Excerpt from The Martian Chronicles
December 2001: The Green Morning by Ray Bradbury

His name was Benjamin Driscoll, and he was thirty-one years old. And the thing that he wanted the most was, Mars grown green and with tall trees and foliage, producing lots of air, and growing larger with each season; trees to cool the towns in the boiling summer and trees to hold back the winter winds. There were so many things a tree could do: add color, provide shade, drop a fruit, or become children’s playground, a whole universe to climb and hang from; an architecture of food and pleasure, that was a tree. But most of all, the trees would distil an icy air for the lungs, and a gentle rustling for the ear.

He imagined the seeds he had placed today sprouting up with green and taking hold of the sky, pushing out branch after branch, until Mars was an afternoon forest, Mars was a shining orchard. “We all need the air. It’s thin air here on Mars. You get tired too soon. It’s like living in the Andes, in South America, high; you inhale and don’t get anything. It doesn’t satisfy.”

He felt his rib cage. In days, how it had grown. To take in more air, they would all have to build their lungs. Or plant more trees.

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