![[Early Lockheed cargo ship, circa 1931; photograph by L. Ron Hubbard.]](img/pg10_1.jpg)
I am already in possession of some of this coin —— the malaria and the ulcers. I have also multiplied and squared my desire to scratch my feet on far soil. I know that the process of going and the reward of arriving are the one uncomfortable and the other disappointing. It is the horizon one never sees which lures him. And I have come to that state of mind, that supreme disillusion of knowing that nothing waits, that the horizon never seen does not exist. I am restless still. I have no goal short of the planets and stars, for the jukeboxes grind in the African veldt and the priests of Tibet smoke Luckies. The A.T.C. flips across the seas and continents in fine disdain of calms and bunions, and today I read with sorrow that a “flying boxcar” carrying three tons of cargo shall now shuttle from coast to coast. That is the beginning of the end of the sea and there will come a day within my lifetime when the lighthouses will go out, one by one and the fast steamers shall go to rot in the muddy corner of the harbor where now the bones of sailing ships thrust forlornly out. I am seeing an era pass. Those around me say, “No, no, that era will not be over ever for heavy cargo will always go by sea.” Well, them there newfangled steam vessels weren’t no good and wouldn’t last, and I dare say that men of the galleys commented amusingly upon the lasting quality of that new idea, sail.
The point is, adventure as I know it, is done. Kipling’s great poem, “Romance Is Dead” throws a jeer at the engineer, with thousands of steam horses under his hand, who mourns the passing of romance. But Kipling, whatever his qualities, and I greatly admire them, forgets that romance and adventure depend in a great measure upon an individual’s chances of enhancing his reputation by going far and doing deeds. There must be windmills at which to tilt. There must be fields of courage. And these things must generally be recognized as such by the public at large or they are no fun. Pilots will be so many, so usual, that they will have the social prestige of truck drivers so far as the romantic and adventurous angle is concerned. I throw no jeer at the engineer who says from his cab, “Romance is dead.” It is dead —— or dying.
American forces take with them America. Where they have been, Americans will be again for scores of years. Hollywood will follow. Canned music will follow. The intriguing individualities of the world will be pulled down to a mediocrity.
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