“No Place Like Home” was solicited by Ed Gorman for inclusion in an SF anthology with a first contact theme called Star Colonies, published by Daw in June 2000. First SF I’ve written in seven years. I am inordinately proud of it.

In Cosmos Carl Sagan wrote, “If there is life on Mars, I believe we should do nothing with Mars. Mars then belongs to the Martians, even if the Martians are only microbes.”

I have wanted to write this story ever since I read that because, may Carl forgive me, I am not sure that he is right.

Excerpt from “No Place Like Home”

We weren’t on the ground more than two hours before Grady had us suiting up. It didn’t take us long to get used to gravity again, and Hiroshi and Roberto had the drills out and in place before sunset. There was ice, all right, thirty-two centimeters below the surface. For once, the gnomes at home had interpreted the probe data correctly. Lucky for us, since our water tanks were running on empty.

“Cold,” Hiroshi said, emerging from his goonsuit shivering and pinch-faced.

“Er than a witch’s tit,” Roberto agreed cheerfully. He’d been nauseous for two years; he didn’t care how cold the planet was so long as it had enough gravity to keep his feet and his dinner down.

I’d been rearranging the furniture in the galley, unbolting tables and chairs from the bulkheads and placing them on what was now the floor. I’d reduced our dining room from three to two dimensions and our ten-man crew was shoulder to shoulder but no one complained. Betty cooked, making a praise-worthy effort at extracting flavor from foil envelopes of alleged food packed two A.U.s away. Betty was a genius in the galley, but Betty Crocker herself would have been culinarily challenged by what we had left in the pantry. I’d have killed for a hot, meaty chili, smothered in onions and shredded cheese.

Grady made a little speech and raised a toast of eighteen, now twenty year-old single malt scotch, hoarded carefully for just this occasion. It didn’t taste as smooth here as it did back home, but the flush started hot and low in my gut and spread up and out.

Esme followed the toast with a ceremonial chant. The UCB liturgy has a chant for everything, and encourages lay participation. Hiroshi, a Buddhist and very polite, bent his head. The rest of us waited with varying degrees of patience for it to be over, and went to bed.

It was Grady’s night, and either the Glenmorangie or the gravity or both inspired him, because it was an inventive few hours before I got any sleep.

Engineers do it anyway they can.