THE PIONEER By Irving Cox, Jr. 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 Greg was an expert pilot, but skill was no substitute for outdated equipment.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 the handcrank he opened the airlock. Rusting metal screamed as the panel slid back into the hull. Greg found himself panting from the sudden muscular effort in the heavier atmosphere of the earth. I'm an old man, he thought bitterly--old at forty; as antiquated as my ship, and as much in need of repair. But no one can do anything for either of us. I gave them the stars, and in twenty years they've forgotten. They've made me a museum piece, these pampered, undersized kids of the new generation. Greg walked down the ramp. He hadn't been home for seven years, but he was still surprised that no flight inspector met him with the officious clipboard of check-out sheets. The landing fields in the colonies were far 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 had rejected. Behind him Greg saw the long rows of landing slots, towering metal shafts raised against the night sky. Only four ships rested in the slots, his and three other rusting cargo carriers. In front of the unlighted terminal building the passenger liners stood untended, decaying hulks that would never lift again. Fifteen years ago--even as recently as ten years ago--the California field had hummed with activity. Greg could remember the tide of humanity, the clattering pick-up trucks gliding like curious ants among the freighters, the shotgun blast of lift tubes, the parade of ships trailing flame across the 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 with his feet propped on a desk. Once the room had required a hundred technicians. Once the traffic-control panel, filling a wall nearly a quarter of a mile long, had been a maze of dancing, colored lights. Now the board was dead; the enamel was peeling; the exposed metal was red with rust.