ...

There were tears on my own

cheeks, but I wasn't ashamed of
them now.

"Mr. Farwell," Duane said.
"You go back home. The shuttle
ship will be leaving in a few min-
utes."

"You mean that — " I started.

He nodded. "I'll get your tickets
for you. On the first ship I can. Just
leave it to me."

"It's too much trouble, 1
tested.

"No it's not." He smiled. "Be-
sides, I'd like to bring them out to
you. I'd like to see your farm, if I
may."

Then I remembered what John
Emery had said this morning about
our anniversary. It would be a won-
derful celebration^ now that there
was something to celebrate. We
could even save our announcement
that we were going home until
then.

JJ

I pro-

THE STATUE

89

"Mr. Duane," I said. "Next
week, on the tenth, we'll have been
here thirty-five Martian years.
Maybe you'd like to come out then.
I guess our neighbors will be giving
us a sort of party."

He laid the pen down and looked
at me very intently. "They don't
know you're planning to leave yet,
do they?"

"No. We'll wait and tell them
then."

Duane nodded slowly, "I'll be
there," he promised.

"I

MARTHA was out on the veran-
da again, looking down the
road toward the village. All after-
noon at least one of us had been out
there watching for our guests, wait-
ing for our anniversary celebration
to begin.

"Do you see anyone yet?" I

called.

"No/' she said. "Not yet . . ."

I looked around the room hop-
ing I'd find something left undone
that I could work on, so I wouldn't
have to sit and worry about the
possibility of Duane' s having for-
gotten us. But everything was ready.
The extra chairs were out and the
furniture all dusted, and Martha's
cakes and cookies arranged on the
table.

I couldn't sit still. Not today. I
got up out of the chair and joined
her on the veranda.

"I wonder what their surprise
is . . ." she said. "Didn't John give
you any hint at all?"

"No," I said. "But whatever it is,
it can't be half as wonderful as

"Lewis, she whispered, "l can
hardly believe it, can you?"

"No," I said. "But it's true. We're
really going."

I put my arm around her, and
she rested her head against me.

"I'm so happy, Lewis."

Her cheeks were full of color
once again, and her step had a
spring to it that I hadn't seen for
years. It was as if the years of wait-
ing were falling away from both of
us now.

"I wish they'd come," she said.
"I can hardly wait to see their faces
when we tell them."

It was getting late in the after-
noon. Already the sun was dipping
down toward the desert horizon. It
was hard to wait. In some ways it
was harder to be patient these last
few hours than it had been during
all those years we'd wanted to go
back.

ours.

9>

She reached for my hand.

"Look," Martha said suddenly.
"There's a car now."

Then I saw the car too, coming
quickly toward us. It pulled up in
front of the house and stopped and
Duane stepped out.

"Well, hello there, Mr. Farwell,"
he called. "All ready for the trip?"

I nodded. Suddenly, now that he
was here, I couldn't say anything
at all.

He must have seen how excited
we were. By the time he was inside
the veranda door he'd reached into
his wallet and pulled out a long en-
velope.

"Here's your schedule," he said.
"Your tickets are all made out for
next week's flight."

Martha's hand crept into mine.
"You've been so kind," she whis-
pered .

90

MARI WOLF

i

■ ■

Wtt WENT into the house and
smiled at each other while
Duane admired the furniture and
the farming district in general and
our place in particular. We hardly
heard what he was saying.

When the doorbell rang we
stared at each other. For a minute
I couldn't think who it might be.
I'd forgotten our guests and their
surprise party, even the anniversary
itself had slipped my mind.

"Hello in there," John Emery
called. "Come on out, you two."

Martha pressed my hand once
more. Then she stepped to the door
and opened it.

"Happy anniversary !"

We stood frozen. We'd expected
only a few visitors, some of our
nearest neighbors. But the yard was
full of people. They crowded up
our walk and in the road and more
of them were still piling out of cars.
It looked as if everyone in the dis-
trict was along.

"Come on out," Emery called.
"You too, Duane."

