THE HERMIT OF MARS BY STEPHEN BARTHOLOMEW [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of Tomorrow October 1963 Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] He was the oldest man on Mars ... in fact, the only one! When Martin Devere was 23 and still working on his Master's, he was hurt by a woman. It was then that he decided that the only things that were worthwhile in life were pure art and pure science. That, of course, is another story, but it may explain why he chose to become an archeologist in the first place. Now he was the oldest human being on Mars. He was 91. For many years, in fact, he had been the _only_ human being on Mars. Up until today. He looked through the transparent wall of his pressurized igloo at the puff of dust in the desert where the second rocket had come down. Earth and Mars were just past conjunction, and the regular automatic supply rocket had landed two days ago. As usual, Martin Devere, taking his own good time about it, had unloaded the supplies, keeping the things he really needed and throwing away the useless stuff like the latest microfilmed newspapers and magazines, the taped TV shows and concerts. As payment for his groceries he had then reloaded the rocket with the written reports he had accumulated since the last conjunction, plus a few artifacts. Then he had pushed a button and sent the rocket on its way again, back to Earth. He didn't mind writing the reports. Most of them were rubbish anyway, but they seemed to keep the people back at the Institute happy. He did mind the artifacts. It seemed wrong to remove them, though he sent only the less valuable ones back. But perhaps it couldn't be helped. One time, the supply rocket had failed to return when he pushed its red button--the thing was still sitting out there in the desert, slowly rusting. Martin Devere had happily unloaded the artifacts and put them back where they belonged. It wasn't his fault. The puff of dust on the horizon was beginning to settle. This second rocket had descended with a shrill scream through the thin air, its voice more highly pitched than it would have been in denser atmosphere. Martin Devere had looked up from his work in time to see its braking jets vanish behind the low Martian hills a few kilometers distant. It was much too large to be an automatic supply rocket, even if there had been reason to expect another one. Martin Devere knew it could mean only one thing--someone was paying him an unannounced visit. He waited, watching through the igloo wall to see who had come to poke around and bother him after all these years.