"You'll have been here thirty-five years next week," he said. "That's
a long time, Lewis...."
Thirty-five years. It took me a minute to realize what he meant. He
was right. That was how long we had been here, in Martian years.
The others, those who had been born here on Mars, always used the
Martian seasons. We had too, once. But lately we forgot, and counted
in Earth time. It seemed more natural.
"Wait a minute, Lewis," Emery said. "I'll ride into the village with
you. There's plenty of time for you to make your plane."
I went up on his veranda and sat down and waited for him to get ready.
I leaned back in the swing chair and rocked slowly back and forth,
wondering idly how many times I'd sat here.
This was old Tom Emery's house. Or had been, until he died eight years
ago. He'd built this swing chair the very first year we'd been on
Mars.
Now it was young John's. Young? That showed how old we were getting.
John was sixty-three, in Earth years. He'd been born that second
winter, the month the parasites got into the greenhouses....
He came back out onto the veranda. "Well, I'm ready, Lewis," he said.
We went down to my trike car and got in.
"You and Martha ought to get out more," he said. "Jenny's been asking
me why you don't come to call."
I shrugged. I couldn't tell him we seldom went out because when we
did we were always set apart and treated carefully, like children. He
probably didn't even realize that it was so.
"Oh," I said. "We like it at home."