The two men smiled at each
other knowingly, and for just a mo-
ment I had time to wonder why*

Then Martha clutched my arm.
"You tell him, Lewis."

"John," I said. "We have a sur-
prise for you too — "

He wouldn't let me finish. He
took hold of my arm with one hand
and Martha's with the other and
drew us outside where everyone

could see us.

"You can tell us later, Lewis," he
said "First we have a surprise for

you!"

"But wait—"

They crowded in around us,
laughing and waving and calling

Happy anniversary". We couldn't
resist them. They swept us along
with them down the walk and into
one of the cars.

I looked around for Duane. He
was in the back seat, smiling some-
what nervously. Perhaps he thought
that this was normal farm life.

"Lewis," Martha said, "where
are they taking us?"

"I don't know . . ."

The cars started, ours leading the
way. It was a regular procession
back to the village, with everyone
laughing and calling to us and tell-
ing us how happy we were going to
be with our surprise. Every time
we tried to ask questions,
Emery interrupted.

"Just wait and see," he kept say-
ing. "Wait and see • • / a

AT THE END of the village
square they'd put up a platform.
It wasn't very big, nor very well
made, but it was strung with yards
of bunting and a huge sign that
said, "Happy Anniversary, Lewis
and Martha."

We were pushed toward it, car-
ried along by the swarm of people.
There wasn't any way to resist.
Martha clung to my arm, pressing
close against me. She was trembling
again.

"What does it mean, Lewis ?*

"I wish I knew."

They pushed us right up onto the
platform and John Emery followed
us up and held out his hand to quiet
the crowd. I put my arm around
Martha and looked down at them.
Hundreds of people. All in their
best clothes. Our friends's children
and grandchildren, and even great-

THE STATUE

91

"I won't make a speech," John
Emery said when they were finally
quiet. "You know why we're here
today — all of you except Lewis and
Martha know. It's an anniversary.
A big anniversary. Thirty-five years
today since our fathers — and you
two — landed here on Mars . . ."

He paused. He didn't seem to
know what to say next. Finally he
turned and swept his arm past the
platform to where a big canvas-cov-
object stood on the ground.

"Unveil it," he said.

The crowd grew absolutely quiet.
A couple of boys stepped up and
pulled the canvas off.

"There's your surprise," John
Emery said softly.

It was a statue. A life-size statue
carved from the dull red stone of
Mars. Two figures, a man and a
woman, dressed in farm clothes,
standing side by side and looking
out across the square toward the
open desert.

They were very real, those fig-
ures. Real, and somehow familiar.

"Lewis," Martha
"They're— they're us! J

She was right. It was a statue of
us. Neither old nor young, but age-
less. Two farmers, looking out for-
ever across the endless Martian des-
ert ...

There was an inscription on the
base, but I couldn't quite make it
out. Martha could. She read it,
slowly, while everyone in the crowd
stood silent,

"Lewis and Martha Farwell,"
she read. "The last of the pio-
neers — " Her voice broke. "Under-
neath," she whispered, "it says — the
first Martians. And then it lists

them — us . . ."

She read the list, all the names of
our friends who had come out on
that first ship. The names of men
and women who had died, one by
one, and left their farms to their
children — to the same children who
now crowded close about the plat-
form and listened to her read, and
smiled up at us.

She came to the end of the list
and looked out at the crowd.
"Thank you," she whispered.

They shouted then. They called
out to us and pressed forward and
held their babies up to see us.

I LOOKED out past the people,
across the flat red desert to the
horizon, toward the spot in the east?
where the Earth would rise, much
later. The dry smell of Mars had
never been stronger.

The first Martians . . .

They were so real, those carved
figures. Lewis and Martha Far-
well ...

"Look at them, Lewis," Martha
said softly. "They're cheering us.
Us!"

She was smiling. There^ were
tears in her eyes, but her smile was
bright and proud and shining.
Slowly she turned away frc^m me
and straightened, staring out over
the heads of the crowd across the
desert to the east. She stood with
her head thrown back arid her

and she was as
proudly erect as the statue that was
her likeness.

