ONE minute it was Ohio winter, with doors closed, windows locked, the
panes blind with frost, icicles fringing every roof, children skiing
on slopes, housewives lumbering like great black bears in their furs
along the icy streets.
And then a long wave of warmth crossed the small town. A flooding sea
of hot air; it seemed as if someone had left a bakery door open. The
heat pulsed among the cottages and bushes and children. The icicles
dropped, shattering, to melt. The doors flew open. The windows flew
up. The children worked off their wool clothes. The housewives shed
their bear disguises. The snow dissolved and showed last summer's
ancient green lawns.
Rocket summer. The words passed among the
people in the open, airing houses. Rocket summer. The warm
desert air changing the frost patterns on the windows, erasing the art
work. The skis and sleds suddenly useless. The snow, falling from the
cold sky upon the town, turned to a hot rain before it touched the
ground.
Rocket summer. People leaned from their
dripping porches and watched the reddening sky.
The rocket lay on the launching field, blowing out
pink clouds of fire and oven heat. The rocket stood in the cold winter
morning, making summer with every breath of its mighty exhausts. The
rocket made climates, and summer lay for a brief moment upon the
land...
(Ray Bradbury: The Martian Chronicles; also
published as The Silver Locusts)
It's time to take off. The New Frontier is waiting. Hold on to your
wallet.
Here we go!