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?

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 Greg was an expert pilot, but skill was no substitute for outdated equipment.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 40; 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 20 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 checkout 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 10 years ago—the California field had hummed with activity.