McCoy entered his cabin carrying the package of programs and a box. He placed them on the table and checked the chronometer. It was almost two hours until show time. He showered, taking the time to put straightener on his hair and apply a bit of cologne. Then he opened his closet and looked at the hated dress uniform hanging innocuously in place. He sighed, briefly considering his civilian tuxedo instead, but he removed the satiny blue tunic from the hanger, pulling it on over his black undershirt. His fingers slid up the fastener, leaving the neck open a few inches. Except for the stripe on the outside leg seams, the trousers were the same as everyday wear. Probably no one had figured a way to make pants hideously uncomfortable he thought sourly as he pulled on his boots. He opened the box containing his awards and decorations and pinned them into place before fastening the collar. He stood straight and studied his reflection in the mirror with a critical eye. Somehow he felt a little like a kid going on a first date. He was a little scrawny, he admitted, but his hair was still thick with almost no grey, and although he sported a few wrinkles his eyes were as bright blue as ever. He gave in to a childish impulse to stick out his tongue at himself. Vanity was not usually his vice.

He turned from the mirror, picked up the packages, and headed for the concert.