Stendahl turned for a moment at the door to watch. And then he ran out of the great House, across the moat, to where a helicopter waited.
"Ready, Pikes?"
"Ready."
"There it goes!"
They looked at the great House, smiling. It began to crack down the middle, as with an earthquake, and as Stendahl watched the magnificent sight he heard Pikes reading behind him in a low, cadenced voice: "' ... my brain reeled as I saw the mighty walls rushing asunder--there was a long tumultuous shouting sound like the voice of a thousand waters--and the deep and dank tarn at my feet closed sullenly and silently over the fragments of the House of Usher.'"
The helicopter rose over the steaming lake and flew into the west.
August 2005: THE OLD ONES
And what more natural than that, at last, the old people come to Mars, following in the trail left by the loud frontiersmen, the aromatic sophisticates, and the professional travelers and romantic lecturers in search of new grist.
And so the dry and crackling people, the people who spent their time listening to their hearts and feeling th
eir pulses and spooning syrups into their wry mouths, these people who once had taken chair cars to California in November and third-class steamers to Italy in April, the dried-apricot people, the mummy people, came at last to Mars ...
September 2005: THE MARTIAN
The blue mountains lifted into the rain and the rain fell down into the long canals and old LaFarge and his wife came out of their house to watch.
"First rain this season," LaFarge pointed out.
"It's good," said his wife.
"Very welcome."
They shut the door. Inside, they warmed their hands at a fire. They shivered. In the distance, through the window, they saw rain gleaming on the sides of the rocket which had brought them from Earth.
"There's only one thing," said LaFarge, looking at his hands.
"What's that?" asked his wife.
"I wish we could have brought Tom with us."
"Oh, now, Lafe!"
"I won't start again; I'm sorry."
"We came here to enjoy our old age in peace, not to think of Tom. He's been dead so long now, we should try to forget him and everything on Earth."
"You're right," he said, and turned his hands again to the heat. He gazed into the fire. "I won't speak of it any more. It's just I miss driving out to Green Lawn Park every Sunday to put flowers on his marker. It used to be our only excursion."
The blue rain fell gently upon the house.
At nine o'clock they went to bed and lay quietly, hand in hand, he fifty-five, she sixty, in the raining darkness.
"Anna?" he called softly.
"Yes?" she replied.
"Did you hear something?"
They both listened to the rain and the wind.
"Nothing," she said.