"Only three months by rocket ship," she said. "We could be back home in three months, Lewis, if we went out on this week's run."
I nodded. For years we'd watched the rocket ships streak upward through the thin Martian atmosphere, and we'd envied the men who so casually travelled from world to world. But it had been a useless envy, something of which we rarely spoke.
Inside our veranda the air was cool and slightly moist. Earth air, perfumed with the scent of Earth roses. Yet we knew it was only illusion. Outside, just beyond the glass, the cold night air of Mars lay thin and alien and smelling of alkali. It seemed to me tonight that I could smell that ever-dry Martian dust, even here. I sighed, fumbling for my pipe.
"Lewis," Martha said, very softly.
"What is it?" I cupped my hands over the match flame.
"Nothing. It's just that I wish—I wish we could go home, right away. Home to Earth. I want to see it again, before we die."
"We'll go back," I said. "Next year for sure. We'll have enough money then."
She sighed. "Next year may be too late."
I looked over at her, startled. She'd never talked like that before. I started to protest, but the words died away before I could even speak them. She was right. Next year might indeed be too late.
Her work-coarsened hands were thin, too thin, and they never stopped shaking any more. Her body was a frail shadow of what it had once been. Even her voice was frail now.