XIII.
Guy Maynard inspected his image in the mirror and swore at it. He hated what he saw. His glance went from the mirror to the surroundings, and the face in the mirror, he felt, did not seem in keeping with the ornate suite of rooms at the Officers' Club. The rooms were rich, formal, and sedate. The face that looked back at Guy from the mirror was a composite between care and foolishness.
Lines had come between his eyes, and the frown of worry marked him, too. His face about the eyes and nose seemed old. An honest observer would have said that Guy's face had character there. But the lower piece of face was the idea of frivolity. That mustache! It was the sign of a youth trying to be grown up. It was an admission of immaturity that the face behind it was not enough front in itself; that foliage was needed to conceal the lineless face of youth.
It was there for beauty's sake! Beauty, he repeated in his mind. He snorted aloud. From now on they'd take him as he felt; as he was. In the face of his sorrow and self-hatred, Maynard was eschewing all signs of youth and self-indulgence.
He smiled slowly. They'd accept him, all right. They'd taken him wholeheartedly when he landed at Sahara after the completion of the Mephistan campaign. He'd had a three-day beard then and it hadn't mattered.
He entered the bathroom and when he emerged, his face was clean-shaven for the first time since he was twenty.
The bell rang, and from somewhere a junior aide came to open the door. Kane stepped in, and greeted Guy with surprise. "Well, young man, where's that face-fern of yours?"
"Shaved it off," grinned Maynard.
"You look better, I must say."
"I feel as though I've dropped a lot of foolishness since I did it," admitted Maynard.
"Why did you grow it in the first place?"
"Laura Greggor said she liked men with mustaches."
"And now you don't like Laura Greggor?"
"That isn't it. She'll take me for what I'm worth from now on."
"Them's harsh words, podner," drawled Kane. "What is your feeling for Laura?"
"I don't know," said Maynard honestly. "We've both been a little rough on one another, you know. She treated me slightly coldish the last time I saw her—though she was indeed warmer than the incident after the Orionad got painted. Then, too, the last time I saw her was the day before I headed for Pluto with the Orionad. Because she has been so snippy once before, I gave nebulae to Joan Forbes to pin on, remember?"
"That was a cold thing to do," said Kane.
"Laura told me not to annoy her until I could give her the insignia of a patrol marshal—when I became sector marshal. So when I was raised last time, I did as she demanded."
"Sometimes women don't expect to have their snapped words taken to the letter."
"Are you carrying her banner?" asked Guy.
"Not exactly. I'm trying to be honest. And I think that Laura Greggor would make a good wife for you."
"Why?"
"Laura has background, money, friends. She has social standing. Also, I have a feeling that she has been sort of waiting for you. After all, she is a very desirable woman, and I doubt that she has been friendless all these years."
"She's twenty-six," said Guy absently. "Maybe you're right. It'll depend upon how she greets me."
"Any woman in her right mind would greet you affectionately," smiled Kane. "You're the Man of the Hour for fair. The Man Who. You're famous, Guy. Wealth is yours for the taking. Fame is yours already. They're talking about hitting Mars, and they're naming you as supreme commander. How do you like that?"
Guy shook his head. "I've had enough killing for one lifetime."
"You'll change that opinion," said Kane. "What you need is rest and relaxation."
"I'd like to get away from the whole business," said Maynard. "I'm beginning to hate the whole shebang."
"You'll forget that. Did you know that they're going to present you with your starred nebulae tonight?"
"Are they?"
"Yes. Laura Greggor will be there, too. Are you going to offer her the chance?"
"Might as well," said Guy.
Kane looked at the younger man sharply. "You lost more than friendship out there on Mephisto," said Kane. "You lost more than your fellow men."
"You mean Joan Forbes?"
"Yes."
Guy nodded slowly. "I curse myself that I didn't realize her affection sooner. I'd have had her now if I'd not been so accursedly blind."
"No, you're wrong," said Kane. "Forbes would have followed you out there anyway. Nothing would have changed, excepting that Joan could have eased your worry some. Call her Joan Forbes or Mrs. Guy Maynard, and you would have found her out there on Mephisto III."
"I called her Forbes and ignored her affection," said Maynard with a groan.
"It's done now," said Kane. "In all of our lives, there are mistakes which cause us regret for the rest of our lives. Not one of us is immune. But, Guy, the successful ones of us forget our regrets and look forward instead of backward. Living in the past is death in the future."
"It's hard to forget," said Guy.
"And yet," said Kane, "out there you will find an entire planet ready to give you their acclaim. They'll make you forget. Unless, of course, you prefer to remember, in which case you'll retreat within yourself and become an embittered man. But if you'll go out there among the people who want you to be the hero they think you are, you'll find yourself being so busy living up to their belief that there'll be no time for regret.
