The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Pioneer

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: The Pioneer

Author: Irving E. Cox

Illustrator: W. E. Terry

Release date: October 27, 2021 [eBook #66618]

Most recently updated: October 18, 2024

Language: English

Original publication: United States: Greenleaf Publishing Company, 1955

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/66618

Credits: Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PIONEER ***

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 Greg was an expert pilot, but skill was no substitute for outdated equipment.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.

The attendant took Greg's manifest without interest. "You're our first landing in two years, Captain—" He glanced at the sheet. "Captain Greg. I see you're in from Mars."

"I'm carrying five tons of Redearth." In the old days such a cargo would have cleared three million after transportation costs; a whole new industry had been built on the Martian antibiotical spore.

"No market, I'm afraid, Captain." The attendant flipped the manifest aside.

"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 repair facilities, 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. "You aren't the first one, Captain Greg, who's come home for nothing; and you won't be the last. Check with me tomorrow. I'll see what I can work out."

"If I can't dispose of my cargo—"

"We waive all field charges in cases of destitution. You can dump the Redearth and the kids will stake you to a cargo of iron ore; it's going at triple premium on Venus, we're told."

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.

He snatched a fifth of bourbon and ripped off the cap. He gulped the liquor thirstily and the hot fire burned warm in his veins. After the third drink he felt the strong self-confidence of his manhood again. He leaned his elbow against the bar and glanced toward the street. The sad-eyed kid was out there somewhere, waiting like a nightmare; or maybe he had already done his magic and transported himself back to Chicago.

It didn't matter. The kid wasn't human. Greg took another pull at the bottle and he saw it all very clearly. In the beginning men had speculated about life forms on other worlds. Before Greg's pioneering flight to Mars the Sunday supplements had been filled with a vast number of lurid speculations. Yet the spacemen had found nothing but virgin worlds which became the colonies of man. The truth was—Greg understood it now—they had looked for intelligent life in familiar forms. But there had been something out there, something as undetectable as a virus epidemic—and as deadly. It had invaded the earth and captured the minds of the children.

Greg killed the bottle. By that time he was very impressed with the brilliance of his own reasoning. Small inconsistencies kept nagging at his mind and it seemed strange that no one had ever thought of it before—but all that was of no consequence.

Greg heard footsteps outside. His body tensed. Was it the kid coming back? He would know what Greg was thinking; he would know how close Greg was to the real truth. And the new children—no, invaders; Greg must remember that—would not let him survive. They were puny and undersized. Physically, Greg had no reason to be afraid of them. But how was he to fight an enemy who could instantly disappear and rematerialize thousands—or millions—of miles away?

The shuffling steps came closer. A stooped, white-haired man, wearing soiled and unpressed tweeds, stepped through the door. Greg seized the newcomer's shoulder; the man gave a bleat of animal terror.

"Who the hell are you?" Greg demanded.

"Dr. Vayle—Adrian Vayle."

"The astrophysicist?" Greg remembered the name from the ponderous text he had studied in the flight school.

The old man straightened his shoulders with a semblance of pride. "You know me?"

"What are you doing in Port City?"

"This is where I live. I couldn't stand it in the city any longer and I didn't want to emigrate to the colonies. The children don't object. They bring us supplies. Holly and I are quite comfortable." Dr. Vayle ran his fingers over Greg's uniform. "You're a pilot! I haven't met one in years. Usually the children send them back to the colonies as soon as they land."

"Where do you live, Dr. Vayle?"

"The best hotel in town. I'll show you." He bent closer and whispered, "And I'll let you see what we're working on. But I have to have my nightcap first." Vayle groped in the dark for a bottle. He drank the liquor eagerly, wiping his lips on his sleeve.

Greg and the astrophysicist went outside. Greg looked along the deserted street for the twelve year old, but the boy was nowhere in sight. Perhaps he had returned to Chicago. Yet if he had come to send Greg back to the colonies, would he have given up so easily?

The blue intersection lights swam in a comfortable haze, spinning when Greg looked at them directly. Occasionally the drifts of sand seemed to run like water and Greg became unsure of his footing. He knew he was drunk, but alcohol had never interfered with his reasoning. Back in the bar he had made a tremendous discovery; he mustn't let it slip his mind. The children were alien invaders: that was it. In the morning he would be able to decide what he was to do with the information.

