Gramps stood apart from all this, and when he saw me he came running through the mob on spindly legs, waving his arms frantically so that I wouldn't miss him. As if I would. If there was anything more incongruous here on the Martian landscape, anything that seemed more out of place than did old Gramps, I didn't see it. Two hundred years ago in another homestead rush, maybe he would have fit. The only thing I know about that is what I read in books, but I could picture Gramps with his battered old corncob pipe and his wizened face, leading a team of mules or oxen or whatever animals they used.

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