Irene hadn’t finished her coffee, but she set the cup in the saucer and drew her other hand away from her father’s arm. “I’d better be off, I guess, before they send a posse out for me.” She leaned in and kissed her father’s cheek. “I’ll see you around, Dad. Don’t go poking your nose into anything, now.”

Mr. Foster, a little dumbfounded, put his hand to his cheek and sank back in his chair. “All right, then. You have yourself a time out there, pumpkin.”

Sophie Rofrano met her just outside the cafeteria door. “Irene! There you are. I’ve been looking all over.”

“Is something the matter?” Irene asked.

“Not matter, exactly. I just wanted to warn you in time.”

“Warn me? About what?”

“Bertha’s here.”

“Bertha? Who’s Bertha?”

Sophie hissed in her ear. “Sam’s wife.”

“Oh, right. Well, she’s got a right to come, I guess. He’s her husband.”

Sophie stopped and turned Irene to face her. “Now, listen to me. I haven’t said anything because I didn’t think it was my place. It’s your affair, not mine.”

“Affair? That’s a funny word to use.”

“My dear,” said Sophie, full of sympathy, “anyone can see how it is, between the two of you.”

“We’re good friends, that’s all. We’ve got a rapport, like friends do.”

Sophie still held Irene’s upper arms, just below the shoulders. She stared into Irene’s eyes for a moment or two, frowning, until Irene shrugged and the hands fell away and Sophie crossed her arms over her chest. “All right. Whatever you say. I’m sure you’re just as pure as Ivory soap, the two of you. But you need to know a little something about Bertha Mallory, Irene.”

“What’s that?”

Sophie tilted her head in the direction of the Centauri, where the crowd of reporters and photographers milled about under the blazing sun. “What she says to those fellows, those newspapers? What she says to you or me or anybody?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t believe a word of it, that’s all.”

When they reached the airplane, Irene spotted Bertha Mallory. You couldn’t miss her, really. She stood right next to Sam, as light and feminine as a fairy, resting her arm through the crook of his elbow. She wore a white dress that swished a few inches below her knees, white shoes and stockings, a straw cloche hat with a navy blue grosgrain ribbon around the crown, and no cosmetics at all except for a swipe of cherry lipstick. Though she wasn’t tall, she held herself straight, as if still balancing that schoolgirl book on her head. The cloche hat cradled her face just so. Her eyes were dark and lovely, especially as they turned toward her husband and glowed with pride, while the little girl held tight to her other hand.