"This sort of problem wouldn't arise in our day, Martin," Raymond commented as he took his place at the head of the table, "because, unless one specifically feels a call to some profession or other, one just—well, drifts along happily."
"Ours is a wonderful world," Grania sighed at Martin. "I only wish we could take you there. I'm sure you would like it."
"Don't be a fool, Grania!" Raymond snapped. "Well, Martin, have you made up your mind what you want to be?"
Martin affected to think. "A physicist," he said, not without malice. "Or perhaps an engineer."
There was a loud, excited chorus of dissent. He chuckled inwardly.
"Can't do that," Ives said. "Might pick up some concepts from us. Don't know how; none of us knows a thing about science. But it could happen. Subconscious osmosis, if there is such a thing. That way, you might invent something ahead of time. And the fellow we got the plans from particularly cautioned us against that. Changing history. Dangerous."
"Might mess up our time frightfully," Bartholomew contributed, "though, to be perfectly frank, I can't quite understand how."
"I am not going to sit down and explain the whole thing to you all over again, Bart!" Raymond said impatiently. "Well, Martin?"
"What would you suggest?" Martin asked.
"How about becoming a painter? Art is eternal. And quite gentlemanly. Besides, artists are always expected to be either behind or ahead of their times."