They shook their heads. “Committee.”

“Has it been very violent?”

Susan Jones said firmly, “A lot of people have been killed.”

Her brother said, “They broke the dome at Hellas. Killed a lot of people inside.”

“They couldn’t have!” I cried. Hellas…

“They did. They don’t care how many people they kill. There’s always more on Earth to take their places.”

“They’re careful of property, though,” Susan said bitterly. “That’s to our advantage. Otherwise I have no doubt they would have destroyed New Houston outright by now.”

“It sounds like you’re losing,” I said.

They didn’t contradict me.

Suddenly the gravity shifted up, and we became heavier. Heavier still.

“But I’m with you,” I said, without planning to. “I’m with you if you’ll have me.”

They both nodded. “We’ll have you,” Andrew Jones said. “We’re going to need life- support people, one way or another.”

The gee diminished to the familiar pressure of Mars. A minute later there was a gentle bump-and-rock. I was home again.

So I joined the revolution.

When we had been settled in the apartment the revolutionaries were using for their command post — it’s in the Dallas district, the industrial section of town near the air and water facilities, under the rim of New Houston’s crater — I asked Susan Jones what they were doing with Duggins, Valenski, and their group.

She smiled. “We explained the situation to them, and gave them their choice — join us, or be detained. We told them the truth about the Committee, explained Amor to them. We told them that if any of them joined us and then did anything antirevolutionary, we’d shoot them.”

“And?”

“Not all of them have decided yet. Most who have decided have chosen to be detained.”

“That Al Nordhoff is a good man—”

“He chose detention.”

Of course. And all of us who helped build the starship have chosen to join the revolution. No surprise, although I still have the feeling some of us might have preferred to be met by the Committee. (Am I one of those?)

We were taken to a short meeting with the revolutionary command here — a different sort of committee, a smelly and disheveled group of about twenty-five. They looked like my farm crew used to look after a hard day’s work. Or worse. Susan Jones told them what she knew of our adventure, and the story of our rescue — or whatever it was. We answered some questions. They looked pleased to see us; here was an anti-Committee project that had succeeded. I became very tired. It had been a long time since I had last slept. Finally they led us back to our rooms, and I fell asleep the moment I hit the bed.

Today they want us to rest. Andrew Jones says some of them want to talk to us again. I’ve taken the opportunity to get down the story of our arrival. Now, again, I’m going to sleep. The Martian gravity I love feels pretty heavy these days.

I talked to Andrew Jones this afternoon. He told me that the revolution began all at once, in every major city on the planet. The entire Soviet space fleet rebelled and pearl- harbored the rest of the Committee’s spaceships, with devastating success. “That’s why we were able to go up there and intercept you. We still have partial control of Marsspace.” The railroad tracks connecting the cities were sabotaged, especially at bridges and other problem points. Air and water buildings in every city were stormed, as were some of the police barracks. These last attacks had uneven success. There were as many police as rebels, so it had been a pitched battle from the start. Fighting in the streets, in every city… The U.S. and U.S.S.R. have sent reinforcements to the Committee,” Andrew finished. “They’ve arrived recently. A few big spaceships, really long-distance killers, and some advanced weapons. Personnel killers.”

“They must not be too worried about you,” I said, “if they’re still trying to save the buildings and facilities.”

“I know,” Andrew said, discouraged and bitter. “They think they can just kill us and walk back into their property.”

“And you’ve lost contact with a lot of rebel-held cities?”

“You bet.” He became grimly cheerful. “They’ve retaken most of the sectors, like I told you. They drop in on the air and water buildings and blast the people there — if there’s still resistance in the city, they take away the air. A lot of buildings are self- contained, but that’s just mopping up. These cities” — he grimaced — “they’re too centralized. Some of the rebel cells have set up underground retreats in the chaos. We hope they made it out to them.”

“What about the general population?”

“Most of them fought for us. At first. That’s why we did so well.”

“A lot of people must be dead.”

“Yes.”

Thousands of people dead. Killed. People who would have lived a thousand years. My father — jail may have protected him, but on the other hand, he may be dead. And my turn may be coming.

They asked me to make a small speech for the rebels in New Houston, which they would then transmit to the other rebel outposts. “When the revolt began,” Susan Jones told me, “the MSA members still here joined the fight, and they told everyone about the starship effort. It’s been a big story, people are very interested and excited about it. To hear you announce that the starship has taken off would be good for morale.”

They’re in bad shape, I thought to myself. But I got the dozen of us who had helped Davydov’s people to sit with me at another meeting in the lounge of the command building. The same group, slightly larger and slightly more exhausted, was gathered there. A couple of video cameras were trained on us, and I was given a mike. I said,

“The Mars Starship Association was part of the revolution. They worked isolated from the main effort, and have existed for the last forty years.” I told them what I knew of the Association’s history, aware as I spoke of the strangeness of the fact that it was me telling them this story. I described the starship and its capabilities, and events from the previous two months flashed in my mind, disturbing my concentration. “When I left Mars on Rust Eagle I didn’t know there was an MSA. I didn’t know there was an underground movement dedicated to the overthrow of the Committee. I did know that — I did know…” — suddenly it was hard to talk — “that I hated the Committee and its control over our lives. When I found out about the MSA, sort of by accident out there” — a sympathetic laugh — “I helped it. So did my friends sitting up here with me. Now that we’re here, we want to help you, too. I’m glad — I’m glad that the Mars Development Committee wasn’t here to greet us.” I paused to catch my breath properly. “I hope they never rule Mars again.”

And at that they stood up and cheered. Clapped and cheered. But I hadn’t been finished! I had wanted to say, Listen, there is a starship leaving the solar system! I wanted to say that out of all our petty and stupid and destructive squabbles on this planet, a pure, feeble effort had struggled away — that the revolution had been responsible for it, partially, and that it was a historical event to stun the imagination…

But I never got to say any of that. My friends from Rust Eagle crowded around me, familiar faces all, filled with affection, and my speech was over. We looked at each other with a new tenderness — now, and perhaps from now on, we were each other’s only family. Noah’s cousins, left behind.

Not much time left. The city has been broached by police troops, and we’ll be evacuating soon.

I was up on the crater’s rim with Andrew Jones when the missiles started falling on the spaceport to the north of the city crater. The explosions were bright enough to leave blue afterimages in our eyes, and they lofted tall, lazy clouds of rusty dust above the larger chunks of spaceport.