"But above all, Guy, don't take the other road. You can go anywhere from here, now. If you become embittered because of your regret, you'll end up a wizened old man with nothing but sorrow to recall for all your lifetime. Life is too short and too interesting to spend it in the past. Guy, what would Forbes tell you to do?"
Guy turned. "She'd probably laugh and tell me not to be a fool. She'd probably admit in that laughing way of hers that she was the best—but second best becomes top when the best is gone."
"You're bitter," said Kane. "The remedy is people, noise, music, excitement, and forgetfulness. Come on, Guy, we'll go out now and find it!"
"I don't think I care to."
"Don't be an idiot. Must I tell the world that their hero does not come to his own functions because of grief? And Guy, why do you now fall grief-stricken? I know and you know. But frankly it was because you didn't know until too late. Now, snap out of it and come with me."
Maynard viewed the banquet with distaste. Yet it was exactly like one of those same functions that he would have given his life to attend five years ago. He thought of that and tried to forget. The reception room was filled with glitter, and the sound of talk and light laughter assailed his ears, and in part, Maynard forgot his feelings. He became eager for the laughter. Kane noticed the change, however slight its appearance, and he smiled inwardly.
"Good boy, Guy," he said. He led Guy to the center of the larger group and without a word shouldered into the circle.
It was enough. They knew Kane and accepted him easily. Then they saw Guy, and accepted him immediately; while they did not know him, they recognized him. Guy became the center of a smaller circle and one of the men growled cheerfully in Kane's ear:
"I don't know whether I like you any more or not. That young cub has collected all our women."
Kane laughed. "Call him a young cub to his face, Tony, and he'll collect your scalp."
"I know it. He's quite a fellow, I hear."
"He's the finest. Get Bill over there and we'll find a drink. And don't worry, your women will be here when you find time to take 'em home."
"I know that, too. And for nine weeks afterward they'll be yelling at me to show some get. Darn him, he even looks like a swashbuckler."
"I doubt that any piratical thoughts run through Maynard's mind," said Kane, motioning to the man called Bill. "And as far as women go, he's been a very busy boy for a long time."
"That's the trouble right now. If I'd been isolated as long as he has, I'd be howling at the moon. And look at 'em flock around! A mutual admiration society if I ever saw one."
Bill came up smiling. "It looks as though your protégé is doing well in all fields of endeavor, Kane. Right now he's fighting the battle of Amazonia."
Tony growled again. "Don't you call my wife an Amazon!"
Bill laughed. "I meant mine. Come on, let's haunt the bar where we can excel in our own fields."
The lightness of the talk was doing Maynard a world of good. There was nothing said at all; nothing of the slightest importance. It was all done by inference and by double-talk, and each of the women seemed to be doing her best to entice him. In the back of Maynard's mind something kept telling him that it was all sort of silly; that he had nothing in common with these frivolous women, but the fore portion of his mind enjoyed it.
And the stiffness went out of him, and absently he began to look over their heads for Laura Greggor. When he saw her arrive, he wondered how he should greet her, but she took the problem in her own way and came over to the group.
"Hello, Guy," she said, offering him her hand.
"I'm glad to see you," he told her.
One of the other women smiled wryly. "An eligible, girls. That's about all, now."
"We've experience," returned another. "And what has she got that we haven't?"
"His hand," said the first. "And from here, it looks as though she intends to keep it."
The orchestra broke into dance music, and as though prearranged, Guy led Laura through the crowd to the dance floor.
"How've you been?" he asked quietly.
She looked up at him and smiled. "Fine," she said. "I'm glad you're here."
"So am I—now. An hour ago I didn't think I would."
"So?"
"I was feeling low. Reaction, I guess."
"What you need is relaxation," she told him. "A drink, perhaps?"
"Could be," he agreed.
"If I were you, I'd get good and fried. You must have been through everything."
"It seems like everything," he smiled. "But I can't get stinkeroo. I'm supposed to be the guest of honor."
Laura laughed lightly, and led him to the bar where she prescribed a healthy drink. Guy downed it, gulped, and wiped tears from his eyes. "Whoooooo!" he squealed, hugging his midsection.
"Sissy," giggled Laura.
"Feels like a MacMillian going off down there. Is there a fire extinguisher in the place?"
They both laughed. Then Laura led the way to the opened French doors and out into the fragrant garden. It was warm and pleasant there, and with one thought they went to the far, darker end of the garden and sat down.
"Did you think of me?" asked Laura.
"Always," lied Maynard. Then he said truthfully: "I've been working toward this moment for a long time. You wanted a set of patrol marshal's nebulae. You may have mine, now."
Laura took the box, and looked at the starred nebulae of the sector marshal.
"I shouldn't do this," she teased.
It rubbed Maynard the wrong way, that teasing. He knew it was just coquetry, but still it went against the grain. It was probably because he knew what was in her mind.
