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.

To the right, south of us past the flat field, the Great Canal dipped into the too-close horizon, showing no shore line beyond. Straight ahead of us was the Nest of Kkkah, a fairy city. I was staring at it, my heart lifting at its fragile beauty, when Dak moved suddenly.

We were well past the traffic around the godowns but there was one car ahead, coming toward us; I had seen it without noticing it. But Dak must have been edgily ready for trouble; when the other car was quite close, he suddenly slammed down the partition separating us from the driver, swarmed over the man's neck, and grabbed the wheel. We slewed to the right, barely missing the other car, slewed again to the left and barely stayed on the road. It was a near thing, for we were past the field now and here the highway edged the canal.

I had not been much use to Dak a couple of days earlier in the Eisenhower, but I had been unarmed and not expecting trouble. This day I was still unarmed, not so much as a poisoned fang, but I comported myself a little better. Dak was more than busy trying to drive the car while leaning over from the back seat. The driver, caught off balance at first, now tried to wrestle him away from the wheel

I lunged forward, got my left arm around the driver's neck, and shoved my right thumb into his ribs. «Move and you've had it!» The voice belonged to the hero-villain in The Second-Story Gentleman; the line of dialogue was his too.

My prisoner became very quiet.

Dak said urgently, «Rog, what are they doing?»

Clifton looked back and answered, «They're turning around.»

Dak answered, «Okay. Chief, keep your gun on that character while I climb over.» He was doing so even as he spoke, an awkward matter in view of his long legs and the crowded car. He settled into the seat and said happily, «I doubt if anything on wheels can catch a Rolls on a straightaway.» He jerked on the damper and the big car shot forward. «How am I doing, Rog?»