Friend and foe looked stupefied. But they were used to the give and take of battle. That this girl should disarm a detachment of soldiers while they and their own men were absorbed in such a common thing as a fight struck them as humorous. They laughed.

“This is a better break then we deserve,” Sime said, grinning with a trace of sheepishness. “Captain, you take your men across the street and hold ’em there. We’re going to borrow your car. No funny stuff!” Civilians were flooding into the streets. There would soon be a mob.

“We will not,” replied the captain, “try any funny stuff. Some day, my friend, I hope to open you up with my sword,” he added.

“By all means,” Sime agreed pleasantly. “My time is pretty well occupied, but there’s no telling when I may meet you again, in my business. Good day, Captain!”

Tuman stayed at the front gate with his neuro while the others struggled through the weedy garden to the police ship in the alley, rejoining them as they were ready to rise.

A crowd had gathered. If they wondered at the appearance of these ragged, scarred and bewhiskered men; at sweat and blood-covered giant Tolto; the obviously high-bred girl in the laboring man’s garments, they wisely refrained from comment or action, in deference to the neuros with which the party was bristling.

Once inside and safely in the air, they had time to breathe. Murray, with a gallantry that sat ill on the scarecrow figure he was, cleared matters up a trifle.

“Princess Sira? As I thought. Princess, or Your Highness, to be formal, I am your humble and disreputable servant, Lige Murray, of the Interplanetary Flying Police. Likewise this gentleman behind the brush Sime Hemingway. You know Tuman? You’ve missed something, Your Highness! And Tolto! Lucky man!”

Sira recovered quickly from her reaction following the fight. She found a first-aid kit, bandaged Tolto’s wounded shoulder skilfully and quickly. She had given no sign of recognition as Sime awkwardly bowed, during Murray’s introduction, but now, as Sime held a roll of bandage for her, she gave him a sidewise look, agleam with mischief.

“But I have decided to remit the punishment the sentence I passed on you, Mr. Hemingway,” she said, her sweet, child-like face innocent.

“What punishment?” Sime gasped.

“Why, the punishment of death! For kissing me that night!” she laughed, turning her back.

Murray was heading back for the government park. It was a short distance with the police car. Soon the broad grounds, with their scattered, magnificent buildings, lay below them. But the parks were strangely bare of living creatures. Here and there lay the bodies of men or women.

“Something’s happened!” Murray shouted excitedly. “Look out!”

He swerved the ship sharply. They escaped damage as an atomic bomb, unskilfully aimed, exploded far to one side.

“Funny thing, firing on a police car,” Sime puzzled. “They might have got news from that detachment we grounded, but how do they know this isn’t some other police or military car?”

“Those aren’t soldiers,” Murray decided. “There’s been a riot, and some civilian’s got hold of an ato-projector.”

“I know what’s happened!” Sira exclaimed suddenly. “Wasil a technie has managed to broadcast the secret session! That upset their psychology. Oh!” Her face was alight, and she threw up her arms in ecstasy. As quickly she subsided, and tears came to her eyes.

“Wasil!” she cried. “If he is dead, Mellie will never forgive me!”

“Where is this technie?” Sime asked bruskly.

“In the broadcast room. But they have probably killed him.”

“Never can be sure. Head her smack for the main entrance, Murray!”

Murray threw the car into a steep dive, and the hall portal rushed up to meet them. A soldier came partially out of concealment, waved a signal. Murray paid him no heed.

They struck with a crash. The stout car crushed through the glittering doors of metal and glass, and before the fragments fell the four men were in the thick of short, sharp and decisive battle. Their neuros hissed venomously, spanged as they met opposing beams. And the princess, struggling through the wreckage, wept tears of rage as the coarse fabric of her clothing caught, entangled hopelessly, and held her.

“Something queer!” Murray said, as they halted for breath after routing what little opposition they had encountered. “Maybe it’s a trap. But what an expensive trap for somebody! Where’s this broadcasting plant?”

“This way!” Tuman called eagerly. “Maybe we can still save the poor fellow who turned the trick. Broadcast the secret sessions! Don’t tell me that little girl isn’t fit to rule!”

The heavy metal doors were open, and they hurried in. But Tolto, noting that the princess had not followed, hurried out in search for her.

Sime stumbled over a body. It had been a dark, sleek, youngish man. A jagged burn on his throat told of the needle-ray. “Who’s this fellow, Murray?”

Murray glanced at the body. He smiled a brief smile of satisfaction.

“That’s Scar Balta. Got what’s coming to him at last. Help me with this bird: he’s still alive. Cold, though!”

“Got a shot of neuro. Could this be the technie?”

Sime found a fountain of water. He filled a cup, dashed it over the still face. The shock made the man’s lips move.

“Mellie, I did it!” he whispered.

“Who’s Mellie?” Sime asked.

“Mellie? Seems to me the princess mentioned her name, This is her brother. He’s the right guy! Take it easy, brother!”

But Wasil was able to sit up.

“I sure fooled him!” he gasped. “Mixed up the circuits. Scar Balta sat right here while I broadcast the secret sessions, and he was watching a lot o’ haywah in the control screen.

“When Wilcox got word from outside he knew he was done. He thought Scar’d double-exed him, so came here in person and gave him the needle-ray.”

Despite his nausea, Wasil looked happy.

“Wilcox tried for me, but I dodged back of those frames. So he tried for me with the neuro. The mob was getting wild outside; there was ”

He could not finish. There was an explosion that shook the building to its foundations. Tolto came running in. Sira close after him:

“Joro is coming. Joro has detonated the warships. The hall guards have surrendered. The council is locked up. It can’t escape!”

Events were transpiring too fast for comprehension. It was several days later, on a bench in Prince Joro’s palace grounds, that Sira summed it up for Sime Hemingway.

“I’m going to accept the throne!” she said. “I’m going to be a real queen. Joro has convinced me that it will be a real service to Mars. The dear old man has schemed and worked so long, so unselfishly.”

“Yeh, and he wasn’t afraid to fight!” Sime added admiringly. “When he came charging out of those ships with his gang of monarchists, swords flashing, it was a pretty sight to see. And when they closed in on that gang of cheap politicians! Talk about rats in a corner!”

“The prince can fight with his brains as well as with his sword.” Sira submitted. “The whole thing would have been hopeless, if he hadn’t invented the detonating ray that disposed of the warships. You remember those heavy explosions, shortly after we dropped in the hall, as one might say? Those were the last of them.”

A silence fell between them, and Sime was now conscious of the fragile-seeming, so deceiving beauty of this Martian girl. Something had come between them, stripped away the masculine frankness that had existed during their short and dangerous time together. Perhaps it was the softly revealing drape of the thread-of-gold robe she was wearing true queenly garb, donned by her for the first time.

“There is one requirement that Joro insists on,” Sira said in a low voice.

“What’s that?” asked Sime, marveling that such transparently pink fingers should handle a sword so well.

“He says that I must choose a mate, to insure the stability of the royal house.”

It seemed to Sime that this announcement gave him a pang out of all proportion.

“That should be easy,” he managed. “Every Martian is crazy about you.”

“He may not be a Martian. He must be a man of Earth,” Sira stated firmly.

“Is that so?” Sime asked, genuinely surprised. “Why does Joro insist on that?”

“It is not Joro who insists. It is myself.”

Sime found himself looking into eyes filled with shy pleading. He could not, would not, for all of the solar system, have committed the unpardonable affront of rejecting the love so frankly offered. And yet he did not know how to accept this miracle. He did it clumsily, haltingly disclosing the secret recesses of his own heart and what had transpired there since the night he had taken the knife away from her and kissed her.