"Why not?" he asked. "In some circles it is considered an honor."
"Huh," gibed Laura, "perhaps in some circles. But remember it is no great novelty to the daughter of a space marshal."
"The thrill of giving some bird the royal send-off is gone, hey?" asked Guy, stubbornly. "How many other officers have you done the honor for?"
"Quite a number," she told him. "Quite a few more than any one man can boast of having women do it for him. After all, one man only gets eight new insignia during the course of his life."
"You must have quite a collection," said Guy. "Which collection includes some of mine."
"Some," answered Laura sharply. "Most of my officers are true, though, and do not go off letting other girls pin their insignia on."
Guy shrugged. This was not going according to plan at all. But best have it out. If he could get the upper hand in this argument with Laura, he'd feel better. Always before he had come off second best in disagreements with Laura Greggor. But he felt that he was dead right in this affair, and he was not going to back down now that she had flung his actions into his teeth.
"Well," he said with an expansive wave of the hand, "you told me not to annoy you with petty trifles, and that you'd be glad to accept the patrol marshal's nebulae when I became sector marshal. I merely followed your wishes. To the letter, in fact."
"You didn't have to make a public show of yourself with that little waitress!"
"You mean Senior Aide Forbes?" asked Maynard, feeling the back of his neck bristle. If he'd been possessed of any kind of mane, it would have stood up in anger.
"Senior aide? How did she get that rank?" scorned Laura.
"She worked for it. And hard."
"Slinging hash?"
"No, you little twirp. She went to a school for Patrol Nurse Corps and paid for her tuition by working nights."
"She could have made a better night-living than working in a beanery," snapped Laura.
Slap!
Maynard had been raised as a normal youngster. His mother had done her best to instill the instincts of a gentleman in her son Guy, and at an early age he discovered that little girls are not to be beaten over the skull with a toy truck, and that beebee guns make little round bruises when they hit little girls' legs, and that produced bad evidence. Little girls, he learned, had no such restriction upon their action, but could let him have a few quick blows without suffering the consequences. On the other hand, he soon discovered that at best their blows didn't count for much, and so he learned that hitting women was taking an unfair advantage.
But hitting with the tongue had never been explained to Maynard's satisfaction. Laura Greggor was being just too open with her scorn. And so Maynard, who never had hit a lady before, slapped Laura Greggor across the face.
"You hit me," she said in absolute surprise and equally absolute anger.
"You talk too rotten about someone far above you," snapped Maynard.
"Don't you call me rotten," snarled Laura. "Go on back to that little trollop you prefer."
"Can't," said Guy shortly. "She died up there!"
It made no impression on Laura. "And so now you come running back to me? Sorry, Guy. I don't play second fiddle—even to a corpse!"
"You don't have to," he said evenly. He took the box from her hand. Then as she watched in amazement, Guy removed his own insignia and placed the starred nebulae on his own lapel. With that finished, he arose from the bench; flung the plain nebulae into the little lagoon, and left Laura sitting there.
Guy entered the room through the same door, and went immediately into the bar where he downed four drinks in rapid succession.
He felt as though he needed that alcoholic sterilization of his mouth. Maynard's stomach was unused to liquor in such undilution. It reacted; got rid of the alcohol as soon as it could by filtering it into the blood stream. In other words, Guy became slightly drunk on a total of five drinks. Unevenly, Guy went to the main room, where he was immediately taken in tow by two women.
"Now," said the one on his right, "we have you to ourselves. Tell us about Mephisto."
"How did you find it?"
I found it cold and forbidding.
"To think that it was undiscovered for all of these years!"
Too bad I did find it.
"You found it, and you conquered it. That makes it almost your own planet, Guy."
I'll trade it for a chance to seek it again.
They prattled on, not noticing his silence. They wouldn't have heard him if he had spoken, for they poured the questions at him without waiting for an answer.
"Was it exciting to go all the way out there?"
It was deadly. They hit us with all they had.
"Tell us about the battle. We want to hear the final words on the finish of the fight. Tell us how you captured the weapon that destroyed all Mephisto. Was that thrilling?"
Thrilling? Maynard saw a white face with closed eyes, neatly placed in endless rows of other faces. He heard the voice of the chaplain saying again: "—vast though the universe be, and though you travel it endlessly, there you will find His work—"
How could death be thrilling?
"You make me sick," said Maynard uncertainly.
"He's drunk."
"Yes, I'm drunk," he roared. "And you'd be dead or worse than drunk if you'd seen what I had to live with. What do you know of death and of war? Thrilling? Exciting? Wonderful? Bah. It was rotten, as sordid, and as ungodly as running opium! Sending men to their death. Fighting a war against an enemy that knows it is fighting for its right to live.
