I was glad he hadn't fallen on his wounded side. He was plenty sturdy,
and he came from a long-lived family, and I didn't think a little clip
on the jaw could hurt him. I hoped he'd forgive me when he woke up.
That was important, because I thought a lot of Steve.
When you've been to Mars, when you've fought your way through the red
and raging dust storms, and labored beneath the naked glare of the
sun, and juggled with men and ships and supplies like some tremendous
Herculean figure in the morning of the world, you'll never really feel
at home on Earth. You'll see the world of ordinary men and women as a
vision of Lilliput, too small to be measurable in terms of human worth.
You'll be lost and helpless, blind and staggering beneath the weight
of a memory you can't throw off. A memory of bigness, too much bigness,
integrated into your every fiber, as much a part of you as the beating
of your heart.
You'll lurch and over-reach yourself, you'll never feel at home on
Earth, never really at home. You'll find a way to come back to Mars.