VII.
From Sahara Base to New York is a solid, two-hour flight for the hardiest driver. Maynard was no tyro at the wheel of a sky-driver, and he drove like fury and made it in slightly over the two-hour mark. He let the flier down in New Jersey and they took the interurban tube to the heart of Manhattan.
Guy was proud. Very proud and very happy. The rayed stars on his lapels gave him a lift that acted as a firm foundation for the presence of Laura Greggor, whose company always lifted him high.
Her hand was at his elbow in a slightly possessive manner, and he was deliriously happy at the idea of belonging to Laura Greggor. They swept into the Silver Star, and though he was unknown, the rayed stars of the senior executive gained him quite a bit more deference than he had ever known as a junior. He'd been in the Silver Star before; usually it was too rich for his blood, but he had one year's salary in his wallet, and the increase in rank warranted shooting the whole wad.
He palmed a twenty solar note into the head waiter's hand, and the head waiter led them to a ringside table and removed the "Reserved" sign.
As they settled, Guy said: "'Reserved'? For whom?"
"What?" asked Laura.
"Nothing," said Guy cynically. A great truth had dawned upon him. Before, he had been refused the better tables because they were reserved. Now he knew that they were reserved for the ones who could pay for them. "Dance?"
Laura was peering into the haze of cigarette smoke and answered absently: "Not now. I want a cigarette first."
Maynard handed over the little cylinder and snapped his lighter. Laura drew deeply, and then turned to scan the crowd once more. She satisfied herself, and then smoked the cigarette down to the last drag before consenting to dance.
"I'm a little rusty," he apologized. "We don't do much dancing in a destroyer."
"I'm afraid not," answered Laura.
"You are as light as ever," he told her. He didn't like the inference; obviously she had been dancing long and often while he was gone.
"Forget it," said Laura, catching his thought. She put her forehead against his chin and sent his pulse racing.
Too soon the dance was over, and he followed her to their table. Guy offered Laura another cigarette, and as he was lighting it, a young man in evening clothes came over and greeted them with a cheery "Hello!"
Maynard went to his feet, but the stranger draped himself indolently into a chair which he lifted from a vacant table adjoining. Maynard shrugged, and sat down, feeling slightly overlooked.
"Hi, Laura, what brings you here?"
"He does," said Laura, nodding across the table to Guy. "Guy Maynard, this is Martin Ingalls."
Greetings were exchanged, and each man took the other's measure. "Senior executive, hey?" smiled Ingalls. "That's something!"
"Oh," said Maynard cheerfully, "they think I've been useful."
"Keep 'em thinking that," suggested Ingalls, "and you'll get along fine."
"He'll get along fine," offered Laura. "But what are you doing here?"
"Oh, Timmy and Alice hauled me in for dinner. They're over there."
"Well! Let's join them!"
Maynard swallowed imperceptibly. He wanted Laura to himself. And here was a young man faultlessly attired in evening clothing who came to a place like the Silver Star for dinner.
He nodded dully, and followed to another table where a couple sat waiting. The man known as Timmy handed over a twenty solar bill and said, laughingly: "All right, Mart. You win."
"What was the bet?" asked Laura.
"I bet Mart that he couldn't get you over here."
"That was a foolish bet," said Laura. "I'm always happy to be with friends."
"We know," said Alice. "But your friend has a brand new set of rayed stars on, and I told both of these monkeys that it looked like a celebration to me—and lay off."
"Yeah, but if there's any celebrating to be done, we can do it better," laughed Martin Ingalls.
"You aren't here alone?" asked Laura.
"I am a recluse tonight," answered Ingalls. "Nobody loves me."
"Liar!" said Timmy. "He didn't bother to call anyone."
"So he's alone," added Ingalls. "And where do we go from here?"
"Let's go to Havana," suggested Alice. "I've been needing some blood pressure." To Maynard she added: "If you know a better way to get high blood pressure without hatred, let me know. Do you?"
"Better than what?" asked Guy.
"Dice. I crave excitement."
"But we just came," objected Maynard.
"You can leave," said Ingalls. "After all, the Silver Star is nothing to get wrought up over."
"Who's to drive?" asked Alice.
"We'll take Mart's junk," said Timmy. "It'll hold the five of us with ease."
"Mine is in New Jersey—we could follow," said Maynard.
"Now I know we'll take mine," said Martin. "It's on the roof. We'll waste no time dragging all the way to New Jersey."
Maynard settled up with the waiter, and within five minutes found himself seated in the rear seat with Martin Ingalls, and Laura Greggor between them. The run to Havana was made during a running fire of light conversation. And from there on, the night became lost to Guy Maynard.
He followed. He did not lead, not for one minute. They led him from place to place, and he watched them hazard large sums of money on the turn of a pair of dice. He joined them, gingerly, hiding his qualms, and played cautiously. He won, at first, and permitted himself to enjoy the play as long as he was playing with the other party's money. Then he lost, and tried to buck up his loss with shrewdness. But skill and shrewdness never prevail against an honest pair of dice, and these were strictly honest. So Maynard played doggedly, and his financial status remained the same. He was a couple of hundred solars behind the game.
He missed the others, and went to look for them and found them dancing. He stood on the side line for a few minutes, until Laura spied him. She broke from Martin's arms and came to him, leading him on to the floor for the rest of the dancing.
The excitement had done its work on Laura. Her eyes were bright, and her hair was ever-so-slightly mussed, which removed the showcase perfection and made her, to Maynard, a glamorous and wonderful thing. His arm tightened about her waist, and she responded gently.
"Like this?" he asked her quietly.
Her head nodded against his cheek. Maynard took a deep breath. "You're lovely," he said.