"Martha," I whispered. "How
can we tell them goodbye?"

Then she turned to face me, and
I could see the tears glistening in

92

MAR! WOLF

lift rs. "We can't leave, Lewis,
N i alter this."

>hr was right, of course. We
Miuldn't leave. We were
Tl if last of the pioneers. The first
Martians. And they had carved
their symbol in our image and

made us a part of Mars forever.

I glanced down, along the rows
of upturned, laughing faces, search-
ing for Duane. He was easy to find.
He was the only one who wasn't
shouting. His eyes met mine, and I
didn't have to say anything. He
knew. He climbed up beside me on
the platform.

I tried to speak, but I couldn't.

"Tell him, Lewis," Martha whis-
pered. "Tell him we can't go."

Then she was crying. Her smile
was gone and her proud look was
gone and her hand crept into mine
and trembled there. I put my arm
around her shoulders, but there was
no way I could comfort her.

"Now we'll never go," she
sobbed. "We'll never get home . . ."

I don't think I had ever realized,
until that moment, just how much
it meant to her — getting home.
Much more, perhaps, than it had
ever meant to me.

The statues were only statues.
They were carved from the stone of
Mars. And Martha wanted Earth.
We both wanted Earth. Home . . .

I looked away from her then,
back to Duane. "No," I said.
"We're still going. Only — " I broke
ofT, hearing the shouting and the
cheers and the children's laughter.
"Only, how can we tell them?"

Duane smiled. "Don't try to, Mr.
Farwell " he said softly. "Just wait

and see."

He turned, nodded to where

John Emery still stood at the edge
of the platform. "All right, John."

Emery nodded too, and then he
raised his hand. As he did so. the
shouting stopped and the people
stood suddenly quiet, still looking
up at us.

"You all know that this is an
anniversary," John Emery said.
"And you all know something else
that Lewis and Martha thought
they'd kept as a surprise — that this
is more than an anniversary. It's
goodbye."

I stared at him. He knew. All of
them knew. And then I looked at
Duane and saw that he was smiling
more than ever.

"They've lived here on Mars for
thirty-five years," John Emery said.
"And now they're going back to
Earth."

Martha's hand tightened on
mine. "Look, Lewis," she cried.
"Look at them. They're not angry.
They're — they're happy for us!"

John Emery turned to face us.
"Surprised?" he said.

I nodded. Martha nodded too.
Behind him, the people cheered
again.

"I thought you would be," Em-
ery said. Then, "I'm not very good
at speeches, but I just wanted you
to know how much we've enjoyed
being your neighbors. Don't forget
us when you get back to Earth."

IT WAS a long, long trip from
Mars to Earth. Three months
on the ship, thirty-five million
miles. A trip we had dreamed about
for so long, without any real hope
of ever making it. But now it was
over. We were back on Earth. Back

THE STATUE

93

where we had started from.

"It's good to be alone, isn't it,
Lewis?" Martha leaned back in
her chair and smiled up at me.

I nodded. It did feel good to be
here in the apartment, just the two
of us, away from the crowds and
the speeches and the official wel-
comes and the flashbulbs popping.

"I wish they wouldn't make such
a fuss over us," she said. "I wish
they'd leave us alone."

"You can't blame them," I said,
although I couldn't help wishing
the same thing. "We're celebrities.
What was it that reporter said
about us? That we're part of his-
tory . . ."

She sighed. She turned away
from me and looked out the win-
dow again, past the buildings and

ed traffic ramps and the
throngs of people bustling by out-
side, people who couldn't see in
through the one-way glass, people
whom we couldn't hear because the
room was soundproofed.

"Mars should be up by now," she
said .

"It probably is." I looked out
again, although I knew that we
would see nothing. No stars. No
planets. Not even the moon, except
as a pale half disc peering through
the haze. The lights from the city
were too bright. The air held the
light and reflected it down again,
and the sky was a deep, dark fclue
with the buildings about us tower-
ing into it, outlined blackly against
it. And we couldn't see the stars . . .

