"Robert F. Young - Earthscape" - читать интересную книгу автора (Young Robert F)

Like many SF writers, Mr. Young has worked at many jobs—with the possible
exception of construction work on the slopes of Olympus Mons. But then, who are
we to say for sure...?

I am from Mars.
I say this because I spent ten years there helping to build the domed complex for the first American
colony.
Not years as they are measured on Mars, but years as they are measured on Earth. But even Earth
years can be long.
Yes. Ten long years.
Most people stare at me when I tell them this. They think I am crazy. Why would anyone in his right
mind voluntarily spend ten long years on Mars?
The answer is simple: For the money.
And for the priority. I can name any civil-service job I want and it will be mine for the asking.
Well, the complex is built now, and I am back on the planet I came from. I am forever free from the
bitter winds of Mars, from the bleak Martian landscapes; from the slow relentless rising of Olympus
Mons that confronted me each morning when I crawled outside my air tent.
I am back now in the land where I was born. Back in the little town that once for me was the whole
wide world. I am back where I belong.

"Gosh, you look great," my father says as we shake hands. My mother kisses me. "It's wonderful to
have you home."
My uncle, who has stopped in because of my return, asks, "What are your plans now, Neil?"
I shake my head. "I just want to rest for a while."
"I don't blame you!" says my father. "Working all those years on that damned complex!"
"What are they going to use it for?" asks my mother.
"People are going to live there."
"Crazy people," my uncle remarks.
I nod. "I guess you're right."

It is summer, and I like the way our backyard looks from the window of my upstairs room. It is a
vivid green from the last rain, and patterned with beds of my mother's flowers. My father must have
recently cut the grass, for it is carpet-flat, with not a weed protruding. There is a white fence around the
backyard. It is freshly painted.
I feel that I must belong here. In this middle-class neighborhood. In this small middle-class town. On
Mars I often dreamed of the town and the house and the backyard. Of my room up under the eaves.
When they asked me if I would like to stay and become part of the colony, I laughed at them.
They can shove Mars.

I can hear the voices of my mother and my father and my uncle coming from downstairs. Presently I
hear a different voice. A vaguely familiar one. It is rich and full, like afternoon sunlight. "Neil, you've got
company," my mother calls up the stairs.
I go down to the living room. Yes, it is she. Judy. Judy Dalms. She runs over and kisses me. The
scent of her is all around me, and oddly it is this that I remember most. More than her titian hair and
dark-blue gaze. More than the dimple in her right cheek. More than her demure smile. We were lovers
long ago. But she should not have kissed me. It has been too many years.
 And surely she must be married by now.

We go walking. Around the block. It is afternoon and a warm wind is coming down from the green
hills that rise beyond the lowlands. The wind is in her hair, in her walk, in her words. "Yes. I was married.