Mr. Bittering felt very alone in his garden under the Martian sun, anachronism bent here, planting Earth flowers in a wild soil.
Think. Keep thinking. Different things. Keep your mind free of Earth, the atom war, the lost rockets.
He perspired. He glanced about. No one watching. He removed his tie. Pretty bold, he thought. First your coat off, now your tie. He hung it neatly on a peach tree he had imported as a sapling from Massachusetts.
He returned to his philosophy of names and mountains. The Earthmen had changed names. Now there were Hormel Valleys, Roosevelt Seas, Ford Hills, Vanderbilt Plateaus, Rockefeller Rivers, on Mars. It wasn’t right. The American settlers had shown wisdom, using old Indian prairie names: Wisconsin, Minnesota, Idaho, Ohio, Utah, Milwaukee, Waukegan, Osseo. The old names, the old meanings.
Staring at the mountains wildly, he thought: Are you up there? All the dead ones, you Martians? Well, here we are, alone, cut off! Come down, move us out! We’re helpless!
The wind blew a shower of peach blossoms.
He put out his sun-browned hand and gave a small cry. He touched the blossoms and picked them up. He turned them, he touched them again and again. Then he shouted for his wife.
“Cora!”
She appeared at a window. He ran to her.
“Cora, these blossoms!”
She handled them.
“Do you see? They’re different. They’ve changed! They’re not peach blossoms any more!”
“Look all right to me,” she said.
“They’re not. They’re wrong! I can’t tell how. An extra petal, a leaf, something, the color, the smell!”
The children ran out in time to see their father hurrying about the garden, pulling up radishes, onions, and carrots from their beds.
“Cora, come look!”
They handled the onions, the radishes, the carrots among them.
“Do they look like carrots?”
“Yes … no.” She hesitated. “I don’t know.”
“They’re changed.”
“Perhaps.”
“You know they have! Onions but not onions, carrots but not carrots. Taste: the same but different. Smell: not like it used to be.” He felt his heart pounding, and he was afraid. He dug his fingers into the earth. “Cora, what’s happening? What is it? We’ve got to get away from this.” He ran across the garden. Each tree felt his touch. “The roses. The roses. They’re turning green!”
And they stood looking at the green roses.
And two days later Dan came running. “Come see the cow. I was milking her and I saw it. Come on!”
They stood in the shed and looked at their one cow.
It was growing a third horn.
And the lawn in front of their house very quietly and slowly was coloring itself like spring violets. Seed from Earth but growing up a soft purple.
“We must get away,” said Bittering. “We’ll eat this stuff and then we’ll change—who knows to what? I can’t let it happen. There’s only one thing to do. Burn this food!”
“It’s not poisoned.”
“But it is. Subtly, very subtly. A little bit. A very little bit. We mustn’t touch it.”