Racing down the meadowlands, he danced and shouted.
Mr. Bittering looked at his wife. “Why did we do that?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “It just seemed like a good idea.”
They walked into the hills. They strolled on old mosaic paths, beside still pumping fountains. The paths were covered with a thin film of cool water all summer long. You kept your bare feet cool all the day, splashing as in a creek, wading.
They came to a small deserted Martian villa with a good view of the valley. It was on top of a hill. Blue marble halls, large murals, a swimming pool. It was refreshing in this hot summertime. The Martians hadn’t believed in large cities.
“How nice,” said Mrs. Bittering, “if we could move up here to this villa for the summer.”
“Come on,” he said. “We’re going back to town. There’s work to be done on the rocket.”
But as he worked that night, the thought of the cool blue marble villa entered his mind. As the hours passed, the rocket seemed less important.
In the flow of days and weeks, the rocket receded and dwindled. The old fever was gone. It frightened him to think he had let it slip this way. But somehow the heat, the air, the working conditions—
He heard the men murmuring on the porch of his metal shop.
“Everyone’s going. You heard?”
“All going. That’s right.”
Bittering came out. “Going where?” He saw a couple of trucks, loaded with children and furniture, drive down the dusty street.
“Up to the villas,” said the man.
“Yeah, Harry. I’m going. So is Sam. Aren’t you Sam?”
“That’s right, Harry. What about you?”
“I’ve got work to do here.”
“Work! You can finish that rocket in the autumn, when it’s cooler.”
He took a breath. “I got the frame all set up.”
“In the autumn is better.” Their voices were lazy in the heat.
“Got to work,” he said.
“Autumn,” they reasoned. And they sounded so sensible, so right.
“Autumn would be best,” he thought. “Plenty of time, then.”
No! cried part of himself, deep down, put away, locked tight, suffocating. No! No!
“In the autumn,” he said.
“Come on, Harry,” they all said.
“Yes,” he said, feeling his flesh melt in the hot liquid air. “Yes, in the autumn. I’ll begin work again then.”
“I got a villa near the Tirra Canal,” said someone.
“You mean the Roosevelt Canal, don’t you?”
“Tirra. The old Martian name.”