The old man took him to a pseudo-Spanish structure across the main highway from the field. The Biltmore Hacienda, at one time the gaudiest and costliest hotel in Port City. Now the neon signs were out, the streetfront shops were closed, and only a pale light glowed dimly behind the ornate, iron gate.

As he followed Vayle up the three tile steps, Greg looked back toward the field. He saw his ship standing in its landing slot. Someone was working to unload his useless cargo of Redearth. The field attendant was displaying an unusual conscientiousness, Greg thought; he hadn't expected action in less than a week.

Then, abruptly, Greg knew the real significance of such prompt service. It fit with the discovery he had made in the bar. The only trouble was, his mind was too hazy for him to grasp the connection clearly. It would come to him later; he was sure of that.

He followed Vayle through the dusty, thick-carpeted lobby. Vayle slept in a disorderly room adjoining the cavernous hall of the dining room, where the tables were covered with dust and the band instruments lay rusting on the bandstand. The astrophysicist swept a litter of loose manuscript pages from his bed and sat down. He fished a bottle of gin from under the bed and took a long drink.

"For my nerves," he apologized.

Greg saw a score of empty bottles in the debris on the floor. Apparently Vayle had been treating his nerves for a long time. Greg picked up one of the manuscript pages. It was a part of a book. At least the patter of phrases was familiar, but the whole context was incoherent, without beginning or end.

"My new text," Vayle explained. "When it's finished, the kids have promised to publish it. That's why they let me stay here, so I can work in peace." He pulled at the bottle again. "They're still children at heart. An adult can twist them around his finger, if he goes at it properly."

"You mean the book's just a blind?"

The scientist eyed Greg carefully. "You're too old. You can't be one of them." He rolled back the mattress and took out a thin file of paper, holding it tenderly in his hand. "I'm analyzing the cause, sir. I'm going to demonstrate how the children have made us believe they are able to defy the laws of physics. When I publish this, the nightmare will be over."

Vayle handed over the file reluctantly. Greg turned back the cover—and the shock sobered him. Vayle was an established authority; Vayle was an eminent scientist; Vayle was a man Greg had learned to respect. But the book Vayle showed him contained nothing but blank pages.

"You're interested in our project?"

The throaty, silky voice came from the open door. Greg whirled. He saw a tall, thin woman, heavily painted. She was wearing a bangled, scarlet gown, which hung loose from her shoulders. Her beauty had faded long ago; her face was a lined, marble mask; her yellow hair was streaked with gray. Fifteen years ago Greg could have found her counterpart lurking in any Port City honky tonk, her thin hips swaying with the brassy jargon of the music and invitation in her eyes.

"This is Holly Wilson," Vayle said. "My secretary."

Secretary! Greg thought. So that's what they were calling it now. Holly Wilson's profession had gone by many names. The pickings on earth must have become mighty thin, if she were satisfied to saddle herself with a white-haired professor of astrophysics. Greg introduced himself, grinning contemptuously.

"You're just in from the colonies, Captain?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Staying long?"

"That depends. I have a cargo to auction and—"

"The kids will take care of that. But you'll stay through tonight, of course. Let's see if we can find you a room."

Greg thought he knew what she had in mind. But as soon as they were out of earshot of the scientist's bedroom, she said, "Come outside, Captain; I have to talk to you."

They went into the tiled patio of the hotel. The kidney-shaped pool was empty, and its basin was criss-crossed with gaping cracks. Many of the potted shrubs had died untended, but the palms still flourished. The fronds laced skeletal fingers across the face of the full moon. The dry, desert wind washed through the trees, the ghost whisper of the dream that had died in Port City.

"Don't say anything to Dr. Vayle about his book." Holly Wilson's voice was surprisingly sincere. "Play along with him, please; let him go on thinking he's found the great secret."

"What is it—alcoholism or madness?"

"A little of both. No one's really sane any more."

"I came home the last time seven years ago. It wasn't this bad then. What's happened?"

