ever while she backed away, out of the apartment, and
ran into her collapsing world.
Conrad Manz's rest day fell the day after Bill Walden's kid
showed up at his apartment. It was ten days since that
strait jacket of a conference on Santa Fe had lost him a chance
to blast off a rocket racer. This time, on the practical knowl-
edge that emergency business conferences were seldom called
after lunch, Conrad had placed his reservation for a racer in
the afternoon. The visit from Mary Walden had upset him
every time he thought of it. Since it was his rest day, he had
no intention of thinking about it and Conrad's scrupulously
drugged mind was capable of just that.
So now, in the lavish coolness of the lounge at the Rocket
Club, Conrad sipped his drink contentedly and made no con-
tribution to the gloomy conversation going on around him.
'Look at it this way,' the melancholy face of Alberts, a
pilot from England, morosely emphasized his tone. 'It takes
about 10,000 economic units to jack a forty-ton ship up to
satellite level and snap it around the course six times. That's
just practice for us. On the other hand, an intellectual fellow
who spends his spare time at a microfilm library doesn't use
up 1,000 units in a year. In fact, his spare-time activity may
turn up as units gained. The Economic Board doesn't
argue that all pastime should be gainful. They just say rocket
racing wastes more economic units than most pilots make on
their work days. I tell you the day is almost here when
they ban the rockets.'
'That's just it,' another pilot put in. 'There was a time
when you could show that rocket races were necessary for
better spaceship design. Design has gone way beyond that.
From their point of view we just bum up units as fast
as other people create them. And it's no use trying to argue
for the television shows. The Board can prove people would
rather see a jet-skiing meet at a cost of about one-hundredth
that of a rocket race.'
Conrad Manz grinned into his drink. He had been aware
for several minutes that pert little Angela, Alberts' soft-eyed,
husky-voiced wife, was trying to catch his eye. But stranded
as she was in the buzzing traffic of rockets, she was trying to
hail the wrong rescuer. He had about fifteen minutes till the
ramp boys would have a ship ready for him. Much as he
liked Angela, he wasn't going to miss that race.
Still, he let his grin broaden and, looking up at her, he
lied maliciously by nodding. She interpreted this signal as he
knew she would. Well, at least he would afford her a grace-
ful exit from the boring conversation.
He got up and went over and took her hand. Her full lips
parted a little and she kissed him on the mouth.
Conrad turned to Alberts and interrupted him. 'Angela and
