“I’m sorry, Mr. Benasco,” Hugh said, “but I promised my dad I wouldn’t take the stamps out to show anyone until they were safely in the hands of Mr. Elfs on Mars.”
Benasco looked completely crestfallen. His rounded shoulders slumped and the most pained expression covered his face. “Surely just a look—” he pleaded.
“If you are going to Mars, as you must be,” Hugh went on, “you’ll be able to see them all in Mr. Elfs’s shop, and you can talk to him about any stamps you might want to buy.”
“Then that’s your final answer?” Mr. Benasco asked, his disappointment giving way to annoyance.
“I’m afraid it must be,” Hugh told him. “I’m sorry.”
“You’ve disappointed me sorely, young man,” Mr. Benasco retorted. “Good day to you.”
He turned briskly and clattered out the door. As he left, Hugh caught sight of the handle of an old type miniature rocket pistol protruding from his coat pocket.
“Did you see that pistol?” Link asked, in surprise. “It’s a wonder he didn’t hold us up for the stamps right here and now! But I guess he was afraid to risk it.”
“For a moment I almost felt sorry for him and was about to give in,” Hugh admitted. “Now I’m glad I didn’t.”
In the days that followed, Hugh and Link saw little of Mr. Benasco except in the dining room.