Prepare.
The land is yours.”
In the blowing moonlight, like metal petals of some ancient flower, like blue plumes, like cobalt butterflies immense and quiet, the old ships turned and moved over the shifting sands, the masks beaming and glittering, until the last shine, the last blue color, was lost among the hills.
“Elma, why did they do it?
Why didn’t they kill me?
Don’t they know anything?
What’s wrong with them?
Elma, do you understand?”
He shook her shoulder.
“I own half of Mars!”
She watched the night sky, waiting.
“Come on,” he said.
“We’ve got to get the place fixed.
All the hot dogs boiling, the buns warm, the chili cooking, the onions peeled and diced, the relish laid out, the napkins in the dips, the place spotless!
Hey!”
He did a little wild dance, kicking his heels.
“Oh boy, I’m happy; yes, sir, I’m happy,” he sang off key.
“This is my lucky day!”
He boiled the hot dogs, cut the buns, sliced the onions in a frenzy.
“Just think, that Martian said a surprise.
That can only mean one thing, Elma.
Those hundred thousand people coming in ahead of schedule, tonight, of all nights!
We’ll be flooded!
We’ll work long hours for days, what with tourists riding around seeing things, Elma.
Think of the money!”
He went out and looked at the sky.
He didn’t see anything.
“In a minute, maybe,” he said, snuffing the cool air gratefully, arms up, beating his chest.
“Ah!”
Elma said nothing.
She peeled potatoes for French fries quietly, her eyes always on the sky.
“Sam,” she said half an hour later.
“There it is.
Look.”
He looked and saw it.
Earth.
It rose full and green, like a fine-cut stone, above the hills.
“Good old Earth,” he whispered lovingly.
“Good old wonderful Earth.
Send me your hungry and your starved.
Something something — how does that poem go?
Send me your hungry, old Earth.
Here’s Sam Parkhill, his hot dogs all boiled, his chili cooking, everything neat as a pin.
Come on, you Earth, send me your rocket!”
He went out to look at his place.
There it sat, perfect as a fresh-laid egg on the dead sea bottom, the only nucleus of light and warmth in hundreds of miles of lonely wasteland.
It was like a heart beating alone in a great dark body.
He felt almost sorrowful with pride, gazing at it with wet eyes.
“It sure makes you humble,” he said among the cooking odors of wieners, warm buns, rich butter.
“Step up,” he invited the various stars in the sky.