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.