"Most of the adults have emigrated to the colonies. There are only a few derelicts left—like Adrian Vayle and myself."

Nearly sober, Greg remembered the discovery he had stumbled on in the bar, and the logic still held up. "They've taken over the earth and thrown men out."

"The children? You talk as if—"

"Tell me everything about it, from the beginning."

"The kids are different; that's all there is to it. They read minds. They move themselves anywhere they please simply by thinking about it. God knows what else they'll learn to whip up after they get the hang of it."

"Are all the children like this?"

"No. The others emigrated with their parents. Dr. Vayle says there are about five million. That's approximately the total population of the earth, now. They've shoved the rest of us out."

"By force?"

"Who wants to hang around like a pet ape to amuse his own brats? Dr. Vayle was too old to go. I—I couldn't get a medical clearance."

"I don't think the colonies are aware that the emigration was so large."

"Why should they be? We've half a dozen worlds out there. They could absorb us all."

"So the kids have taken over everything."

"What they wanted, yes. For a while we thought it was temporary. Dr. Vayle didn't begin drinking until we knew the change was permanent. The oldest kids are nineteen now. They're beginning to marry, and all their children have the same abilities. Or witchcraft. Call it what you like."

"As old as nineteen? Then the change dates from—"

"From your first flight, Captain Greg. I sometimes look at that damn statue in the square and laugh till it hurts. A brave, new frontier you discovered—but that wasn't all you gave us."

"You believe I'm responsible for—" Greg gestured toward the slow decay in the patio. "For this?"

"Who else, Captain? It's the kids who should build you a monument. You gave them the earth."

For the first time Greg saw the monstrosity hidden by his dream. He had made the pioneer flight; and he had created this new generation. The relationship was plain. If he could unravel it and find the real cause—but he knew that now. An invasion, an invisible virus life that had taken over their minds. How? When he knew that, how could he fight it? How could he turn back the clock and restore the earth to man?

He walked slowly to the end of the patio where he could see the deserted field across the highway. In the slot they were still scooping the Redearth of Mars out of the hull of his ship. He smiled grimly. A decade ago the Redearth had been priceless; that one import alone had made the conquest of space commercially possible. Redearth had built Port City and the colonies; Redearth had created the import companies, once so tremendously profitable.

A light burned for a moment above Greg's ship. Clearly he saw the puny, twelve year old boy and the four other children who were dumping the cargo. It gave him another explosive insight. Greg knew then how the invasion had come from the stars.

The Redearth of Mars; the invisible molds of that unknown world: that was the alien life form no man had recognized. The enemy was tangible. The enemy was real. And such an enemy could be conquered.

Greg's first inclination was to cross the road and smash with his fist the pint-sized weaklings who had stolen his world. Physical conflict: that was something man understood and respected. But the children were not human; he must never allow himself to forget that. They had to be fought on other terms.

First, Greg had to escape the earth without letting them read his mind and measure his hatred. Until he could lift his ship, he had to play along with whatever plans they made for him. The children didn't want him here; escape should be easy—if he could only wall off his thinking.

He turned back toward the faded woman in the scarlet dress. As matter-of-factly as he could, he asked her to show him his room. "I'll probably leave tomorrow; they're doing an efficient job out there."

"The kids don't waste any time. They'll stake you to a cargo of iron ore for Venus; that's the usual procedure." She put her arm through his. "And you promise, Captain: you won't say anything to Dr. Vayle?"

"Why are you so interested in that old fool?"

"We're derelicts. It would be damn lonely without him. He has something to believe in—nonsense, yes; but what difference does that make? Sometimes I can almost believe in it, too."

"Men aren't licked yet."

She laughed. "You noble souls who drop in on us out of space talk so bravely; that's your brand of madness, Captain. Thank your stars you don't have to get to know the kids as well as we do."

She took him to a room on the first floor of the hotel. The air, when he opened the door, was stale. The full moon behind the Venetian blinds made an unpleasant symbolic shadow pattern of prison bars on the carpet. Greg ripped open the zipper of his flight jacket; his chest was wet with sweat. The woman turned to go and he caught her arm, pulling her toward him.

"This much at least hasn't changed," he grinned.

