American Science Fiction Five Classic Novels 1956-58 by Gary K. Wolfe Page A

himself saved me. “You haven’t met my daughter Deirdre, I believe. She insisted on coming along.”
    Nothing in the pictures I had studied had shown Bonforte dealing with young girls—so I simply had to be Bonforte—a widower in his middle fifties who had no children of his own, no nieces, and probably little experience with teen-age girls—  but with lots of experience in meeting strangers of every sort. So I treated her as if she were twice her real age; I did not quite kiss her hand. She blushed and looked pleased.
    Boothroyd looked indulgent and said, “Well, ask him, my dear. You may not have another chance.”
    She blushed deeper and said, “Sir, could I have your autograph? The girls in my school collect them. I have Mr. Quiroga’s . . . I ought to have yours.” She produced a little book which she had been holding behind her.
    I felt like a copter driver asked for his license—which is home in his other pants. I had studied hard but I had not expected to have to forge Bonforte’s signature. Damn it, you can’t do everything in two and a half days!
    But it was simply impossible for Bonforte to refuse such a request—and I was Bonforte. I smiled jovially and said, “You have Mr. Quiroga’s already?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Just his autograph?”
    “Yes. Er, he put ‘Best Wishes’ on it.”
    I winked at Boothroyd. “Just ‘Best Wishes,’ eh? To young ladies I never make it less than ‘Love.’ Tell you what I’m going to do——” I took the little book from her, glanced through the pages.
    “Chief,” Dak said urgently, “we are short on minutes.”
    “Compose yourself,” I said without looking up. “The entire Martian nation can wait, if necessary, on a young lady.” I handed the book to Penny. “Will you note the size of this book? And then remind me to send a photograph suitable for pasting in it—and properly autographed, of course.”
    “Yes, Mr. Bonforte.”
    “Will that suit you, Miss Deirdre?”
    “Gee!”
    “Good. Thanks for asking me. We can leave now, Captain. Mr. Commissioner, is that our car?”
    “Yes, Mr. Bonforte.” He shook his head wryly. “I’m afraid you have converted a member of my own family to your Expansionist heresies. Hardly sporting, eh? Sitting ducks, and so forth?”
    “That should teach you not to expose her to bad company— eh, Miss Deirdre?” I shook hands again. “Thanks for meeting us, Mr. Commissioner. I am afraid we had better hurry along now.”
    “Yes, certainly. Pleasure.”
    “Thanks, Mr. Bonforte!”
    “Thank you , my dear.”
    I turned away slowly, so as not to appear jerky or nervous in stereo. There were photographers around, still, news pickup, stereo, and so forth, as well as many reporters. Bill was keeping the reporters away from us; as we turned to go he waved and said, “See you later, Chief,” and turned back to talk to one of them. Rog, Dak, and Penny followed me into the car. There was the usual skyfield crowd, not as numerous as at any earthport, but numerous. I was not worried about them as long as Boothroyd accepted the impersonation—though there were certainly some present who knew that I was not Bonforte.
    But I refused to let those individuals worry me, either. They could cause us no trouble without incriminating themselves.
    The car was a Rolls Outlander, pressurized, but I left my oxygen mask on because the others did. I took the right-hand seat, Rog sat beside me, and Penny beside him, while Dak wound his long legs around one of the folding seats. The driver glanced back through the partition and started up.
    Rog said quietly, “I was worried there for a moment.”
    “Nothing to worry about. Now let’s all be quiet, please. I want to review my speech.”
    Actually I wanted to gawk at the Martian scene; I knew the speech perfectly. The driver took us along the north edge of the field, past many godowns. I read signs for Verwijs Trading Company, Diana Outlines, Ltd., Three Planets, and I. G.