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The Green Morning
By Ray Bradbury’s “The Martian Chronicles”, pp. 73-78,1946.

Introduction: In this story a man named Benjamin Driscoll is sent to work in a colony on the planet Mars where there was very thin air. Can you imagine a planet where there are no trees, no plants and not even a blade of grass? What would you do if you happened to go to such a planet? As you read this story you will find out what Mr. Driscoll did.

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.

“That’s what I’m here for,” he said. “I’m planting trees instead of making just fruit for the stomach. I’m making the air for the lungs. When those trees grow up some year, think of the oxygen they’ll make!” Mr. Benjamin Driscoll remembered his arrival on Mars. Like thousand others, he had gazed out upon a still morning and thought, ‘How do I fit here? What will I do? Is there a job for me?’ Then he had fainted. Someone pushed a vial of ammonia to his nose, and coughing, he came round.

“You’ll be all right!” said the doctor.

“What happened?”

“The air here is pretty thin. Some can’t take it. I think you’ll have to go back to Earth.”

“No!” He sat up, and almost immediately felt his eyes darken and Mars revolve twice round under him. His nostrils dilated and he forced his lungs to drink in deep nothingness. “I’ll be all right. I’ve got to stay here!”

They let him lie gasping in horrid fish-like motions. And he thought, air, air, air. They’re sending me back because of air.

And he turned his head to look across the Martian fields and hills. He brought them into focus, and the first thing he noticed was that there were no trees, no trees at all, as far as you could look in any direction. The land was down upon itself, a land of black loam, but nothing on it, not even grass. Air, he thought, the thin stuff whistling in his nostrils. Air, air. And on top of hills, or in their shadows, or even by little creeks, not a tree and not a single green blade of grass. Of course! He felt the answer came not from his mind, but his lungs and his throat. And the thought was like a sudden gust of pure oxygen, raising him up. Trees and grass! He looked down at his hands and turned them over. He would plant trees and grass. That would be his job, to fight against the very thing that might prevent his staying here.

He would have a private horticultural war with Mars. There lay the loam soil, and the plants of it so ancient they had worn themselves out. But what if new forms were introduced? Earth trees, great mimosas and weeping willows and magnolias and magnificent eucalyptus! What then? There was no guessing what mineral wealth hid in the soil, untamed because the old fern, flowers, bushes and trees had tired themselves to death.

“Let me up!” he shouted. “I’ve got to see the Coordinator!”

He and the Coordinator had talked an entire morning about things that grew and were green. It would be months, if not years, before organized planting began. So far, frosted food was brought from Earth in flying icicles; a few community gardens were greening up in hydroponics plants.

“Meanwhile,” said the Coordinator, “it’s your job. We’ll get what seed we can for you, a little equipment. Space on the rockets is mighty precious now. I’m afraid, since these towns are mining communities, there won’t be much sympathy for your tree-planting.”

“But you’ll let me do it?”

They let him do it. Provided with a single motorcycle, its bin full of rich seeds and sprouts, he had parked his vehicle in the valley wilderness and struck out on foot over the land. That had been thirty days ago, and he had never glanced back. For looking back would have been sickening to the heart. The weather was excessively dry; it was doubtful if any seeds had sprouted yet. Perhaps his entire campaign, his four weeks of bending and scooping were lost. He kept his eyes only ahead of him, going on down this wide, shallow valley under the sun, away from First Town, waiting for the rains to come.

Clouds were gathering over the dry mountains now as he drew his blanket over his shoulders. Mars was a place as unpredictable as time. He felt the baked hills simmering down into frosty night, and he thought of the rich, inky soil, a soil so black and shiny it almost crawled and stirred in your fist, a rank soil from which might sprout gigantic beanstalks from which with bone-shaking concussion, might drop screaming giants. The fire fluttered into sleepy ash, the air tremored to the distant roll of a cartwheel. Thunder. A sudden odor of water! Tonight, he thought, and put his hand out to feel for rain. Tonight!

He woke up to a tap on his brow. Water ran down his nose into his lips. Another drop hit his eyes, blurring it. Another splashed his chin. The rain. He sat up. He let the blanket fall and his blue denim shirt spot, while the rain took on more solid drops.

The fire looked as though an invisible animal were dancing on it, crushing it, until it was angry smoke. The rain fell. The great black lid of sky cracked in six powdery blue chips, like a marvelous crackled glaze, and rushed down. He saw ten billion rain crystals, hesitating long enough to be photographed by the electrical display. Then darkness and water, he was drenched to the skin, but he held his face up and let the water hit his eyelids, laughing. He clapped his hands together and stepped up and walked around his little camp, and it was one o’clock in the morning. It rained steadily for two hours and then stopped. The stars came out, freshly washed and clearer than ever. Changing into dry clothes from his cellophane pack Mr. Benjamin Driscoll lay down and went happily to sleep.

The sun rose slowly among the hills. It broke out upon the land quietly and wakened Mr. Driscoll where he lay. He waited a moment before rising. He had worked and waited a long hot month, and now, standing up, he turned at last and faced the direction from which he had come.

It was a green morning!!

As far as he could see, the trees were standing up against the sky. Not one tree, not two, not a dozen, but the thousands he had planted in seed and sprout. And not little trees, no, not saplings, not little tender shoots, but great trees, huge trees, trees as tall as ten men, green and huge and round and full, trees shimmering their metallic leaves, trees whispering, trees in a line over hills, lemon-trees, lime-trees, redwoods and mimosas and oaks and elms and aspens, cherry, maple, ash, apple, orange, eucalyptus, stung by a tumultuous rain, nourished by alien and magical soil and even as he watched, throwing out new branches, popping open new buds…

“Impossible!” cried Mr. Benjamin Driscoll. But the valley and the morning were green. And the air! All about, like a moving current, a mountain river, came the new air, the oxygen blowing from the green trees. You could see it shimmer high in crystal billows. Oxygen, fresh, pure, green and cold oxygen turning the valley into a river delta. In a moment the town doors would flip wide, people would run through the new miracle of oxygen, sniffing, gusting in lungful of it, cheeks pinking with it, noses frozen with it, lungs revived, hearts leaping, and worn bodies lifted into a dance. Mr. Benjamin Driscoll took one long deep drink of green water air and fainted. Before he came to his senses again five thousand new trees had climbed into the yellow sun.

After reading the above story,

• Do you believe Mars will become an Earth colony in the near future?
• Give examples to support your stance.