She neither resisted nor responded. She stood looking up into his face. Her eyes were cold and tired. "I have to go back to Adrian, Captain Greg. He's frightened when I leave him alone too long."

"That doddering graybeard—"

"None of the things that used to be so important matter any more. All we have left is our love for each other. Adrian and I have that; I don't want to lose it."

She glided away from him. Angrily Greg jerked up the blinds—to erase the prison symbol—and ground open the windows. The hot desert wind whispered through the screen. Greg stripped off his uniform and lay naked on the bed.

After a time he slept—fitfully, caught in a confusion of fragmentary dreams. The hope of yesterday and the disillusionment of now; his pride as a pioneer; and the pain of his responsibility for what his frontier had created. Out of the chaos a pattern of action slowly emerged. Sometime in the small hours before the dawn Greg made up his mind what he would do.

It would be futile to try to arouse the colonies to attack the earth. Each man in his own soul might admit the truth, but as a culture they would all reject it. They needed to keep the symbol of earth as home, though they might never return to it. Even if that psychological objection could be overcome, war was not the answer. Only if the children were taken completely by surprise—given no time to use their alien abilities—could they be effectively destroyed.

Greg knew how that could be done. A decade before his pioneer flight to Mars, the first artificial satellite had been sent up in an orbit around the earth. A purely military weapon—capable of destroying any objective on the surface of the earth—the satellite had overturned the balance of power and forced the creation of a united world. The resources of a planetary government had made Greg's first flight possible. Afterward, in the excitement of exploiting the new frontier, the satellite had been forgotten.

But it was still there, still armed with a firepower capable of wiping the earth clean of life. It would be the murder of a world—but murder to save human kind. Greg could do it alone. His only problem was to lift his ship without the children knowing what was in his mind. He felt no guilt, no pang of conscience. Once the decision was made, Greg slept easily; and he awoke completely refreshed, with only a slight headache from the liquor he had drunk the night before.

Dr. Vayle and Holly Wilson insisted that Greg breakfast with them in the hotel. He would have preferred to forage for himself. The painted woman's protective, maternal affection for the astrophysicist made Greg acutely uncomfortable. It was not the sort of behavior he would have expected of either of them. Greg's discomfort quickly became a feeling of guilt. If he used the old satellite wheel to destroy the alien children, he would be slaughtering the few human beings who remained on the earth. Discreetly he asked how many others had stayed behind.

"It's hard to say," Vayle told him. "A hundred thousand, perhaps."

"Do you keep up any sort of contact?"

"Why should we? We're outcasts." With a sudden rationality, he added, "We're ashamed. When we're together we feel bound to face the truth. It's impossible for man to admit he's a second-rater. So we hide out in deserted villages like this one—and pretend all this nightmare never happened." Then Vayle slipped back into his delusion again. "However, all that will be different as soon as my research is finished. Why, do you know, Captain—"

"I'm leaving this morning," Greg broke in. "Would you like to go with me?"

Vayle shook his head. "I'm too old to make a new start on your frontier, Captain." He reached for the woman's hand. "And as long as my secretary can't have a clearance—"

"Leave us as we are," Holly said. "Your dream is no better than ours."

After breakfast Greg left the hotel and crossed the highway to the field. It was still early morning, but the desert sun blazed hot in a copper sky. As Greg passed the old terminal building, the twelve year old boy suddenly materialized and fell in step beside him.

This was the thing Greg feared most. He began to walk more rapidly, fighting a rising panic. How could he keep the kid from prying into his mind? Desperately he tried to think of something else—anything, inane or banal. The children were not gods; they couldn't dig deeper than his conscious thought. (Or could they? Greg wasn't sure.)

"We're giving you a cargo for Venus," the boy said conversationally. "It will put you in business again, Captain. The Martian colony is equipped to repair your ship. You'll have enough cash to pay for it, now."

"Fine," Greg grunted. In his mind he was frantically reciting a rhyme his grandmother had taught him ago, "One two, buckle my shoe; three four, open the door...." Reciting it with fervor, like a prayer for survival—which it was.

