So the hundred-odd inhabitants of the Project received orders to leave the igloos and other equipment behind and come back to Earth.
Martin Devere, however, had been on Mars for three years now. When the Project physician gave him his routine exam, it was discovered that a valve in Martin Devere's aorta had developed a faint flutter. Nothing too serious, really. But enough to greatly reduce his chances of surviving another rocket lift-off.
Martin Devere smiled at the news and volunteered to remain behind, alone on Mars. Under the circumstances, the Institute was forced to agree.
On the day that the strange rocket came down behind the desert hills, Martin Devere had been on Mars for a total of 38 years. For the past 35 of them he had been The Hermit—and quite happy about it....
The little sandcat was getting closer. Martin Devere smiled to himself, watching the two men in their clumsy space gear. It was high noon, and a nice comfortable ten degrees centigrade outside. If the two newcomers thought they needed full spacesuits to get around out there, Martin Devere wasn't going to tell them any different. Actually, though the atmospheric pressure was about the same as at the top of Mount Everest, on a beautiful day like this a man could get along easily outdoors with nothing more than an oxygen mask. But let them clomp around in their rubberized long-johns if they wanted to.
In a few minutes they would be coming in through the igloo's airlock. Martin Devere turned away, scowling now. He hoped the Institute hadn't decided to reopen Mars Project. There was plenty of room in all these igloos and connecting tunnels that had been left behind, but with a new expedition here it might get pretty crowded. Mainly, Devere didn't want a bunch of amateurs poking around his diggings, breaking things.
His thumb rubbed slowly across the long stubble on his chin. He wondered if he had made some slip in that last report, or in some of the pictures of the ruins he'd sent back. He'd rather the Institute didn't find out about those fossilized machines he'd dug up. He didn't understand the gadgets himself, but some of the people at the Institute just might decide they were interesting enough to be worth sending up an expert.
The Institute, Devere knew, was interested in machinery, not art objects.
One of the men held an automatic pistol pointed at Martin Devere while the other was stripping off his space gear. Then the pistol changed hands while the first man removed his own suit. Martin Devere could have told them that he wasn't afraid of the gun. He didn't actually care much, one way or the other: let them point it if it made them happy. Martin Devere figured that he had already lived a lot longer, here in this feeble gravity and germ-free, oxygen-rich air, than his tricky heart would have allowed him on Earth. Let them point the gun if they wanted to.