“But John Carter?”
“When last I saw him through the telescope, he was speeding away with her at his back. Ian sacrificed himself for them both. You may think your journey to the red planet was to rescue John Koothrappally, but it wasn’t. It was to save Princess Dejah Thoris, and to unite her with John Carter. That’s the way I see it. And that’s what I wrote.” Burroughs sat his glass down, regarded the whiskey decanter for a moment, then pushed it to the back of the table. “All the rest was just...window dressing. A wild adventure, derring do. All that sort of stuff.”
“The green Martians you described. There were none of those.”
“Your father once described the Moon aliens to me. I wrote them in there as well.”
“And Mort Prime?”
“I’ll save him for another book.”
“Seeing now why you wrote it, you might change the title.” Dakota said.
“To what?”
“A Princess of Mars seems more fitting. That is what it’s about.”
Edgar Burroughs sat back in his chair and regarded Dakota. A smile spread over his face. Burroughs nodded slowly, as if savoring the idea.
Dakota nodded and made as if to stand. “Well, it was a long trip, and it’s an even longer one home.”
“Won’t you stay the night at least?” Burroughs asked. “I have a charging station for your robot on the back porch. Please say you’ll stay. There’s a spare room. I’ll even take you into town and introduce you to a barmaid or two.”
Dakota chuckled. “Let me think on it for a bit.”
“That’s fine. That’s good and fine. Take all the time you need. Now,” Burroughs said, and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “Tell me about this journey into time.”
Burroughs lay the manuscript on the table beside him. The title page silently wafted off the top of the stack of papers by a warm breeze through the study curtains and settled to the floor. Neither man seemed to notice, because Dakota had already begun speaking. The page beneath it bore these words:
I am a very old man; how old I do not know.