Lavon was looking at the girl. He had no answer for Shar’s
question. It did not seem to be important.
THE REAL THRILL
by James Blish
(author of “Phoenix Planet,” “Callistan Cabal,” etc.)
ONE OF THE FEW abilities time had left Martin Burrowes was that of being bored,
and he was taking advantage of it to the fullest extent. The incessant, mindless
windjamming of the suspiciously blonde girl sounded on beside him and down the
cold darkness of the empty street, but he was learning to say “Yes,” “You’re
quite right, m’love,” automatically and without interrupting his own stream of
thought.
Those thoughts were not particularly happy ones. At the age of 47 Burrowes was
hardly a middle-aged man. In these days normal life expectancy exceeded a
century, and the middle-age level had been moved up to the vicinity of
fifty-five. No, Burrowes had certainly not passed his prime.
But time and technology had betrayed him. Fifteen years ago Martin Burr owes had
known all there was to know about rocket engines, and had served as technical
adviser to the government, the IP, and a dozen private spaceship yards.
Then–the gravity impellor, geotrons, atomic power–and rocket technicians were
suddenly as useless in the scheme of things as blacksmiths. “Sorry, Mr.
Burrowes.” “I’m afraid we have little use for rocket engineering these days,
sir.” “We realize that a man of your ability–“
“We’ll call you immediately if anything comes up–“
And now the lunar colonies had revolted; there was war, and industries of all
kinds were booming, and there was nothing for Martin Burrowes to do. Even the