The Pioneer

Greg turned on his heel and walked stiffly out of the building. One bitter word burned in his mind: destitution. It was like a kick in the teeth. He thought, in a fury of blind anger, I gave them the stars and they make me a charity case--this new generation! Children who could never build a colonial bubble or pioneer a star route. Soft-minded and soft-muscled idiots.

The field attendant hadn't even recognized Greg's name.

Suddenly the past was alive again, like an angry nightmare. The speeches and the headlines, the bands and the screaming mobs, the politicians, the scientists, the generals. Handclasps and newsreel pictures. "Just one more, sir, for the TV cameras." ... "A Citation by a joint session of the Congress of the United States, to Captain Victor Greg, U. S. Rocket Forces...." GREG MAKES MARS.... L. A. WELCOMES GREG.... FIRST SPACEMAN IN N. Y. PARADE... "And I say to you, my constituents, the name Greg shall be forever writ large in the hearts of a grateful people." ... GREG LANDS FIRST MARTIAN CARGO.... "For the discovery of Redearth, the eternal gratitude of the medical profession...." GREG TAKES NOBEL PRIZE.... "A small token of the gratitude of American industry...." GREG JOINS IMPORT FIRM.... "The undying gratitude of the United Patriotic Mothers of America...." FIRST COLONISTS ON MARS.... COLONIES ON THE MOONS OF JUPITER.... VENUS BUBBLE COMPLETED....

The dream of yesterday, and the dream was gone. The rocket ports were dead. The machines were crumbling into rust. And Captain Victor Greg?--a destitute tramp, waiting for a handout from a generation of brats which had forgotten him.

He crossed the field toward the clutter of buildings beyond the terminal: Port City, raised in less than a year on the California desert, the first minor miracle of the new frontier. The endless mass of traffic, the noisy honky tonks, the nervous neon shimmering in the night, the brassy bands and the fancy women--all of it was gone. Desert sand had drifted across the streets. The highpoled intersection lights, still burning, cast a blue halo in the empty, dirty windows.

Greg's shoulders sagged as he walked toward the central square of Port City. He had to see the monument again. He had to drain the last bitterness from his homecoming. In the Martian colony they had told him it would be like this. He hadn't believed them. How could a legend be forgotten in a generation?

From a block away he saw the metal statue, turned a sickly blue by the corner street light. The high shaft of a primitive rocket ship, with its nose foregear lifted proudly toward the stars; in the foreground, the towering giant of a spaceman, his legs spread wide to embrace the symbolic sphere of the earth. "Sky Frontier"; the sculptor had named it that.

Greg sat wearily on the granite base of the monument. He could read, all too clearly, the lettering on the plaque, "Commemorating the first solar flight, earth to Mars, made by Captain Victor Greg of the U. S. Rocket Fleet. Launched from this site on the first day of June and completed--"

Greg ground his fists against his eyes, yet still the words danced through his brain. His attitude of dejection was an ironic counter-point to the confident, metal monster rising above him. Twenty years and a new generation made the difference. Yet there was a striking similarity between the statue and the man, for Greg had posed for the original model. Greg was still a powerful, muscular man; his face was still clean cut and unlined. Only the torment in his eyes reflected the dream he had lost.

"But nothing is lost. It is just--different."

Greg looked up. A serious-faced boy of twelve stood close to him, in the shadow of the statue. One of the new children. Greg felt a cold chill crawl up his spine. Fear and loathing: he hated them. They had destroyed his world; they had made him a nonentity. Yet when the boy came closer and Greg saw how frail and small he was, the fear seemed foolish.

"You live around here, kid?" Greg asked. Out in the colonies they said the new children read minds--which really wasn't much, considering their other abilities--but Greg refused to believe it.

"Not minds," the boy corrected him. "We know your feelings--which is probably much the same thing. No, I don't live in Port City. I came from Chicago after you landed; I thought you might need me."

From Chicago!--fifteen hundred miles, the instantaneous transportation of living matter. Greg's mind boggled at the familiar fact; he felt the hate and the fear again. These were not the natural children of men, but monstrosities spawned by an unknown universe and eating out the heart of human culture. Greg stood up, his arms stiff and his fists clenched. "When I need the help of a kid," he growled, "I'll know it's time to cash in my chips."

"It's wrong to think that way, Captain Greg."

"No pint-sized child's going to tell me--"

"I wanted to make things easier for you. You should have stayed in the colonies; it was a mistake to come home."

"Now you're trying to drive us off the earth!"

"We want to save you the discomfort of homecoming. We can't turn back the clock; neither can you."

Greg strode down the deserted street, through the small drifts of sand. He recognized the corner where there used to be a bar. He flung open the door and entered the long, dark room. The stale air smelled of dust and neglect; his boots echoed hollowly on the oak floor. He fumbled for a match and in the pale, yellow light he saw the bottles crowding the shelves.