Tomorrow Is Too Far by James White

club-house. The thought of having lunch out was pleasant--he would not have to cook it himself and, even if he would be unable to read or have his hi-fi blasting while he ate, neither would he have to do the washing up.
    Carson had not been aware until then of just how discontented he was becoming. He was no psychologist, but even he knew that preferring a round trip of a hundred and fifty miles to making his own lunch was indicative of something seriously wrong somewhere. His depression was not being helped by the weather. A warm front was going through earlier than had been forecast and he was driving into a thickening overcast. By the time he reached the club, visibility was down to two miles, the wind-sock hung like a limp yellow rag and the cloud-base was only six hundred feet and weeping steadily.
    He called first at the tower, a brightly painted hut towering all of nine feet. It was occupied by a young man wearing glasses and talking on the telephone. He nodded, raised the level of his voice to include Carson, and went on, ‘ ... The Met office says the wind will probably freshen late this afternoon, so this muck will be with us for another five hours at least. I don’t think it is worth your while driving down today, Mr Collins, unless you leave it until a couple of hours before dusk. No. Yes, definitely. I’m sorry, too--I was booked for a cross-country to ... Fine, I’ll do that. G’bye.’
    To Carson he said, ‘You heard that, friend. No flying this afternoon. But if you’re looking for the CFI he’s in the bar. Everybody’s in the bar.’
    ‘Actually I’m looking for Mr Pebbles,’ said Carson. ‘Is he here today?’
    ‘Really? Not so far. But if you should see Bob Chambers in there will you remind him, not too politely that he was supposed to relieve me twenty minutes ago?’
    The bar occupied one side of a large room whose walls were covered with pictures of aeroplanes, flight safety posters and beer advertisements. There was a one-armed bandit standing in a corner, a TV which was not yet switched on--the weather had not yet driven them to utter desperation--in the opposite corner and a large number of leather armchairs which time and hard usage had rendered form-fitting. As Carson entered someone, probably the tardy Bob Chambers, hurried out. Everybody, he saw at a glance, comprised twelve people.
    They were standing at the bar in groups of twos and threes. One of the groups comprised Maxwell, the club’s chief flying instructor, another man Carson did not know and ... Wayne Tillotson. Carson walked through to the dining room to organise his thoughts and to order lunch.
    The second was easy but the first was made virtually impossible by the arrival of the man he had already met in the tower whose duties apparently included those of honorary PRO.
    ‘My psychiatrist worries if I talk to myself,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Do you mind if I sit with you? Thanks. I’m Jeff Donnelly. We ...’ He hesitated delicately, glanced at Carson’s tie, then finished, ‘... haven’t seen you around recently.’
    ‘Joe Carson,’ said Carson, laying down his knife to shake hands. ‘You haven’t seen me around for about six years. I’m afraid my membership has well and truly lapsed and, until I can find your current treasurer, I’m wearing this quiet but distinguished neck-piece under false pretences. You see, when I first joined it was late summer and all your instructors were fully booked. I did mean to try again later but other things kept cropping up ...’
    The truth was that he had just joined Hart-Ewing’s and he had thought, erroneously, that a little knowledge of flying would be useful in his new job. Looking back, there had not been all that much difference between Pebbles and himself...
    ‘You’ve found him,’ said Donnelly, laughing. ‘Welcome back, and don’t bother paying me until after dessert--I don’t want to give the impression that I’m rushing you or that the club is short of