Robert Heinlein - Double Star

I tried to get a better look at the Martian surface as we went down, as I had had only one glimpse of it, from the control room of the Tom Paine — since I was supposed to have been there many times I could not show the normal curiosity of a tourist. I did not get much of a look; the shuttle pilot did not turn us so that we could see until he leveled off for his glide approach and I was busy then putting on my oxygen mask.

That pesky Mars-type mask almost finished us; I had never had a chance to practice with it — Dak did not think of it and I had not realized it would be a problem; I had worn both space suit and aqua lung on other occasions and I thought this would be about the same. It was not. The model Bonforte favored was a mouthfree type, a Mitsubushi «Sweet Winds» which pressurizes directly at the nostrils — a nose clamp, nostril plugs, tubes up each nostril which then run back under each ear to the supercharger on the back of your neck. I concede that it is a fine device, once you get used to it, since you can talk, eat, drink, etc., while wearing it. But I would rather have a dentist put both hands in my mouth.

The real difficulty is that you have to exercise conscious control on the muscles that close the back of your mouth, or you hiss like a teakettle, since the durn thing operates on a pressure difference. Fortunately the pilot equalized to Mars-surface pressure once we all had our masks on, which gave me twenty minutes or so to get used to it. But for a few moments I thought the jig was up, just over a silly piece of gadgetry. But I reminded myself that I had worn the thing hundreds of times before and that I was as used to it as I was to my toothbrush. Presently I believed it.

Dak had been able to avoid having the Resident Commissioner chit-chat with me for an hour on the way down but it had not been possible to miss him entirely; he met the shuttle at the sky field. The close timing did keep me from having to cope with other humans, since I had to go at once into the Martian city. It made sense, but it seemed strange that I would be safer among Martians than among my own kind.

It seemed even stranger to be on Mars.

Mr. Commissioner Boothroyd was a Humanity Party appointee, of course, as were all of his staff except for civil service technical employees. But Dak had told me that it was at least sixty-forty that Boothroyd had not had a finger in the plot; Dak considered him honest but stupid. For that matter, neither Dak nor Rog Clifton believed that Supreme Minister Quiroga was in it; they attributed the thing to the clandestine terrorist group inside the Humanity Party who called themselves the «Actionists» — and they attributed them to some highly respectable big-money boys who stood to profit heavily.

Myself, I would not have known an Actionist from an auctioneer.

But the minute we landed something popped up that made me wonder whether friend Boothroyd was as honest and stupid as Dak thought he was. It was a minor thing but one of those little things that can punch holes in an impersonation. Since I was a Very Important Visitor the Commissioner met me; since I held no public office other than membership in the Grand Assembly and was traveling privately no official honors were offered. He was alone save for his aide — and a little girl about fifteen.

I knew him from photographs and I knew quite a bit about him; Rog and Penny had briefed me carefully. I shook hands, asked about his sinusitis, thanked him for the pleasant time I had had on my last visit, and spoke with his aide in that warm man-to-man fashion that Bonforte was so good at. Then I turned to the young lady. I knew Boothroyd had children and that one of them was about this age and sex; I did not know — perhaps Rog and Penny did not know — whether or not I had ever met her.

Boothroyd 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. Farbenindustrie. There were almost as many Martians as humans in sight. We ground hogs get the impression that Martians are slow as snails — and they are, on our comparatively heavy planet. On their own world they skim along on their bases like a stone sliding over water.