"You've my word," said Jaro. His voice was cold. "I don't threaten,
Red, but if she's been harmed you won't come to trial."
The girl pulled her eyes from Jaro's, turned to Landovitch. "Yours,"
she said, "yours too."
"I give you my word, of course," he replied.
With a sigh of relief she sank back in her chair. "In there, boys."
She motioned towards a door at the left of the chamber.
Jaro sprang forward, swung it open, revealed a large closet. Joan Webb,
gagged, bound to a chair, regarded him from wide brown eyes. Behind
him, the red-haired singer burst into laughter.
"She's been there all the time," she laughed. "You were bound to have
found her. Jaro, Jaro, that was the most magnificent bluff I've ever
pulled. And you fell for it. You, Jaro Moynahan, fell for it."
* * * * *
The abortive revolution had brought the Festival to an abrupt
conclusion. The city of Acecia licked its wounds and fretted under the
grip of martial law, but negotiations for Mercurian independence had
been reopened. Landovitch's report had exploded a bombshell in the
Earth Congress, and it looked very much as if the negotiations might be
successful at last.
"How does it feel to be famous?" Jaro asked. He and Joan and the T.I.S.
agent were sitting in his room, sipping Latonka.
Landovitch said: "I wish you would have let me give credit where it was
due."
"Publicity in my line," Jaro replied, "is not very good for business."
Someone rapped at the door. He opened it, revealed a small Mercurian
boy in the uniform of the Spaceography Station.
"A spaceogram for Miss Webb," said the boy.
"Me?" cried Joan. "Who could be sending me a spaceogram?"
Jaro took the envelope, handed it to her, tossed the boy a coin. She
tore it open eagerly.
"Why, it's from Prince Radnick of the Imperial Martian Court," she said
with a puzzled frown. "He's offering me a post as secretary at two
thousand notes a year. Two thousand notes a year! Think of it!"
Jaro started, said, "Two thousand notes!" He glanced angrily at
Landovitch who was listening with a bland expression.
"Irving!" cried Joan rapturously and threw her arms about the blond
T.I.S. agent's bull-like neck. "You're a perfect darling!"
"Let me see that spaceogram," said Jaro Moynahan darkly. He read: "You
have been highly recommended by a dear friend of mine, Mr. Irving
Landovitch of the T.I.S."
"Jaro," cried the girl, "should I accept it?"
"What? Oh. Yes, of course. As it happens I know the prince very well. I
think you'll find the work delightful. If I were you, I'd run down to
the desk and get a spaceogram off to him right away." He almost shoved
her out of the room. Then he went to the visoscreen, clicked it on,
said: "When Miss Webb comes to send a spaceogram, take it, but don't
send it. T.I.S. wishes to examine it. Yes. That's right. The T.I.S." He
clicked the visoscreen off, turned to Landovitch.
"Now!" he exploded. "I told you to make that one thousand notes a year,
not two thousand."
"I thought she was worth it," said Landovitch blandly.
Jaro glared at his friend, trying to keep the amusement from his eyes
and face.
"That's as much as a general in the Martian army makes." He ran
his fingers upward through his crisp black hair. "It's going to be
difficult enough persuading the prince that I need a secretary at all
as head of his army, let alone get him to pay her two thousands notes a
year. When I asked you to send that fake spaceogram, if I'd...."
"But what a secretary," Landovitch interrupted, rolling his eyes.
"And that line," Jaro snorted. "'Recommended by a very dear friend of
mine, Mr. Irving Landovitch.' The prince never even heard of you."
"He will, he will," Landovitch assured him.