Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from IF Worlds of Science Fiction January 1953. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.
I put my arms around her shoulders but there was noway I could comfort her.
The STATUE
By Mari Wolf
Illustrated by BOB MARTIN
There is a time for doing and a time for going home. Butwhere is home in an ever-changing universe?
ewis," Martha said. "I want to go home."
She didn't look at me. I followed her gaze to Earth, rising in theeast.
It came up over the desert horizon, a clear, bright star at thisdistance. Right now it was the Morning Star. It wasn't long beforedawn.
I looked back at Martha sitting quietly beside me with her shawl drawntightly about her knees. She had waited to see it also, of course. Ithad become almost a ritual with us these last few years, staying upnight after night to watch the earthrise.
She didn't say anything more. Even the gentle squeak of her rockingchair had fallen silent. Only her hands moved. I could see themtrembling where they lay folded in her lap, trembling with emotion andtiredness and old age. I knew what she was thinking. After seventyyears there can be no secrets.
We sat on the glassed-in veranda of our Martian home looking up at theMorning Star. To us it wasn't a point of light. It was the continentsand oceans of Earth, the mountains and meadows and laughing streams ofour childhood. We saw Earth still, though we had lived on Mars foralmost sixty-six years.
"Lewis," Martha whispered softly. "It's very bright tonight, isn'tit?"
"Yes," I said.
"It seems so near."
She sighed and drew the shawl higher about her waist.
"Only three months by rocket ship," she said. "We could be back homein three months, Lewis, if we went out on this week's run."
I nodded. For years we'd watched the rocket ships streak upwardthrough the thin Martian atmosphere, and we'd envied the men who socasually travelled from world to world. But it had been a uselessenvy, something of which we rarely spoke.
Inside our veranda the air was cool and slightly moist. Earth air,perfumed with the scent of Earth roses. Yet we knew it was onlyillusion. Outside, just beyond the glass, the cold night air of Marslay thin and alien and smelling of alkali. It seemed to me tonightthat I could smell that ever-dry Martian dust, even here. I sighed,fumbling for my pipe.
"Lewis," Martha said, very softly.
"What is it?" I cupped my hands over the match flame.
"Nothing. It's just that I wish—I wish we could go home, rightaway. Home to Earth. I want to see it again, before we die."
"We'll go back," I said. "Next year for sure. We'll have enough moneythen."
She sighed. "Next year may be too late."
I looked over at her, startled. She'd never talked like tha