Quickly, he ducked into a washroom off to the right. As the door slid closed, he deftly jimmied the photonic beam to keep it that way until he was ready to come out.
He glanced at his face in the mirror, seeing as if for the first time the baggy eyes, the heavy growth of beard, the beaten, run-down color of the skin. The memory of a photo crossed his mind: a tridim in natural color, taken three years ago. He and Janet, together, their arms locked around each other, their faces bright, laughing.
Three years ago. Then came the accident; then the lab was destroyed and Lloyd killed. And then the drinking began.
Now, three years later, where was Janet? Someplace far off, remote, untouchable. Her father's party had taken over in the last election and he was now a bigwig in the Space Commission. Probably she was still clean and fresh, bright and young. Maybe she was married.
And me? He looked with revulsion at the bleary mask his face had become.
He went to work with the depilator supplied in the washroom and rapidly wiped away his beard. Then he scrubbed his face the way it hadn't been scrubbed in months. He came out pink.
Stripping, he dropped his clothes in the Valet Hopper and stepped under the stinging spray of the shower. Robot hands scrubbed him down. Layers of dirt stripped away. An ion-massage set his blood pounding, broke down fatty tissue, left his skin tinglingly clean.
He surveyed his naked body in the mirror. Not bad, he thought. A long way from what it had been, but not bad.
He dressed rapidly. He was still wearing the clothes in which he had been picked up the night before—only now he fastened the collar magnesnap, adjusted the tie, straightened the trousers. When he was finished, he could pass for a tourist stopping off to see the satellite before making the jaunt to Luna.
Despite himself, he grinned. They'll never recognize me in this disguise. They'll be looking for a hobo, not a clean cut young tourist.