"After this, Captain, it might be better if you stayed in the colonies. Don't get me wrong. You're welcome on earth anytime you want to come home, but conditions are different here and...."

Suddenly the boy's tone changed. "But you aren't responsible, Captain!"

Greg's muscles tensed. So the boy had probed that deep!

"A new frontier always means change, Captain—but not tragedy; not defeat! We've never supposed any of you would believe that. You gave us a miracle, the greatest frontier men have ever crossed. When all the other pioneers are forgotten, Captain, your name...."

Pretty words, like the pretty speeches Greg had listened to twenty years ago. They wanted to confuse him, make him doubt the decision he had made. "One two, buckle my shoe! Three four, open the door!"

The boy caught Greg's sleeve. "You might as well blame Galileo or Copernicus because they studied the universe. Or go back to the beginning. Blame the unknown who did our first scientific pioneering."

Copernicus and Galileo? What was the kid trying to say? And why would a twelve year old speak so glibly—so knowingly—of the giants? That proved his alienness. When Greg was twelve, the only thing he had thought about seriously was football or baseball or summer vacation or how he was going to get out of the piano lessons his mother imposed on him.

The boy pulled him to a stop. "The first pioneer, Captain: do you blame him for it all? We don't know his name, but we do have his monument. Look, Captain Greg." In the drifting sand the boy sketched the outline of a wheel.

Greg panicked. He was too intent upon keeping his mind impregnable to make any other interpretation. The wheel symbolized the satellite riding above the earth; then the boy knew what Greg was going to do.

Greg swung his fist blindly. He took the boy by surprise. The child had no time to rematerialize at a safe distance. Greg's fist struck his chest and the boy went down, with a cry of agony. Greg felt a subconscious surge of satisfaction; humanity hadn't been defeated after all and the children were by no means invulnerable. Surprise—physical initiative—gave men their trump card over these undernourished mind readers.

Greg sprinted toward his ship. The body lay on the drifting sand gasping for breath, gesturing futilely with his small hand.

Greg's foot was on the ramp when he heard a scream behind him. He looked back toward the road. He saw Dr. Vayle and Holly Wilson running toward him. A mongrel, frothing at the mouth, was yapping at their heels.

Greg reacted with an altogether human instinct. He ripped a metal bar loose from the ramp rail and went back to help them, two fellow humans in trouble. A tiny warning of logic flamed briefly in his mind: this could be a trick; his only real chance of escape was to leave now, while he could. But he ignored it.

He ran across the field and swung the bar at the dog, crushing its skull with one blow. The woman clutched his arm. Her hands were shaking; her face was white with fear.

"What happened?" Greg demanded.

"Adrian and I were clearing the breakfast table. Suddenly the dog was—he was just there, growling at us."

"A mad dog," the astrophysicist added. "The kids did it. They can make any living thing appear anywhere they please."

"A trick!" Greg said. The whisper of logic had been right. He glanced at where the boy had fallen; the child was gone.

"They're trying to make me leave," Vayle complained, "before I finished my research. They know I have the answer to—"

"Now you have no other choice," Greg snapped. He pulled the scientist toward his ship; the woman followed. Greg reasoned that he might still have an outside chance. The children obviously had expected him to take Vayle back to the hotel. That would have given them a chance to disable his ship.

Greg pushed the two through the airlock. His luck still held. He shoved them toward the safety webbing and jerked down the firing toggle. As the ship quivered in the thunder of the power tubes, Greg dialed the satellite course on the pilot computer.

It was the simplest setting he could make. His was an old ship, built when the satellite had still been used as an initial landing station, before the new fuel had made the big wheel obsolete. Every ship had once had an automatic satellite course projection taped in the pilot computer. Without a new setting, the ship would move into the core ramp of the wheel and the lock would open automatically when the magnetic seal was completed.

Greg felt the sudden, crushing weight of gravity. He caught at the safety webbing until the pressure stabilized. From that point—if he remembered his early flights accurately—it would be six minutes before the ship reached the satellite. He had won. Nothing could stop him—nothing.

Then Holly Wilson screamed and Greg saw the twelve year old boy standing beside the flight console.

