* *

She surprised herself, also, by a changing attitude toward the life
ambition of Prince Joro. The old man's discussions of social
conditions that could be corrected by a benevolent monarch had always
before seemed to her merely academic and without great interest. Such
co-operation as she had given him was motivated entirely by personal
ambition. Now she recalled some of Joro's theories, reviewed them in
her mind, half consenting.

Always she would strike a barrier when she came to Scar Balta. The
more she thought of him the more he repelled her. She puzzled over
that. Scar was quite personable.

Tarog, every industrial city along the equatorial belt, and even the
remotest provinces, were seething with war talk. The teletabloids at
the street corners always had intent audiences. Sira watched one of
them. Disease germs had been found in a shipment of fruit juices from
the Earth. The teletabloids showed, in detail, diabolical looking
terrestrials in laboratory aprons infecting the juices. Then came
shocking clinical views of the diseases produced. Men, on turning
away, growled deep in their throats and women chattered shrilly. The
parks were milling with crowds who came to hear the patriotic
speakers.

There was hardly anyone at the stereo-screens, where the news of real
importance was given.

"President Wilcox announced to-day that an interplanetary conference
of financiers will be held in his office three days from to-day,
beginning at the third hour after sunrise. President Wilcox, whose
efforts have been unremitting to prevent the war which daily seems
more inevitable, declared that the situation may yet be saved unless
some overt act occurs." At the same time the device showed a
three-dimensional picture of the planetary president, impressive,
dominating, stern with a sternness that could mean almost anything.

Sira, hurrying home to an inexpensive lodging house, thought:

"Three days from to-day! I have done what I could. The hopes of the
solar system now rest with Wasil. I am only a helpless spectator."

* * * * *

Tarog awaited the conference on the morrow bedecked like a bride. The
Martian flag, orange and green, fluttered everywhere. On both sides of
the canal the brilliantly lighted thoroughfares were restless with
pedestrians, and the air was swarming with taxicabs. Excitement was
universal, and business was good.

The glare of the twin cities could be seen