Stephen Bartholomew

“ Everyone on Earth who reads popular magazines or watches TV knows the story of Martin Devere, "The Hermit of Mars." Over the years, now that he is dead, he has become a sort of culture hero, as Dr. Livingston or Albert Schweitzer once were. Though Martin Devere could not be called a humanitarian in any sense of the word. After his divorce from his first and only wife, at the age of 45, he never gave much thought again either to women or any other kind of people—except for his long-dead Martians. ”

“ But everyone should know by now how Martin Devere first came to Mars at the age of 50. Even then he was the oldest man on the planet, and Mars sustained quite a large research colony at the time. Only Martin Devere's unchallenged scientific reputation, together with his apparent good health, enabled him to leave Earth as head of a five-man archeological team. This turned up the first fossil ruins far beneath the desert sand.
Then there came a day when the Space Institute of the United Governments decided to abandon Project Mars. It was getting too expensive to maintain. ”

“ The tall man frowned in confusion and blinked at the weapon in his hand. Then he stared at the transparent dome above him, as if realizing for the first time that only a thin bubble of plastic separated him from near-vacuum, now that he had removed his suit.
"I was just making some coffee when you showed up," Martin Devere said, turning away. "Have some? I'm afraid it's instant. I've given up trying to get the Institute to send me a can of real coffee in the rocket. They think I need canned TV shows more."
"He's harmless," the bald man said. "You can see he's just an old senile nut. ”

“ If they'd had time to develop space travel they might have saved themselves. Then again, with a technology like yours, they might have blown themselves up long before the natural catastrophe ..."
"What do you mean like yours?" the tall man said. "You mean like ours, don't you?"
But Martin Devere turned away without answering.
"Do you have another bottle of bourbon, old man?"
"No, I'm afraid not," Devere said. "There was only that one bottle."
"Too bad. We should have a little celebration." The bald man began sealing himself into his spacesuit.
"I'll wait for you here," his partner said. ”

“ When Martin Devere was 23 and still working on his Master's, he was hurt by a woman. It was then that he decided that the only things that were worthwhile in life were pure art and pure science. That, of course, is another story, but it may explain why he chose to become an archeologist in the first place.
Now he was the oldest human being on Mars. He was 91. For many years, in fact, he had been the only human being on Mars. Up until today.
He looked through the transparent wall of his pressurized igloo at the puff of dust in the desert where the second rocket had come down. ”

“ All trace of senility had vanished as suddenly as it had appeared. "Like, say, if you were out there long enough for your suit power to go dead. You'd freeze to a hunk of ice in a few minutes.... Me, I never go outside at night."
"Shut up," the bald man said.
All day the bald man had been out alone, working on his electronic circuits. Evidently this left his partner nothing to do except study schematics.
Now Martin Devere was aware that his guest had been staring at him for several minutes without speaking. Martin Devere went on polishing the green crystal vase he held in his hand. ”

“ They—don't build many machines, you know."
The man with the gun turned to stare at Martin Devere.
"You mean didn't build, don't you?"
"Yes, of course.... Past tense." And Devere turned again to peer at the million-year-old poem before him.
"Damn it to hell. This might hold us up a week." The bald man flung the shatterproof helmet of his suit against the igloo wall. His tone of voice was matter-of-fact emotionless. Even the way he threw the helmet betrayed no real emotion. Still wearing the rest of his suit he sat down at Martin Devere's work bench and clenched his fists. ”

“ Martin Devere was silent again until the tall man opened the oven and removed a bundle of gray ash. He dumped the ashes into a bucket and began stirring them with his hand.
"Something else I was wondering about," Devere said. He began cleaning the fragment of ceramic again, his hands working in a slow circular motion.
"Supposing the United Governments find out where it—the bomb is. They might send a missile to blow it up."
"Told you, Pop. Baby can out-run anything else that flies. Wouldn't do them any good."
"Yes, yes.... Still, the missile would hit Mars, wouldn't it? ”

“ We do know, for instance, that they never had much interest in technology. Not that they lacked intelligence. They could build a machine when it suited their purposes, whatever those may have been. And I don't say they weren't interested in science. They had a highly developed theoretical science, as sophisticated as their art. ”

“ Let them point the gun if they wanted to.
"If you make one move toward the radio transmitter I'll blow your head off," the taller man said. He had black wavy hair that hung over his brow. The other man was completely bald.
"I don't even know if the radio works," Martin Devere answered. "I haven't turned it on in years. I should warn you, though, that if you shoot that thing inside the igloo here, it will puncture the plastic wall and let all the air out. I always keep the pressure up high indoors so I can boil water for coffee." ”

“ The tall man, struggling with the buckles of his breathing equipment, glanced at the object in Devere's hands. It looked like badly corroded bronze, and consisted of a long tube with a large bulb at one end. ”