The province of Hanlon, Prince Joro’s hereditary domain, began about fifty miles west of South Tarog. It was a region of thorn forests, yielding a wood highly valued for ship-building, and the canal was lined with shipyards, most of which belonged to the prince. The so-called republic had been established before Joro was born, but the reigning family of Hanlon had always been richly endowed with astuteness. Deprived of their feudal holdings by a coup of state, they had won back nearly all they had lost in the fields of finance and trade. Joro was a monarchist for sentimental reasons, not for the profits that might accrue to him.

It was the purity of Joro’s devotion to his ideal that made him so dangerous to all who might oppose him. Lesser men might be bribed, frightened, distracted. Not Joro: he believed that the monarchy would soothe the rumblings of internal dissension that continually disturbed the peace and tranquillity of Mars. He drove forward to that consummation with a steadfastness and singleness of purpose such as have carried other fanatics to glory or to the grave. And in addition to his zeal he carried into the struggle his exceptional ability, a knowledge of government and of people.

He had need for all of his rare skill now. It had been an easy matter to carry forcibly the Princess Sira to his palace in Hanlon. Tolto was safely out of the way; Mellie had been dismissed. As for the other palace servants, they had been silenced with bribery or the stiletto.

But Sira had remained adamant, and Joro, abstractedly toying with his laboratory apparatus in the basement of his palace, tried to find the key to her change of heart.

“Can’t understand it!” he mused. “She always seemed to have all the royal instincts: cold to suitors, with that delicacy and reserve one finds ideal in a princess. She does all things well, handles a sword nearly as well as I do. Her mind is as keen and limpid as a diamond. She swims like an eel....”

He sighed. “I thought she and I saw eye to eye in this matter. Not more than a week ago she seemed eager for news of the accord I was arranging. She had no great aversion to Scar Balta. Now she says she will die before she espouses him.”

He paused, thought a moment, added, with that absolute fairness and impartiality that was characteristic of him:

“True, Balta is not the ideal prince consort. He would not add kingly qualities to the royal line. But he would confer cunning upon his offspring; and energy neither to be despised in a royal family that must forever resist intrigue.” He sighed again. “The responsibility of king-making is a hard one!”

A sudden thought struck him. “She spoke warmly about the proposed war; could that be at the root of her strange change of heart? After all, she is a woman, and with all her fine, true temper she has a gentle heart. To her the death of a few thousands of her subjects may not outweigh the unhappiness that millions are now experiencing. But the financiers demand the war to consolidate their position, and Wilcox is solidly with them.”

With new hope he set down the beaker he was toying with. “Perhaps we can outwit them.”

He left the laboratory, climbed a flight of stairs, entered the spacious reception hall. This, like most Martian buildings, was domed. It was richly furnished. The walls were hung with burnished, metallic draperies of gorgeous colors, the floor a lustrous black, the furniture of glittering metal. As the prince entered a servant stepped forward.

“Go at once to the Princess Sira’s chamber!” Joro commanded sharply. “Request her to come here. Tell her I have thought of the solution to our difficulty.”

Impatiently he paced up and down, stopping at a window for a moment and looking out into the night.

“Your Highness! Your Highness!” The servant was sobbing with excitement. “Your Highness, Princess Sira has escaped!”

Joro left the man babbling, dashed up the broad stairs, unheeding the servants who scattered before him. Their punishment could wait. Just inside the princess’s chamber, still unconscious from a blow on the head, lay the guard whose duty it had been to stand before that door. How long ago had she gone? Probably not more than a few minutes.

Joro saw to it that her start would not be much longer. In a few seconds men and women were scouring the palace grounds, and radio orders to the provincial police of Hanlon were crowding the ether.

