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?"