"Fighting for what? So that you and your kind can sit here and praise the unlucky man who is destined to return for these medals.
"Fighting to make the Solar System bend to Terra's will, that's what it is. What did we want of Mephisto? Nothing except tribute. I'm sick and tired of people telling me that I did a wonderful job. A brilliant job of butchering, that's what they mean!"
"Guy, take it easy. They mean no harm," interposed Kane.
"If they want to see how thrilling war is," blazed Guy, "let 'em go out and see!"
"Take it easy!"
"Let 'em help cut the leg from a corpse so that it can be grafted onto a lad with his leg shot off!" stormed Guy. "Let 'em watch a ship fall ten thousand miles into a planet, and watch it blaze as it hits the air."
"It's all over," Kane told him. He turned to the rapidly collecting group and said: "Permit me to apologize. Guy has been through hell, and shock still claims him."
"It's over?" asked Guy. "It'll never be over. It'll go on and on and on until the last Terran is dead and forgotten."
"Well," said Kane, "you'd better make the best of it, Guy. You're Terran, and there's no place else to go."
"I'd like to find a planet that hasn't seen war for a thousand years," said Guy uncertainly. The alcohol-concentration was reaching new levels in Guy's system, and his brain was feeling more and more the effects.
"We'd all like that," said Kane. "Now break it up, Guy, and simmer down."
The storm passed, then, and Kane walked Guy into the dining room and seated him at the speakers' table.
The room hazed before Guy's eyes as he sat down. The echo of his voice resounded in his brain: "A thousand years—"
What was it that Charalas said? A thousand years—no, it was more than that. Thousands of years since they had war. That was a planet! Ertene. The nomad world that wanted no part of Sol's warfare and strife; killing and death. They knew—they knew from the things he said—that Terra was a planet of self-aggrandizement and that Terrans were proud, haughty, and belligerent.
Maynard laughed wildly.
His hand felt the clean-shaven face.
He'd go there!
"No strife for thousands of years," he said aloud.
Space Marshal Mantley, at his side, turned in puzzlement and asked: "What was that?"
Maynard saw the other as a sheer maze of white; no features were visible to his befuddled mind.
"They haven't had war for thousands of years," he said.
"Who? What kind of dead, sterile place is that?"
"Ertene—and never call Ertene dead!" exploded Guy.
"What's Ertene?"
"Ertene—the nomad planet. The wanderers."
"I do not follow?"
"They came and saw us. They decided not to have any."
Mantley turned to Kane and said: "What is this young man talking about?"
"I should know?" asked Kane with a shrug. "He's drunk—and though it is deplorable that he should pick this time to get that way, I, for one, don't blame him."
"Well, after the circumstances, neither do I," agreed Mantley with a sympathetic smile. "Those female predators would drive any man to murder with their thoughtless questions. But look, Kane, this tale of a nomad planet that preferred peace to association with Terra sounds too complicated to be the figment of a drunken imagination."
"How could it be anything but?"
"Not a drunken figment," blurted Guy. "I was there, I should know."
"It must be a wonderful place," said Mantley soothingly.
"It is a paradise," insisted Guy.
"And you were there?"
"How would I know about it otherwise?"
"All right," laughed Kane. "Prove it!"
"How can I? They destroyed every shred of evidence."
"Who did?"
"You did—you and your kind. Didn't want Mars to know about Mardinex—shot up the lifeship. Made me mem'rise forged log—forged by Ertinians to fool you—and then burned log. Ha!" and Guy went into a paroxysm of laughter. "You forged a log from a forged log."
"When was this visit?"
"When—right after capture by Martians. Came home to Terra."
"Kane," said Mantley, "there may be nothing to this wild yarn. But to stop any wild talk on the part of observers here, I'm going to investigate thoroughly."
"Please do. I'm certain that it will kill any rumors. Guy went through part of the Martian idea of torture, I think, and it may have deranged his mind somewhat."
"I'll look into it," said Mantley.
"We can permit no ugly rumor to mar the record of Guy Maynard," insisted Kane. "He is too high a figure now to permit rumors—and there are those who would spread such rumors."
Mantley nodded. "Some of them are here, and they have heard."
"You don't mind a bit of scorn?"
"Of what kind?"
"My publications will break this, of course. We'll do it in the light of an investigation made over the statements made in jest by Sector Marshal Maynard. You may find yourself an object of some scorn since you are willing to accept the prattlings of a slightly-drunken man, suffering from battle-shock, as basis for a formal investigation."
"If you'll paint me as an unwilling investigator, I'll take it."
"Well," smiled Kane, "you are unwilling, I know. You'll be portrayed as a friend of Maynard's who is forced to investigate and is doing so only because your duty to the Patrol insists that you do. Correct?"
"Yes. But let's get it over with. I wouldn't want this dragged out too far.”