A cascading waterfall was a highlight of the campground that had been thoughtfully designed and meticulously constructed at the periphery of Base Five. The red soil was reminiscent of Georgia clay, and gurgling river water was in fact Martian, but circulated endlessly through a meandering stream by pumps powered by nuclear fusion. Camping rated high on the list of desired amenities for homesick colonists. Eileen sat with the kids around a simulated campfire eating s’mores, gazing skyward and searching the blackness for Greg’s incoming ship.
There were other reminders of home. The base was named Cook County, a tribute to the first Martian governor, a Chicagoan. It sounded less sterile than “Base Five.” Other bases had followed suit: Los Angeles, Maricopa, Queens and Milwaukee. Pathways between structures had been given street names, and unnecessary mailboxes adorned living quarters, brightly painted and decorated. This explained the manatee that stood watch over Tamiami Trail.
“I wouldn’t want that commute on a regular basis,” Greg stated as he cleared the Cook County airlock.
“It once took seven months Captain,” reported the AI gate attendant. “Welcome to your new home.”
“Yeah, new home. Old home may not…” he choked back emotion at the thought.
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