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."
