"The rockets set the bony meadows afire, turned rock to lava, turned wood to charcoal, transmitted water to steam, made sand and silica into green glass which lay like shattered mirrors reflecting the invasion, all about. The rockets came like drums, beating in the night. The rockets came like locusts, swarming and settling in blooms of rosy smoke. And from the rockets ran men with hammers in their hands to beat the strange world into a shape that was familiar to the eye, to bludgeon away all the strangeness, their mouths fringed with nails so they resembled steel-toothed carnivores, spitting them into their swift hands as they hammered up frame cottages and scuttled over roofs with shingles to blot out the eerie stars, and fit green shades to pull against the night. And when the carpenters had hurried on, the women came in with flowerpots and chintz and pans and set up a kitchen clamor to cover the silence that Mars made waiting outside the door and the shaded window."

In Ray Bradbury's "The Martian Chronicles," Earthians seeking to colonize the planet Mars, even as difficulties on the home planet lead to international tensions. This quote does not reference a small town on Earth but rather the harsh landscape of an untamed Mars. The ability to mold one's environment is itself a formidable power, and one wielded not only by rockets: carpenters and builders are just as able, and they do so to ward away the strangeness of their new surroundings, to make themselves more comfortable in a place that offers no comfort. This is, in a way, the basic story of the frontier: the threat of the colonizers on pristine territories, the demand to make familiar something which is unknown but waiting to be claimed.