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"Mornin', Lennings," Wasil remarked to the face in the screen. "All set? Go ahead." The central office man held up a thick bundle of I. P. scrip, smiled pleasantly, saying: "Somebody in North or South Tarog, or in the surrounding territory, is going to be 100,000 I. P. dollars richer by to-morrow. How would you like to have 100,000 dollars? You all would like this reward.
File your claim at the divisional office." The driver departed, outwardly meek before the power of the military, and Sime was hustled into an official car. He had little hope that his demand to see the terrestrial consul would be complied with, and this opinion was verified when the car rose into the air and sped over the waters of the canal to South Tarog.
They were milling about, for it was still too soon after the night's chill to sit down or lie on the rubbery red sward. Taxis were bringing swarms over the canal from North Tarog, and water vehicles were crossing over in almost unbroken lines.
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.
Although Tarog would not learn the convention's secrets as quickly as the rest of Mars, or Earth, Tarog would learn. Wasil threw over the links and clamped down the bolts with a grunt of satisfaction. When a man is about to die, he wants to do his last job well. Suddenly a red light glowed, and a voice spoke. "Special broadcast. Tarog circuit only!"
His meal completed, Sime sauntered out into the wide, clean streets of North Tarog. He purchased a desert unionall suit, proof against the heat of day and cold of night, and a wide-brimmed Martian pith helmet. Hailing a taxi, he relaxed comfortably in the cushions. "Nabar mine," he told the driver.
He convinced the other I. F. P. man, anyway. But Murray had an uneasy feeling that Balta was laughing at him, and when the shifty soldier politician invited him into his ship for the ride back to Tarog, Murray had a compelling intuition that he would not be in a position to step out of the ship when it landed on the parkway of Scar Balta's hotel.
Sime knew that the distance to the other side was twenty miles or more. Clear-cut through the thin atmosphere of Mars, he could see the jeweled lights of South Tarog, on the other side. The hotel grounds, too, were well lighted.
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.
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.
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