"Lewis," Martha said slowly. "I
never thought it would have
changed this much, did you?"

"No." I couldn't tell from her
voice whether she liked the changes

or not. Lately I couldn't tell much
of anything from . her voice. And
nothing was the same as we had re-
membered it.

Even the Earth farms were
mechanized now. Factory produc-
tion lines for food, as well as for
everything else. It was necessary, of
course. We had heard all the rea-
sons, all the theories, all the latest
statistics.

"I guess I'll go to bed soon,"
Martha said. "I'm tired."

9»

"It's the higher gravity." We'd
both been tired since we got back to
Earth. We had forgotten, over the
years, what Earth gravity was like.

She hesitated. She smiled at me,
but her eyes were worried. "Lewis
— are you really glad we came
back?"

It was the first time she had
asked me that. And there was only
one answer I could give her. The
one she expected.

"Of course, Martha . . ;

She sighed again. She got up out
of the chair and turned toward the
bedroom door, and then she paused
there by the window looking out at
the deep blue sky.

"Are you really glad, Lewis?"

Then I knew. Or, at least, I
hoped. "Why, Martha? Aren't
you?"

For one long minute she stood
beside me, looking up at the Mars
we couldn't see. And then she
turned to face me once again, and I
could see the tears.

"Oh, Lewis, I want to go home!"

Full circle. We had both come
full circle these last few hectic
weeks on Earth.

"So do I, Martha."

"Do you, Lewis?" And then the

94

MARI WOLF

$
"I

(i redness came back to her eyes and
she looked away again. "But of
course we can't."

Slowly I crossed over to the desk
and opened the top drawer and
took out the folder that Duane had
given me, that last day at the space-
port, just before our ship to Earth
had blasted off. Slowly I unfolded
the paper that Duane had told me
to keep in case we ever wanted it.

"Yes, we can, Martha. We can

go back."

"What's that, Lewis?" And then
she saw what it was. Her face came
alive again, and her eyes were shin-
ing. "We're going home?" she whis-
pered. "We're really going home?"

I looked down at the Earth-Mars
half of the round trip ticket that
Duane had given me, and I knew
that this time she was right.

This time we'd really be going
home.

THE END

tfn*

SUCCESS STORY

(Continued from page 69)

But in the middle of his talk he
broke off suddenly. A flash of blind-
ing brilliance slashed through the
windows. Horror painted his face.
In a whisper, he cried: "No! No!
It would make it all so senseless!"
His eyes looked like the eyes of a
man with flaming splinters jammed
under his fingernails. His face
seemed to pucker, and grow infan-
tile. Then he screamed: "No!
Leave me alone! I told you I didn't
want to come out here, to be one
of you! Damn you, why did you
bring me out here? For — for
this? .

* *

There were the shards of glass
from the great auditorium win-
dows, floating inward, turning lazi-
ly. There were the brick walls
crumbling, tumbling inward, scat-
tering through the air in the same
seeming slow motion. The dust
cloud and the sound, the flat blast-
sound, came after that, as the en-
tire building — perhaps the world —

disintegrated iri the jeye-searing
light . . .

December 8th, 1952, Two-Thirty
A. M.

The flat of a rubber-gloved hand
striking flesh made a splat ting
noise. A thin, breathless but con-
centr ated crying followed. The doc-
tor looked down at his charity clinic
patient, the woman under the
bright delivery room lights.

"Look at him — fighting like a lit-
tle demon!" the doctor said.
"Seemed almost as though he
didn't want to come out and join
us . . . What's the matter, son? This
is a bright, new, wonderful world
to be born into . . . What are you
going to call the boy, Mrs. McKin-
ney?"

The woman under the lights
forced a tired smile. "Jeff. Jefferson
McKinney. That's going to be his
name," she whispered proudly.

The baby's terrified squalling
subsided into fretful, whimpering
resignation.

— THE END