In four days many of us will celebrate Christmas. On Earth, that was a time of hope, of the promise of resurrection. Even the atheists among us must feel the power of this particular season and holiday, especially now, for like Christ, we carry the weight of billions on our shoulders; and more, we bear the responsibility of an entire planet's biosphere. We are like children dragged prematurely into parenthood, and the burden is frequently too heavy to stand.

Still, the suicide rate on New Mars has dropped precipitously in the last three years. We are finding our feet once again; we are desperately weak, but we are determined. We will not perish.

We will not forget our duties, nor will those who fly outward on the Ships of the Law to seek the home of the planet-eaters. My son is out there; what does he have to celebrate, on his equivalent of December 21?

For those of you who have supported this ofttimes undisciplined, wandering little journal, on this day of celebration, my husband and I extend our heartfelt thanks. We hope that our philosophy—that New Mars and New Venus are and will be our true homes—has provided some comfort.

All of Earth has been reduced to one small town. Whatever our differences, we are all extraordinarily close. We love you all, and welcome our newly awakened Eurasian brothers and sisters.

Arthur put on his coldsuit and strapped a small tank of oxygen to his belt. Even in the past year, the air had grown richer, and not just in Mariner Valley, but on the green moss and lichen plains of the highlands as well. Still, it was best to be safe; if he should need to exert himself, the oxygen tank could save his life.

In the small individual air lock, he could hear the distant, tinny sound of the celebration in the main hall of Geopolis. He had had enough company for the evening; he needed solitude now, time to think and reappraise.

The hatch opened and he stepped out onto a patch of ubiquitous crisp lichen. The valley air at dusk was cold and still and the stars steady as crystal.

The sky glowed a lovely, subdued mauve, edging toward blue at zenith. To the southeast, the high valley walls caught the last sunlight of the day, a thin irregular horizontal ribbon of intense orange.

New Mars had recovered from its collision with the icy fragment of Europa in the 390 years they had been in cold sleep, dropping its mantle of cloud after two centuries of almost steady rain. Floods had scoured the red and ocher terrain, and the increased temperature had released the frozen carbon dioxide of the poles, thickening the atmosphere. At that time, a century past, New Mars had been ideal for primitive plants. Up and down the valley, the dust and rock had been carpeted by lichens and mosses, and the new small seas had been seeded with phytoplank-ton.