In this third part of his novel-length saga written especially for Fantastic, famed British author John Wyndham ("The Day of the Triffids") writes a deeply penetrating story of man in far space.
The calendar-clock tells me that, at home, it is breakfast-time on the 24th of June. There's no reason, as far as I can see, why that should not be so; if it is, I must have been on Mars for exactly ten weeks. Quite a time; and I wonder how many more weeks to follow . . . ?
One day, other people will come here and find, at least, the ship. I ought to have tried to keep a regular log, but it did not seem worth while—and, anyway, it wouldn't have been regular for long. I have been—well, I had not been quite myself . . . but now that I have faced facts I am calmer, almost resigned; and I find myself feeling that it would be more creditable not to leave simply a mystery. Someone is sure to come one day; better not to leave him to unravel it by inference alone, and perhaps wrongly. There are some things I want to say, and some I ought to say—besides, it will give me something to occupy my mind. That is rather important to me; I don't want to lose my hold on my mind again if I can help it. Funny, it is the early things that stick: there used, I remember, to be an old drawing-room song to impress the ladies: "Let me like a soldier fall!" . . . Hammy, of course, and yet . . .
But no need to hurry. There is, I think, still some time to go . . . I have come out on the other side of something, and now I find in the thought of death a calmness; it is so much less frightening than the thought of life in this
