The Impossible Voyage Home Part 7
"Training: Blank. Improvise as you go along!"
Marlowe got up. He thought he heard planes overhead. If so, he had something for them. He'd have to argue, but he felt up to it. The sand had disappeared from his eyes. His step was lighter, too.
And that was because of another item he hadn't written down. He wouldn't forget.
He was in the mid-forties and would have to begin learning. It was the awkward age--too old--too young. He couldn't hope to pilot the murderously fast ships currently in use. And he couldn't take his place in the clumsy tubs that would soon be swinging between the planets, opening up s.p.a.ce to commerce. He would have to wait, but what he learned now would be useful some day. It would be better integrated for having been long buried in his memory.
A vintage aspiration.
When he was immune to the mutating effects of radiation, old and nearly sleepless, he could retire from this career--into a better one.