"It wasn't a virus invasion," the child said, shouting to be heard above the roar of the power tubes. "I didn't know you were thinking that this morning. I could have explained if—"

Greg swung his fist—against an emptiness. The boy rematerialized two feet away.

"Reset your course!" the boy cried. "You understand machines, Captain; we don't. And I can't get enough technical information from your mind to do it for you."

"One two, buckle my shoe!" Greg thought, in an ecstacy of triumph. He had kept that much of his thinking safe. The kids were making one last effort to save themselves—he was sure of that—but it wouldn't work. They had the alien skill to pry into a human mind, but they were helpless against man's machines. Inexorably the computer would drive the ship to the satellite; nothing could stop it.

"Think rationally," the boy pleaded, "not with your emotions. You have only four minutes left, Captain Greg. If the Redearth was a virus invasion as you believe it was, why were only the children affected? We made it an antibiotic; we used it for millions of people; every colonist was innoculated before he emigrated."

He was lying. He had to be lying. He was trying to confuse Greg with side issues. It didn't matter now how the virus had been brought back to the earth. "Three four, open the door; five six, pick up sticks."

"We aren't different, Captain. We've simply crossed your frontier in a different way. We have a theory how it happened, but no proof. The Martian Redearth worked as a sort of mental catalyst when it was used for newly born infants. It awoke the full thought potential of our cerebral cortex. That's all. We have no ability that men haven't always been capable of; if you believe that, you can do it yourself."

Belief!—mystical nonsense. Did the kid really think Greg would buy that? Greg glanced at Adrian Vayle. The scientist's face was gray with horror. Sweat stood in beads on his lips. Holly Wilson clung desperately to his hand.

"I drew a wheel in the sand for you, Captain: another monument to another pioneer, the first primitive who grasped what we might do with a rolling disk. He gave us terror and disaster, yes; but he gave us progress, too. Do we blame him because his heirs sometimes misapplied his discovery? Do we call ourselves alien invaders because we have a more complex technology than his? Then why heap shame on yourself because you gave us a frontier in the stars? It won't end the way you thought it would; nothing ever does. We're your children, Captain; we're your new frontier."

"Aliens!" Greg spat.

"My research was for nothing," Dr. Vayle said numbly. The words were a whisper of agony, the torment of a soul ripped out of the comfortable world of madness.

"Don't say that. You'll finish your work," Holly told him soothingly.

He pushed her away. "Not now. It was pointless."

The boy wrung his hands. "You have only two minutes left. Forget your emotions; put aside your self-pity. It's a luxury you can't afford any longer. Use the brains God gave you, Captain Greg. You can't land on the satellite. You must—"

Greg swung again and again he missed the boy, but he lost his balance and plunged into the pilot computer, smashing the machine. Greg saw what he had done and began to laugh. It was impossible, now, for anyone to change the course setting. The boy's pleading was for nothing.

The twelve year old rematerialized and stood looking at the broken computer. Then shrugged his shoulders calmly. "A minute and a half left, Captain; and now you have no choice." The child sighed, as a parent might have sighed over the prank of a mischievious son.

"You killed the mad dog," he said. "You didn't hesitate about that. I thought him into Port City to give you an object lesson. You missed the point, I'm afraid. You couldn't understand that you were yourself a mad dog yapping at our heels. Potentially, all the older generation threaten us the same way. Your kind of emotional reasoning, in one form or another, will sooner or later infect them all. We encouraged the migration to the colonies in order to prevent a conflict. By administering the Redearth to every adult who left the earth, we thought we might make a few of them realize their mental capacity. Apparently the catalyst works only with an infant, and not always then. In a sense, Captain Greg, your frontier has made us two species—ours, mankind; yours, the rejects; the unfinished men."

Dr. Vayle made a choking sound deep in his throat. His dream was gone; the comfort of his madness had been stripped away from him.

"And if it does come to the point of conflict," the boy went on quietly, "we fully intend to survive."

"Not after I reach the satellite," Greg answered grimly. His voice sounded hollow and uncertain, even to himself. The boy had destroyed the dramatic fiction of a virus invasion. Greg's dream, too, was gone.

