Captain Harrison of the 
Ares expedition turned away from the little telescope in the bow of the rocket. ‘Two weeks more, at the most, ‘ he remarked. ‘Mars only retrogrades for seventy days in all, relative to the earth, and we’ve got to be homeward bound during that period, or wait a year and a half for old Mother Earth to go around the sun and catch up with us again. How’d you like to spend a winter here?’
Dick Jarvis, chemist of the party, shivered as he looked up from his notebook. ‘I’d just as soon spend it in a liquid air tank!’ he averred. ‘These eighty-below zero summer nights are plenty for me.’
‘Well, ‘ mused the captain, ‘the first successful Martian expedition ought to be home long before then.’
‘Successful if we get home, ‘ corrected Jarvis. ‘I don’t trust these cranky rockets—not since the auxiliary dumped me in the middle of Thyle last week. Walking back from a rocket ride is a new sensation to me.’
‘Which reminds me, ‘ returned Harrison, ‘that we’ve got to recover your films. They’re important if we’re to pull this trip out of the red. Remember how the public mobbed the first moon pictures? Our shots ought to pack ’em to the doors. And the broadcast rights, too; we might show a profit for the Academy.’
‘What interests me, ‘ countered Jarvis, ‘is a personal profit. A book, for instance; exploration books are always popular. 
Martian Deserts—how’s that for a title?’
‘Lousy!’ grunted the captain. ‘Sounds like a cook-book for desserts. You’d have to call it ‘Love Life of a Martian, ‘ or something like that.’