In the evening, when the glitterswarms rose from the depths of the Valles Marineris to spread like a cloth of gold across the sky, they would raise a toast to King George, like any normal family on British Mars. Right about now, Matthew’s family would be settling down for their tea or going for a quiet stroll in the warm afternoon air. My friend Matthew, Viscount Harrison’s son, had invited me to spend the summer with him.
I was dangling from a rope, fifty feet up the side of a great pillar of red Martian rock, with my arms buried in a sopping curtain of tanglemoss and bury-beetles trying to build a hill over my head, when I finally realized I had chosen the wrong summer vacation.
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