atform. It wasn't
very big, nor very well made, but it was strung with yards of bunting
and a huge sign that said, "Happy Anniversary, Lewis and Martha."

We were pushed toward it, carried along by the swarm of people. There
wasn't any way to resist. Martha clung to my arm, pressing close
against me. She was trembling again.

"What does it mean, Lewis?"

"I wish I knew."

They pushed us right up onto the platform and John Emery followed us
up and held out his hand to quiet the crowd. I put my arm around
Martha and looked down at them. Hundreds of people. All in their best
clothes. Our friends's children and grandchildren, and even
great-grandchildren.

"I won't make a speech," John Emery said when they were finally quiet.
"You know why we're here today--all of you except Lewis and Martha
know. It's an anniversary. A big anniversary. Thirty-five years today
since our fathers--and you two--landed here on Mars...."

He paused. He didn't seem to know what to say next. Finally he turned
and swept his arm past the platform to where a big canvas-covered
object stood on the ground.

"Unveil it," he said.

The crowd grew absolutely quiet. A couple of boys stepped up and
pulled the canvas off.

"There's your surprise," John Emery said softly.

It was a statue. A life-size statue carved from the dull red stone of
Mars. Two figures, a man and a woman, dressed in farm clothes,
standing side by side and looking out across the square toward the
open desert.

They were very real, those figures. Real, and somehow familiar.

"Lewis," Martha whispered. "They're--they're us!"

She was right. It was a statue of us. Neither old nor young, but
ageless. Two farmers, looking out forever across the endless Martian
desert....

There was an inscription on the base, but I couldn't quite make it
out. Martha could. She read it, slowly, while everyone in the crowd
stood silent, listening.

"Lewis and Martha Farwell," she read. "The last of the pioneers--" Her
voice broke. "Underneath," she whispered, "it says--the first
Martians. And then it lists them--us...."

She read the list, all the names of our friends who had come out on
that first ship. The names of men and women who had died, one by one,
and left their farms to their children--to the same children who now
crowded close about the platform and listened to her read, and smiled
up at us.

She came to the end of the list and looked out at the crowd. "Thank
you," she whisp