"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."