Philip Dick - Survey Team

“What’ll we tell Davidson?” Mason demanded. He giggled wildly. “We’ve found a perfect place. A world untouched by human hands. Still in the original cellophane wrapper.”

Halloway moved to the door of the hut, stood gazing silently out. Judde joined him. “This is catastrophic. We’re really stuck. What the hell are you looking at?”

Above them, the cold sky glittered. In the bleak light the barren plains of Mars stretched out, mile after mile of empty, wasted ruin.

“At that,” Halloway said. “You know what it reminds me of?”

“A picnic site.”

“Broken bottles and tin cans and wadded up plates. After the picnickers have left. Only, the picnickers are back. They’re back—and they have to live in the mess they made.”

“What’ll we tell Davidson?” Mason demanded.

“I’ve already called him,”

Young said wearily. “I told him there was a planet, out of the system. Someplace we could go. The Martians had a drive.”

“A drive.” Judde pondered. “Those towers.” His lips twisted. “Maybe they did have an outer- space drive. Maybe it’s worth going on with the translation.” They looked at each other. “Tell Davidson we’re going on,” Halloway ordered. “We’ll keep on until we find it. We’re not staying on this God-forsaken junkyard.” His gray eyes glowed. “We’ll find it, yet. A virgin world. A world that’s unspoiled.” “Unspoiled” Young echoed. “Nobody there ahead of us.” “We’ll be the first,” Judde muttered avidly.

“It’s wrong!” Mason shouted, “Two are enough! Let’s not destroy a third world!”

Nobody listened to him. Judde and Young and Hallo way gazed up, faces eager, hands clenching and unclenching. As if they were already there. As if they were already holding onto the new world, clutching it with all their strength. Tearing it apart, atom by atom . . .