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and were crouching amidst the dust and rocks, searching the horizon. Timothy’s heart pounded; this moment always overwhelmed him, the first instant of reaching the upstairs. The thrilling initial sight of the expanse. Because it was never the same. The dust, heavier today, had a darker gray color to it than before; it seemed denser, more mysterious.
    Here and there, covered by many layers of dust, lay parcels dropped from past relief ships—dropped and left to deteriorate. Never to be claimed. And, Timothy saw, an additional new projectile which had arrived that morning. Most of its cargo could be seen within; the grown-ups had not had any use for the majority of the contents, today.
    “Look,” Fred said softly.
    Two do-cats—mutant dogs or cats; no one knew for sure— could be seen, lightly sniffing at the projectile. Attracted by the unclaimed contents.
    “We don’t want them,” Timothy said.
    “That one’s sure nice and fat,” Fred said longingly. But it was Timothy who had the knife; all he himself had was a string with a metal bolt on the end, a bull-roarer that could kill a bird or a small animal at a distance—but useless against a do-cat, which generally weighed fifteen to twenty pounds and sometimes more.
    High up in the sky a dot moved at immense speed, and Timothy knew that it was a care ship heading for another fluke-pit, bringing supplies to it. Sure are busy, he thought to himself. Those careboys always coming and going; they never stop, because if they did, the grown-ups would die. Wouldn’t that be too bad? he thought ironically. Sure be sad.
    Fred said, “Wave to it and maybe it’ll drop something.” He grinned at Timothy, and then they both broke out laughing.
    “Sure,” Timothy said. “Let’s see; what do I want?” Again the two of them laughed at the idea of them wanting something. The two boys had the entire upstairs, as far as the eye could see . . . they had even more than the careboys had, and that was plenty, more than plenty.
    “Do you think they know,” Fred said, “that our parents play Perky Pat with furniture made out of what they drop? I bet they don’t know about Perky Pat; they never have seen a Perky Pat doll, and if they did they’d be really mad.”
    “You’re right,” Timothy said. “They’d be so sore they’d probably stop dropping stuff.” He glanced at Fred, catching his eye.
    “Aw no,” Fred said. “We shouldn’t tell them; your dad would beat you again if you did that, and probably me, too.”
    Even so, it was an interesting idea. He could imagine first the surprise and then the anger of the careboys; it would be fun to see that, see the reaction of the eight-legged Martian creatures who had so much charity inside their warty bodies, the cephalopodic univalve mollusk-like organisms who had voluntarily taken it upon themselves to supply succor to the waning remnants of the human race . . . this was how they got paid back for their charity, this utterly wasteful, stupid purpose to which their goods were being put. This stupid Perky Pat game that all the adults played.
    And anyhow it would be very hard to tell them; there was almost no communication between humans and careboys. They were too different. Acts, deeds, could be done, conveying something . . . but not mere words, not mere
signs
. And anyhow—
    A great brown rabbit bounded by to the right, past the half-completed house. Timothy whipped out his knife. “Oh boy!” he said aloud in excitement. “Let’s go!” He set off across the rubbly ground, Fred a little behind him. Gradually they gained on the rabbit; swift running came easy to the two boys: they had done much practicing.
    “Throw the knife!” Fred panted, and Timothy, skidding to a halt, raised his right arm, paused to take aim, and then hurled the sharpened, weighted knife. His most valuable, self-made possession.
    It cleaved the rabbit straight through its vitals. The rabbit tumbled, slid, raising a cloud of dust.
    “I bet we