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.
She was old. We were both old. There wouldn't be many more Martian
summers for us, nor many years of missing Earth.
"Why can't we go back this year, Lewis?"
She smiled at me almost apologetically. She knew the reason as well as
I did.
"We can't," I said. "There's not enough money."
"There's enough for our tickets."
I'd explained all that to her before, too. Perhaps she'd forgotten.
Lately I often had to explain things more than once.
"You can't buy passage unless you have enough extra for insurance, and
travelers' checks, and passport tax. The company has to protect
itself. Unless you're financially responsible, they won't take you on
the ships."