There goes the Neighborhood

The desert dweller preferred solitude. He saw no express lanes, growling with the noise of iron and fuel. Let the foolish aristocrats, who were sold allegedly major and improved forms of movement, stick with their metal cans. He considered the foot the greatest form of travel.

Near day's end, the desert dweller gazed at the dwindling sunset, which gave the sand and soil a crimson glow. Then, he saw something fall from the sky. It landed nearby, bouncing and rolling until it settled. Airbags deflated and a rolling machine emerged from the debris.

Crap, not here too, thought the Martian.