Greg was sure the kids had no right being
in control of a planet; after all what had they
learned about life? Still, what had he learned?
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
October 1955
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The old ship wheezed and clattered into the landing slot. Greg wasan expert pilot, but skill was no substitute for outdated equipment.He unstrapped the safety webbing and eased himself out of the cabin,cluttered with its worn and scarred electronic gadgetry. With thehandcrank he opened the airlock. Rusting metal screamed as the panelslid back into the hull. Greg found himself panting from the suddenmuscular effort in the heavier atmosphere of the earth.
I'm an old man, he thought bitterly—old at forty; as antiquated asmy ship, and as much in need of repair. But no one can do anythingfor either of us. I gave them the stars, and in twenty years they'veforgotten. They've made me a museum piece, these pampered, undersizedkids of the new generation.
Greg walked down the ramp. He hadn't been home for seven years, but hewas still surprised that no flight inspector met him with the officiousclipboard of check-out sheets. The landing fields in the colonies werefar more efficiently supervised.
Greg saw a light in the field control building and walked toward it.The field, sprawling for miles across the California desert, was empty,a mocking moment to the magnificent dream the new generation hadrejected. Behind him Greg saw the long rows of landing slots, toweringmetal shafts raised against the night sky. Only four ships rested inthe slots, his and three other rusting cargo carriers. In front ofthe unlighted terminal building the passenger liners stood untended,decaying hulks that would never lift again. Fifteen years ago—evenas recently as ten years ago—the California field had hummed withactivity. Greg could remember the tide of humanity, the clatteringpick-up trucks gliding like curious ants among the freighters, theshotgun blast of lift tubes, the parade of ships trailing flame acrossthe sky.
Now the dream was gone. The terminal windows were filmed with dust.Grass grew in the cracking asphalt of the field.
Greg pushed open the door of the control building. One man sat withhis feet propped on a desk. Once the room had required a hundredtechnicians. Once the traffic-control panel, filling a wall nearly aquarter of a mile long, had been a maze of dancing, colored lights. Nowthe board was dead; the enamel was peeling; the exposed metal was redwith rust.
The attendant took Greg's manifest without interest. "You're our firstlanding in two years, Captain—" He glanced at the sheet. "CaptainGreg. I see you're in from Mars."
"I'm carrying five tons of Redearth." In the old days such a cargowould have cleared three million after transportation costs; a wholenew industry had been built on the Martian antibiotical spore.
"No market, I'm afraid, Captain." The attendant flipped the manifestaside.
"Sell it at auction. I have to raise enough cash to—"
"You won't get a buyer."
"I've got to get some new equipment for my ship!"
"You'd have done better in the colonies. Mars has excellent repairfacilities, we understand."
"At sky-high prices, sure."
"The earth isn't building flight equipment any more. What's the point?The kids don't want it." The attendant shrugged his shoulders. "Youaren't the first one, Captain Greg, who's come home for nothing; andyou won't be the last. Check with me tomorrow. I'll see what I canwork