Dayton paused, gazing out at the boy's earnest face. At thirteen, he seemed to recall from some psychology book, all children liked to live in a make-believe world. Here was a make-believe world come true for David Lombardy and his mates. Why not let them change their names? Would it hurt?
"Very well Da—what is your name now?"
The boy's mouth had curved in a knowing smile. "Bar. That's my name. You call me Bar ... Professor." The last word came almost as an after-thought. Then, Bar had turned and walked out, still smiling secretly.
Yes, I knew then, Dayton thought. I knew that day that no matter how much they grew up, they would never change their names back again. Yet, they must be taught only so much at a time. He could not be impatient; he must not ask Da—Bar point-blank. And since then, every day he had waited for this day, for what he knew must happen, and what must not happen.
"All right, Bar, what is it you want?" he said aloud. A bare minute had passed since the cheer had gone up, had shivered in the cool air, and had died quietly in the corners of the large room.
Bar's voice was triumphant, and his chest swelled as he spoke: "It's good you feel that way, Professor, because we knew we would win. We want no more of you puny Earthlings. We want no more of your science that thinks it knows all, yet cannot even walk without a bubble on its head. We want no more of teachers who teach, yet cannot run without bouncing into the air like mountain-goats. You have given us all you can; now you only take away. Go ... get out ... go away from Mars where no one belongs but us. Go Home, Earthmen!"
"Go Home Earthmen!" The shout from fifty-three throats was almost deafening.
"And if you don't," Bar shouted above the din, "we'll destroy all your domes, and you'll die like the fish out of water that you are. So get out, go—and leave us to raise future generations of real Martians. Mars for the Martians!"
"Mars for the Martians!" echoed the other voices, the amplified shouts swelling out the windows into the red desert.
Dayton felt only dull shock. He had known so well. Almost as if he had written a twenty-year-long script, and now the final lines were being spoken at last. Still, there was much he must say before they left.