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

reaccustomed by this time to Earth's greater gravitation. The two boys are in the front yard. I must look
like a Martian to them, for they run into the house, crying, "Mom, he's here, he's here!"
Judy meets me at the door and we go inside. She insists that I have coffee. Carl is seven, Kevin five.
The little girl Suzan is only three. They are beautiful children; all of them have Judy's eyes. Carl wants to
know what it is like on Mars. I tell him and Kevin about the Margaritifer Sinus, Tharsis Ridge—where
the complex is located—and massive Olympus Mons. I tell them that the sky is yellowish pink instead of
blue. To temper their fascination I tell them about the cold and bitter winds, and how "Martians" have to
wear air masks whenever they are outdoors.
"Aren't there any real Martians?" Carl asks.
"I'm afraid there aren't."
"But weren't there Martians long ago?"
"There may have been. But they left no sign of themselves."
"I don't think I'd care to go there," Judy says.
"I would," says Carl.
"So would I," says Kevin.
"Don't worry about it," I tell Judy after they have gone to bed. "When they get older, they'll know
better."
"You didn't."
"That's because I never grew up."
But this is not true. I went to Mars for the security it would give me on Earth.

We sit on the sofa, watching 3V. We have the house to ourselves, except for the kids. Her father
also is on vacation, and he and her mother are spending two weeks at the Thousand Islands. Their house
does not need painting. I am tempted to ask Judy whether her father painted it while on vacation last
year, but I do not. I am not making a study of middle-class customs. It is immaterial to me when people
paint their houses.
I know that if I say the word, or even hint that I am so inclined, Judy will take me upstairs to her
room. I do neither. It is not that I do not want her, how could I help but want her after being without a
woman so long? But there is a strange coldness in me that will not go away.
We kiss in the doorway when we say good-night, and she puts her arms around my neck. There is
no coldness in her, but clearly she feels mine, for she draws away. I walk home beneath the summer
stars.

I begin helping my father paint the house. When he finally asks me what my plans are, he does not do
so directly. He says casually, as I am cutting a window sash, "There's a civil service exam for postal
workers coming up in two weeks."
I do not say anything.
"For you it would just be a token, of course. Your priority automatically puts you first on the list. You
wouldn't even have to pass." "I could pass the damn thing."
"I know you could. The point is, you have to take it for your priority to work. Then, as soon as
there's an opening, you'll be safe."
"Safe?"
"Security-wise. I know you've got a bundle from being on Mars, but it's not the same as a secure
job, and what with the price of things who knows how long your money will last? This way, you'll be all
set for life."
I say nothing more.

I stop into Big Charlie's one night for a beer. I run into people I used to know. Guys I went to school
with. They all have pretty much the same thing to say—how they wish they'd gone to Mars. I tell them
they still can if they want—that the Colonization Bureau is looking for volunteers. Oh, but they can't go