When I got to see what was on the ground, it was seven or eight men and most of them dead. Walter had been shot right through the heart. They told me later it was because he'd been the leader, out in front, that he got it first of the mutineers.
One M.P. was dead, and one was sitting with red all over the middle of his uniform, and that one was Breck, and they were bringing a stretcher for him now.
The corporal said, "Hey, that's Jergen, your squad leader!"
And I said, "Yes, that's him." Funny how you can't talk when something hits youhow you just say words, like
"Yes, that's him." Breck died that night without ever regaining conscious- ness, and there I was, still half sick myself, and with Lassen dying in his bunk, and five of us were all that was left of Squad Fourteen, and that was that.
How could H.Q. let a thing like that get known? A fine advertisement it would be for recruiting more Mars expedi- tions, if they told how guys on Two cracked up and did a crazy thing like that. I didn't blame them for telling us to keep it top secret. Anyway, it wasn't something we'd want to talk about.
But it sure left me in afine spot now, a sweet spot. I was going down to talk to Brock's parents and Walter's parents, and they'd want to know how their sons died, and I could tell them, "Your sons probably killed each other, out there." Sure, I could tell them that, couldn't I? But what was I going to tell them? I knew H.Q. had reported those casual- ties as "accidental deaths," but what kind of accident? Well, it got late, and I had to go down, and when I did, Breck's parents were there. Mr. Jergen was a carpenter, a tall, bony man with level blue eyes like Breck's. He didn't say much, but his wife was a little woman who talked enough for both of them.
She told me I looked just like I did in the pictures of us Breck had sent home from training base. She said she had three daughters tootwo of them married, and one of the married ones living in Milwaukee and one out on the Coast. She said that she'd named Breck after a character in a book by Robert Louis Stevenson, and I said I'd read the book in high school.
"It's a nice name," I said.
She looked at me with bright eyes and said, "Yes. It was a nice name."
That was a fine dinner. They'd got everything they thought I might like, and all the best, and a maid served it, and I couldn't taste a thing I ate.
Then afterward, in the big living room, they all just sort of sat and waited, and I knew it was up to me. I asked them if they'd had any details about the accident, and Mr. Millis said. No, just "accidental death" was all they'd been told.
Well, that made it easier. I sat there, with all four of them watching my face, and dreamed it up.
I said, "It was one of those one-in-a-million things. You see, more little meteorites hit the ground on Mars than here, because the air's so much thinner it doesn't burn them up so fast. And one hit the edge of the fuel dump and a biinch of little tanks started to blow. I was down with the sickness, so I didn't see it, but I heard all about it."
You could hear everybody breathing, it was so quiet as I went on with my yarn.
"A couple of guys were knocked out by the concussion and would have been burned up if a few fellows hadn't got in there fast with foamite extinguishers. "They kept it away from the big tanks, but another little tank let go, and Breck and Walter were two of the fellows who'd gone in, and they were killed instantly."
When I'd got it told, it sounded corny to me and I was afraid they'd never believe it. But nobody said anything, un- til Mr. Millis let out a sigh and said, "So that was it. Well. >. well, if it had to be, it was mercifully quick, wasn't it?" I said, yes, it was quick.
"Only, I can't see why they couldn't have let us know. It doesn't seem fair."
I had an answer for that. "It's hush-hush because they don't want people to know about the meteor danger. That's why."
Mrs. Millis got up and said she wasn't feeling so well, and would I excuse her and she'd see me in the morning. The rest of us didn't seem to have much to say to each other, and nobody objected when I went up to my bedroom a little later.
I was getting ready to turn in when there was a knock on the door. It was Breck's father, and he came in and looked at me steadily.
"It was just a story, wasn't it?" he said.
I said, "Yes. It was just a story."
His eyes bored into me and he said, "I guess you've got your reasons. Just tell me one thing. Whatever it was, did Breck behave right?"
"He behaved like a man, all the way," I said. "He was the best man of us, first to last."
He looked at me, anc~l guess something made him believe me. He shook hands and said, "All right, son. We'll let it go." I'd had enough. I wasn't going to face them again in the morning. I wrote a note, thanking them all and making ex- cuses, and then went down and slipped quietly out of the house.
It was late, but a truck coming along picked me up, and the driver said he was going near the airport. He asked me what it was like on Mars and I told him it was lonesome. I slept in a chair at the airport, and I felt better, for next day I'd be home, and it would be over.
That's what I thought.
It was getting toward evening when we reached the vil- lage, for my father and mother hadn't knovyn I was coming on an earlier plane, and I'd had to wait for them up at Cleve- land Airport. When we drove into Market Street, I saw there was a big painted banner stretching across: "HABMONVILLE WELCOMES HOME ITS SPACEMAN)"
Spacemanthat was me. The newspapers had started calling us that, I guess, because it was a short word good for headlines. Everybody called us that now. We'd sat cooped up in a prison cell that flew, that was allbut now we were
"spacemen." There were bright uniforms clustered under the banner, and I saw that it was the high-school band. I didn't say any- thing, but my father saw my face.
"Now, Frank, I know you're tired, but these people are your friends and they want to show you a real welcome." That was fine. Only it was all gone again, the relaxed feel- ing I'd been beginning to get as we drove down from Cleve- land.
This was my home country, this old Ohio country with its neat little white villages and fat, rolling farms. It looked good, in June. It looked very good, and I'd been feeling better all the time. And now I didn't feel so good, for I saw that I was going to have to talk some more about Mars. Dad stopped the car under the banner, and the high- school band started to play, and Mr. Robinson, who was the Chevrolet dealer and also the mayor of Harmonville, got into the car with us.
He shook hands with me and said, "Welcome home, Frank! What was it like out on Mars?"
I said, "It was cold, Mr. Robinson. Awful cold."
"You should have been here last February!" he said.
"Eighteen belownearly a record." He leaned out and gave a signal, and Dad started driving again, with the band marching along in front of us and play- ing. We didn't have far to go, just down Market Street under the big old maples, past the churches and the old white houses to the square white Grange Hall.
There was a little crowd in front of it, and they made a sound like a cheernot a real loud one, you know how peo- ple can be self-conscious about really cheeringwhen we drove up. I got out and shook hands with people I didn't really see, and then Mr. Robinson took my elbow and took me on inside.
The seats were all filled and people standing up, and over the little stage at the far end they'd fixed up a big floral decorationthere was a globe all of red roses with a sign above it that said "Mars," and beside it a globe all of white roses that said "Earth," and a little rocket ship made out of flowers was hung between them.
"The Garden Club fixed it up," said Mr. Robinson.
"Nearly everybody in Harmonville contributed flowers."