That's what I thought.
It was getting toward evening when we reached the vil- lage, for my father and mother hadn't knovyn I was coming on an earlier plane, and I'd had to wait for them up at Cleve- land Airport. When we drove into Market Street, I saw there was a big painted banner stretching across: "HABMONVILLE WELCOMES HOME ITS SPACEMAN)"
Spacemanthat was me. The newspapers had started calling us that, I guess, because it was a short word good for headlines. Everybody called us that now. We'd sat cooped up in a prison cell that flew, that was allbut now we were
"spacemen." There were bright uniforms clustered under the banner, and I saw that it was the high-school band. I didn't say any- thing, but my father saw my face.
"Now, Frank, I know you're tired, but these people are your friends and they want to show you a real welcome." That was fine. Only it was all gone again, the relaxed feel- ing I'd been beginning to get as we drove down from Cleve- land.
This was my home country, this old Ohio country with its neat little white villages and fat, rolling farms. It looked good, in June. It looked very good, and I'd been feeling better all the time. And now I didn't feel so good, for I saw that I was going to have to talk some more about Mars. Dad stopped the car under the banner, and the high- school band started to play, and Mr. Robinson, who was the Chevrolet dealer and also the mayor of Harmonville, got into the car with us.
He shook hands with me and said, "Welcome home, Frank! What was it like out on Mars?"
I said, "It was cold, Mr. Robinson. Awful cold."
"You should have been here last February!" he said.
"Eighteen belownearly a record." He leaned out and gave a signal, and Dad started driving again, with the band marching along in front of us and play- ing. We didn't have far to go, just down Market Street under the big old maples, past the churches and the old white houses to the square white Grange Hall.