"I tried to save you, Captain, but by your own violence you made that impossible. Now you will provide another object lesson. What I have told you is true; every man has our ability. In sixty seconds your ship will reach the old satellite; the airlock will open automatically—only there will be no air in the wheel. This shell rusted open years ago. You face death just as certain as if you leaped into outer space. But you can save yourselves—all three of you—by thinking yourselves back to the earth, or out to one of the colonies. This experiment interests us a great deal. We didn't intend to resort to it quite so soon, but you've given us an ideal opportunity. If you can unshackle your minds now, we have hope for the rest of the rejects. There will be fewer mad dogs for us to dispose of later on."

The boy was gone.

Greg felt the ship slide into the ramp of the satellite. He heard the grapples clang against the hull, and the scream of rusting metal as the airlock began to open. A paralyzing emotional opiate flamed through his mind: this was a dream, nothing more. In a moment he would jerk himself awake and be amused by his terror. But there was something else in his mind, too, a stirring of greatness, a fire of magnificence, a new self he had never known before. He groped blindly toward that pinpoint of light.

From a great distance, like an echo of shattering ice, he heard Adrian Vayle's voice, "The children have mastered the art of hypnotic illusion, but obviously they cannot violate the established physical laws. Our problem is entirely mechanical. I am sure Captain Greg can work out...."

Vayle had found the sublime ignorance of sanity; and that was no solution.

"Kiss me," Holly Wilson whispered. "Nothing else matters, Adrian."

And she had chosen the equally blind sterility of resignation.

Greg knew they were both wrong. He was a realist; a spaceman had to be. The kid had been able to read his thoughts; naturally the kid could put this weird sense of a new self in Greg's mind. It was only a clever, semantic manipulation of words to keep Greg from using the satellite.

He squared his shoulders. The star-point of greatness flickered out in his mind. Greg was a man, a product of a sophisticated and intelligent culture. This undernourished, alien generation wasn't going to confuse him with mystic mumbo jumbo about belief. He knew how to sort out fact from childish magic.

He walked toward the lock, straight and proud with the confidence of man. He was smiling savagely. Mankind was no mad dog, to be crushed into oblivion by a pack of puny children. They might as well learn that now!

And then the airlock screamed open.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PIONEER ***

Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed.

Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away—you may do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark license, especially commercial redistribution.

START: FULL LICENSE

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE

PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work (or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project Gutenberg License available with this file or online at www.gutenberg.org/license.

Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg electronic works

1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property (trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg electronic works in your possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project Gutenberg electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg electronic works even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project Gutenberg electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.

1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project Gutenberg electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the United States and you are located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project Gutenberg mission of promoting free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg name associated with the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg License when you share it without charge with others.

1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project Gutenberg work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any country other than the United States.

1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg License must appear prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg work (any work on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, copied or distributed:

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg™ License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg electronic work is derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg electronic work is posted with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked to the Project Gutenberg License for all works posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.

1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg.

1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project Gutenberg License.

1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg work in a format other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official version posted on the official Project Gutenberg website (www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.

1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg works unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing access to or distributing Project Gutenberg electronic works provided that:

- • You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from the use of Project Gutenberg works calculated using the method you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg trademark, but he has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.”

- • You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™ License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™ works.

- • You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of receipt of the work.

- • You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works.

1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.

1.F.

1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment.

1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGE.

1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further opportunities to fix the problem.

1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.

1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.

1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg work, and (c) any Defect you cause.

Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg

Project Gutenberg is synonymous with the free distribution of electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from people in all walks of life.

Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg’s goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg collection will remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure and permanent future for Project Gutenberg and future generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org.

Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit 501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws.

The Foundation’s business office is located at 41 Watchung Plaza #516, Montclair NJ 07042, USA, +1 (862) 621-9288. Email contact links and up to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact

Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread public support and donations to carry out its mission of increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations ($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt status with the IRS.

The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate.

While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who approach us with offers to donate.

International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.

Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate.

Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg electronic works

Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and distributed Project Gutenberg eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.

Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.

Most people start at our website which has the main PG search facility: www.gutenberg.org.

This website includes information about Project Gutenberg, including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.

Table of Contents

THE PIONEER

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE