It was a Martian word. He knew no Martian.
In the middle of the night he arose and dialed a call through to Simpson, the archaeologist.
“Simpson, what does the word Iorrt mean?”
“Why that’s the old Martian word for our planet Earth. Why?”
“No special reason.”
The telephone slipped from his hand.
“Hello, hello, hello, hello,” it kept saying while he sat gazing out at the green star. “Bittering? Harry, are you there?”
The days were full of metal sound. He laid the frame of the rocket with the reluctant help of three indifferent men. He grew very tired in an hour or so and had to sit down.
“The altitude,” laughed a man.
“Are you eating, Harry?” asked another.
“I’m eating,” he said, angrily.
“From your Deepfreeze?”
“Yes!”
“You’re getting thinner, Harry.”
“I’m not!”
“And taller.”
“Liar!”
His wife took him aside a few days later. “Harry, I’ve used up all the food in the Deepfreeze. There’s nothing left. I’ll have to make sandwiches using food grown on Mars.”
He sat down heavily.
“You must eat,” she said. “You’re weak.”
“Yes,” he said.
He took a sandwich, opened it, looked at it, and began to nibble at it.
“And take the rest of the day off,” she said. “It’s hot. The children want to swim in the canals and hike. Please come along.”
“I can’t waste time. This is a crisis!”
“Just for an hour,” she urged. “A swim’ll do you good.”
He rose, sweating. “All right, all right. Leave me alone. I’ll come.”
“Good for you, Harry.”
The sun was hot, the day quiet. There was only an immense staring burn upon the land. They moved along the canal, the father, the mother, the racing children in their swimsuits. They stopped and ate meat sandwiches. He saw their skin baking brown. And he saw the yellow eyes of his wife and his children, their eyes that were never yellow before. A few tremblings shook him, but were carried off in waves of pleasant heat as he lay in the sun. He was too tired to be afraid.
“Cora, how long have your eyes been yellow?”
She was bewildered. “Always, I guess.”