He looked with dismay at their house. “Even the house. The wind’s done something to it. The air’s burned it. The fog at night. The boards, all warped out of shape. It’s not an Earthman’s house any more.”
“Oh, your imagination!”
He put on his coat and tie. “I’m going into town. We’ve got to do something now. I’ll be back.”
“Wait, Harry!” his wife cried.
But he was gone.
In town, on the shadowy step of the grocery store, the men sat with their hands on their knees, conversing with great leisure and ease.
Mr. Bittering wanted to fire a pistol in the air.
What are you doing, you fools! he thought. Sitting here! You’ve heard the news—we’re stranded on this planet. Well, move! Aren’t you frightened? Aren’t you afraid? What are you going to do?
“Hello, Harry,” said everyone.
“Look,” he said to them. “You did hear the news, the other day, didn’t you?”
They nodded and laughed. “Sure. Sure, Harry.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
“Do, Harry, do? What can we do?”
“Build a rocket, that’s what!”
“A rocket, Harry? To go back to all that trouble? Oh, Harry!”
“But you must want to go back. Have you noticed the peach blossoms, the onions, the grass?”
“Why, yes, Harry, seems we did,” said one of the men.
“Doesn’t it scare you?”
“Can’t recall that it did much, Harry.”
“Idiots!”
“Now, Harry.”
Bittering wanted to cry. “You’ve got to work with me. If we stay here, we’ll all change. The air. Don’t you smell it? Something in the air. A Martian virus, maybe; some seed, or a pollen. Listen to me!”
They stared at him.
“Sam,” he said to one of them.
“Yes, Harry?”
“Will you help me build a rocket?”
“Harry, I got a whole load of metal and some blueprints. You want to work in my metal shop on a rocket, you’re welcome. I’ll sell you that metal for five hundred dollars. You should be able to construct a right pretty rocket, if you work alone, in about thirty years.”
Everyone laughed.
“Don’t laugh.”
Sam looked at him with quiet good humor.