Sira had contrived her escape without any particular plan in mind. In fact, it had been initiated on impulse. The fellow on guard at her door had excited intense dislike in her. High-strung, and excited by her kidnaping, she had been further annoyed by his officiousness, his fawning, which thinly disguised impudence. The third or fourth time that he intruded on her privacy to ask if she wanted anything she was ready, with the heavy leg, unscrewed from a chair. She felled him in the middle of a smirk, and seized the opportunity created.

It happened that there was a service corridor close at hand. Down this she sped, into the darkness of a boat-house. The doors were barred and locked, of course, but the depths of the water showed a faint greenish glimmer of light. Sira dived in, unhesitatingly, and after an easy underwater swim she emerged in the open canal. There was a considerable swell, for there was a slight breeze blowing from the north across twenty miles of water, but this did not distress Sira at all. She undulated through the waves with perfect comfort. Phobos was just rising in the west, and orientating herself by this tiny moon she struck out in a north-easterly direction, seeking a favorable current to carry her toward Tarog.

Early explorers on Mars were astonished to find that the canals were not stagnant bodies of water, but possessed currents, induced by wind, by evaporation, and the influx of fresh water from the polar ice caps.

This was near the equator, however, and the water was not unreasonably cold, although the night air was, as usual, chilly. After a few minutes Sira discarded her clothing, and so settled down to a long swim.

Ten miles out she struck a brisk easterly current, flowing toward Tarog, and she gave herself up to it. Floating on her back she saw the lights of the prince’s ships flying back and forth over the water in search of her or her body. But none came near her, and she was content.

The abrupt tropical dawn found her in mid-canal, half-way to Tarog. She had no intention of swimming all the way to the capital city, to be fished ignominiously out of the canal by the police. She was in need, not only of clothing, but of clothing that would disguise her. Her coral pink body near the surface of the water would attract attention for considerable distance, and would lead to unwelcome inquiries.

She was glad when she saw a fishing scow anchored in the current ahead of her. The man who owned it had his back to her, fishing down-current. She approached the boat silently and worked her way around it by holding to the gunwale.

Sira now saw that the fisherman was old, gnarled and sunburned so dark that he was almost black, despite the dilapidated and dirty pith helmet he was wearing. His lumpish face was deeply seamed and wrinkled. His sunken mouth told of missing teeth, and his long, unkempt hair was bleached to a dirty gray.

“Have you an old coat you can lend me?” Sira asked, swimming into view.

The rheumy eyes rolled, settled on the water nymph. The old man showed no surprise, but pious disgust. His eyes rolled up, and in a cracked voice intoned:

“Wicked, wicked! O great Pantheus, thy temptations are great thy visions tormenting. In my old age must I ever and ever live over ”

“Foolish old man!” Sira snapped. “I’m not a vision!” She dragged down an old sack that hung over the gunwale, washed it, and tearing holes in the rotten fabric for her arms and head, slipped it on. It was a large sack, coming to her knees; satisfied, she climbed aboard, where she spread her black hair to dry.

“Not a vision?” the old man quavered. “Then thou art reality, come to gladden my old age nay to return youth to me! In my hut there is an old hag. She shall go ”

Sira did not answer. She was neither disgusted nor amused by the dark torrent that stirred in this decrepit old fisherman. She saw only that he had pulled in his nets and was bowing his long arms to the oars, pulling for shore.

It took about two hours before they reached the fisherman’s hut, a nondescript, low-ceilinged shelter of logs, driftwood and untarnished metal plates off some wreck. Several times they were hailed by other fishermen, who addressed the old man as “Deacon” and asked jocularly about what kind of a fish he had there.

The deacon’s wife awaited them. The old man’s description of her as a hag had not been far wrong. She, was as diminutive and weakened as he was ponderous and heavy. She was acid. Her skin was like a pickled apple’s; her expression sour, her voice sharp.

“Hoy there, you old hypocrite!” she hailed when they came in earshot. “So this is the way you lose a day! Who’s the hussy with you?”

The deacon nosed the old and evil-smelling scow into the bank. His eyes rolled piously.

