Philip Dick - Souvenir

Rogers continued to watch until the last bits of debris had ceased flying, and only a vague, discolored shadow remained. The screens clicked olf automatically. To his right, the Class-One battleship picked up speed and headed toward the Riga System.

Williamson’s World was gone. The Galactic Relay culture had been preserved. The idea, the concept of a separate culture with its own ways, its own customs, had been disposed of in the most effective possible way.

“Good job,” the Relay trace web whispered. North was pleased. “The fission mines were perfectly placed. Nothing remains.”

“No,” Rogers agreed. “Nothing remains.”

Corporal Pete Matson pushed the front door open, grinning from ear to ear. “Hi, honey! Surprise!” “Pete!” Gloria Matson came running, throwing her arms around her husband. “What are you doing home? Pete—”

“Special leave. Forty-eight hours.” Pete tossed down his suitcase triumphantly. “Hi there, kid.”

His son greeted him shyly. “Hello.”

Pete squatted down and opened his suitcase. “How have things been going? How’s school?” “He’s had another cold,” Gloria

said. “He’s almost over it. But what happened? Why did they—” “Military secret.” Pete fumbled in his suitcase. “Here.” He held something out to his son. “I brought you something. A souvenir.

He handed his son a hand-made wooden drinking cup. The boy took it shyly and turned it around, curious and puzzled. “What’s a— a souvenir?”

Matson struggled to express the difficult concept. “Well, it’s something that reminds you of a different place. Something you don’t have, where you are. You know.” Matson tapped the cup. “That’s to drink out of. It’s sure not like our plastic cups, is it?”

“No, the child said.

“Look at this, Gloria.” Pete shook out a great folded cloth from his suitcase, printed with multi-colored designs. “Picked this up cheap. You can make a skirt out of it. What do you say? Ever seen anything like it?”

“No,” Gloria said, awed. “I haven’t.” She took the cloth and fingered it reverently.

Pete Matson beamed, as his wife and child stood clutching the souvenirs he had brought them, reminders of his excursions to distant places. Foreign lands.

“Gee,” his son whispered, turning the cup around and around. A strange light glowed in his eyes. “Thanks a lot, Dad. For the— souvenir.”

The strange light grew.