'That must be them,' said the pilot.
He pointed downward and Izzy Newman looked where he pointed.
He saw two figures.
One of them was erect, but staggering as it marched along. Beside it limped another, with its arm thrown across the shoulders of the first to keep from falling.
'But there's only two,' said Izzy.
'No, there's three,' declared the pilot. 'That one fellow is holding the second one up and he's dragging the third fellow along by his arm. Look at him. Just skidding along the ground like a sled.'
The pilot dove the plane, struck the ground and taxied close.
Gramp, seeing the plane, halted. He let go of the senator's arm and eased Jurg Tec to the ground.
Then, tottering on his feet, gasping for what little air remained within his oxygen tank, he waited.
Two men came out of the plane. Gramp staggered to meet them.
They helped him in and brought in the other two.
Gramp tore off his helmet and breathed deeply. He helped Jurg Tec to remove his helmet. The senator, he saw, was coming around.
'Dog-gone,' said Gramp, I did somethin' today I swore I'd never do.'
'What's that?' asked Jurg Tec.
'I swore,' said Gramp, 'that if I ever had a chance to help a Marshy, I wouldn't lift a finger. I'd just stand by and watch him kick the bucket.'
Jurg Tec smiled.
'You must have forgot yourself,' he said.
'Dog-gone,' said Gramp, 'I ain't got no will power left, that's what's the matter with me.'
The reunion was drawing to a close. Meeting in extraordinary convention, the veterans had voted to form an Earth-Mars Veterans' Association. All that remained was to elect the officers.
Jurg Tec had the floor.
'Mr. Chairman,' he said, 'I won't make a speech. I'm just going to move a nomination for commander. No speech is necessary.'
He paused dramatically and the hall was silent.
'I nominate,' said Jurg Tec, 'Captain Johnny Parker, better known as Gramp.'
The hall exploded in an uproar. The chairman pounded for order, but the thumping of his gavel was scarcely a whisper in the waves of riotous sound that swept and reverberated in the room.
'Gramp!' howled ten thousand throats. 'We want Gramp.'
Hands lifted a protesting Gramp and bore him to the platform.
'Cut it out, dog-gone you,' yelled Gramp, but they only pounded him on the back and yelled at him and left him standing there, all alone beside the chairman's table.
Before him the convention hall rocketed and weaved in uproar. Bands played and their music did no more than form a background for the boisterous cheering. Newsmen popped up and down, taking pictures. The man beside the microphone crooked a finger at the old man and Gramp, hardly knowing why he did it, stumbled forward, to stand before the mike.
He couldn't see the crowd so well. There was something the matter with his eyes. Sort of misted up.
Funny way for them to act. And his heart was pounding. Too much excitement. Bad for the heart.
'Speech!' roared the ten thousand down below. 'Speech! Speech!'
They wanted him to make a speech! They wanted old Gramp Parker to talk into the mike so they could hear what he had to say. He'd never made a speech before in all his life. He didn't know how to make a speech and he was scared.
Gramp wondered, dimly, what Celia would think of all these goings-on. Hoppin' mad, probably. And little Harry. But Harry would think his grandpa was a hero. And the bunch down at Grocer White's store.
'Speech,' thundered the convention hall.
Out of the mist of faces Gramp picked one face-one he could see as plain as day. Jurg Tec, smiling at him, smiling that crooked way the Martians smile. Jurg Tec, his friend. A dog-gone Marshy. A Marshy who had stood shoulder to shoulder with him out on the surface. A Marshy who had stood with him against the metal beasts. A Marshy who had slogged those bitter miles beside him.
There was a word for it. Gramp knew there was a word. He groped madly in his brain for the single word that would tell the story.
And then he had it. It was a funny word. Gramp whispered it. It didn't sound right. Not the kind of word he'd say. Not what anyone would expect old Gramp Parker to say. A word that would fit better in the mouth of Senator Sherman Brown.
Maybe they'd laugh at him for saying it. Maybe they'd think he was just a damn old fool.
He moved closer to the mike and the uproar quieted, waiting.
'Comrades — ' Gramp began and then he stopped.
That was the word. They were comrades now. Marshies and Earthies. They'd fought in bitter hatred, each for what he thought was right. Maybe they had to fight. Maybe that war was something that was needed. But it was forty years ago and all its violence was a whisper in the wind-a dim, old memory blowing from a battlefield where hatred and violence had burned itself out in one lurid blast of strength.
But they were waiting. And they hadn't laughed.