“The great Pantheus sent her. He said ”

The old woman came closer and inspected Sira, who endured her gaze calmly. That look was like the bite of acid that reveals the structure of crystal in metals.

“Why, she’s a lady!” she exclaimed then. “Not fittin’ to be on the same canal with you! Come in, my dear. You must be nearly dead!”

She conducted Sira into the hut, which was far neater and cleaner than its exterior suggested.

“A lady!” she repeated. “In that heat! Young woman, what made you do it? Look at those arms near burnt! Let me take off that old sack. But wait!”

She tip-toed to the door, threw back the faded curtain sharply. The deacon, too surprised to move, was standing there in the attitude of one who seeks to see and hear at the same time. He lingered long enough to receive two resounding slaps before fleeing to his boat, followed by a string of curdling remarks.

Back inside, she proceeded to anoint Sira’s body, exclaiming her pleasure at its perfection. The oil smelled fishy, but it was soothing, and it was not long before the claimant to the throne of Mars was deep in restful slumber.

Late that afternoon the deacon returned and hung his nets up to dry. He was dour, his fever having left him. But he had a strange story to impart.

“I think that girl I picked up is the Princess Sira,” he told the old woman. “On the fish buyer’s barge, in the teletabloid machine, I saw the forecast of her wedding to Scar Balta. And I’ll swear it’s the same girl!”

“And why,” queried his wife, “would she be swimming in the middle of the canal if she was getting ready to marry Scar Balta?”

“That’s just it!” the deacon exclaimed, and his eyes began to roll again. “They say it’s not a love match! Oh, not in the teletabloid! They wouldn’t dare hint such a thing. But the men on the barge. They say there’s a rumor that she ran away. And she looks like the girl I picked up, though I thought ”

“Never mind what you thought!” she snapped. “It may be, I served the oligarchy and the noble houses before I was fool enough to run away with a no-good fisherman and I can see she is a lady. Well, she can trust in me.”

“They say,” the deacon hinted, “that if one went to Tarog, and inquired at the proper place, there would be a reward.”

The little old woman chilled him, she looked so deadly.

“Deacon Homms!” she hissed. “If you sell this poor little girl to Scar Balta, your hypocritical white eyes will never roll again, because I’ll tear them out and feed them to the fish. Understand?”

Considerably shaken, the deacon said he understood.

But the next morning, on the placid bosom of the canal, he forgot her warning. The fleshpots of Tarog called him. Tarog, where he had spent youth and money with a lavish hand. Tarog, where a reward awaited him.

He hauled in his anchor, gave the unwieldy boat to the current and bent to the oars.

Back in the hut, unsuspecting of treachery, Mrs. Homms and Sira were rapidly striking up a friendship. A shrewd judge, of character herself, Sira did not hesitate to admit her identity, and without any prying questioning the old woman soon had the whole story. It thrilled her, this review of the life she had once seen as a servant.

“I wonder if I will ever see Tarog again!” she sighed wistfully.

“You shall!” Sira promised, “if you help me.”

“I will do what I can gladly.”

“I need a workingman’s trousers and blouse, and a sun-hat that will shade my face. I have a plan, but I must get to Tarog. Can you get me these things?”

“I have no money, but wait!” She rummaged with gnarled fingers in a chink in the wall, withdrew a small brooch-pin of gold, with a pink terrestrial pearl in its center.

“My last mistress gave me this,” she said smiling sadly. “I will row to the trading boat and buy what you need. There will be a little money left to buy your passage on a freight barge.”

And that was why, when the deacon arrived at the head of a squad of soldiers that evening, there was no girl of any description to be found. Ignoring the cowering and unhappy reward seeker, the old woman delivered her dictum to the sergeant in charge.

“Princess? Ha! The deacon, sees princesses and mermaids in every mud bank. His imagination grew too and crowded out his conscience. No, mister, there ain’t any princess here.”