Laura caressed his cheek with her forehead. "It's been a wonderful evening," she said. "But I'm getting tired. Let's go home?"
Guy lifted his left hand from hers and stroked her hair. "Anything you want," he promised.
"You're a grand person," she said.
The music stopped, and Maynard felt that the spell of the evening stopped with it. They found Alice, Timmy, and Martin at the bar, and Martin called for drinks for them. "A final nightcap," he said, "to a perfect evening."
They agreed to his toast.
"And now," said Martin practically. "As to getting home."
"Yes, indeed. Who lives where?"
"We are in Florida," said Timmy. "We can catch us a cab."
"The rest of us—at least Guy and I are from Sahara Base," said Laura. "But Guy's flier is in New Jersey."
"Shame to make you travel all that way," said Martin. "Should have thought of that when I demanded that we all take my crate. I'm deucedly sorry, Guy."
"Forget it," said Maynard with a wave of his hand.
"I can do this much for you, though," offered Ingalls. "It's past dawn at Sahara now, and since you folks live by the sun, I can imagine that Laura is about asleep on her feet. Look, Maynard, you're used to a rigorous life; you can take this sort of thing. Laura can't. I live by New York time and am therefore several hours better off than she for sleep. I'll run her across the pond, and you traipse up to New Jersey for that flier of yours. That way Laura will get to bed an hour sooner. What say?"
Maynard groped. How could he tell Ingalls that he wanted to take Laura home without sounding like a jealous adolescent? Perhaps he was, but he didn't want to sound childish in front of these people. Ingalls' suggestion was reasonable, from a practical standpoint, but Maynard did not want to be practical. He thought that Laura should have objected; surely she would prefer that he see her home. She should prefer it, according to etiquette. But she did not protest, and Maynard sacrificed his desire for the benefit of practicality.
They said good-by, and Laura patted his cheek and made him promise to see her soon. Guy promised, and as she turned away to go with Ingalls, he had a fleeting thought that the pat on the cheek was small solace. Maynard wanted a bit of loving.
Instead, he sat on the far side of Alice from Timmy, and watched Alice doze on Timmy's shoulder all the way from Havana to Miami. Their good-by was quick, and though Timmy demanded his right to pay this part of the fare on the basis that Maynard had a long drag ahead and that this portion of the trip would have been his anyway, Guy laughed and waved the other man out of the cab with a cheery: "See you later!"
Dawn was over New York when Maynard's flier started out across the Atlantic toward Sahara Base. Maynard dropped in his landing-space at Sahara nearly two and one half hours later, and wearily made his way toward home.
The smell of good coffee caused him to stop, and he entered the small lunchroom with remembrance. Coffee and breakfast might take the pang out of the night's lack of climax, so Guy seated himself at the long counter and toyed with the menu. The waitress came forward, recognized him, and said: "Guy Maynard! Well! Hello!"
Guy looked up. The open welcome sound in the voice was good to hear. He smiled wearily and answered: "Howdy, Joan. Glad to see me back?"
Joan leaned forward over the counter and put her elbows down, cradling her chin on the interlaced fingers. "You, Guy Maynard, are a sight for sore eyes. Over at Mother Andrew's we thought you were a real M-12."
"I am," he smiled. Joan and the rest of the people might think they knew the real purpose of M-12. Those who lived within the vastness of Sahara Base had good reason to think as they did, but Maynard believed that this was as good a time as any to dispel that belief. "I am a real M-12. I've been off working on some hush-hush. You're still living at Mother Andrew's?"
"You bet. I'm going to stay there, what's more, until my name isn't Forbes any more," and Joan held up the bare left hand. "We missed you every morning at breakfast."
"I saw her last night. She kept my room in fine shape."
"She's wonderful," Joan yawned.
"Tired?"
"Uh-huh. I've been on the dawn patrol. Look, Guy, I'm going off in about an hour. Have yourself a good, hearty breakfast, and you may walk me home. O.K.?"
Guy Maynard looked into Joan's cheerful face and nodded. Joan shook her curls at him, and without asking for his order, she went to the kitchen and was gone for fifteen minutes. When she returned, she was laden with breakfast, complete from grapefruit to toast. She drew his coffee, sugared and creamed it, and then said: "Pitch in, spaceman. Have a good breakfast. I'll bet my hat that you haven't had one like that since you left on that M-12."
Maynard looked the counter-full over and said: "You are right, Joan."
He set to with a will, and when he finished, Joan was ready to leave.
They walked home in almost-silence. Joan knew better than to press him concerning tales of his activities while on the mission, and she was wise enough to know better than to speak of other men and other fun to a man who has been away and at work. Nothing had happened to her worth mentioning, and the rest of her life had been discussed with Guy Maynard long ago.
As for Guy, he felt at ease. He did not know it; he was unaware of the reason for his better-feeling. He did know that the tightness was gone from the muscles across his stomach, and he felt less like running and hiding than he had in hours. He wondered whether the coffee and excellent breakfast had done it, and then forgot about it. He felt too good to wonder why.
They walked in silence and partly in understanding companionship. Maynard knew that he needed no "act" to impress Joan. She would accept him as he was. And when Joan spoke, she directed her thought at him, which made him feel at ease.
Together they entered Mother Andrew's apartments, and as Joan did not dismiss him, he followed up the stairs to the door of her apartment. She fumbled with the key and the door swung open.
"Well," he said, extending a hand, "it's been nice seeing you again."
Joan took the hand and gave it a gentle pressure. She smiled up at him mischievously and said: "Is that the best you can do?" She laughed, but her laugh was gentle.
Instinctively, Guy put his free hand on her shoulder, and her head went back so that she faced him squarely. "You know, I think you've been lonely," she told him. She did not evade him, but went into his arms willingly, almost eagerly.