_The Price of Monarchy_
Had Sime been able to follow and watch the girl he had kissed under
such unusual circumstances on the night of his arrival on Mars, he
would have been both puzzled and enlightened. After her final warning
about Scar Balta she dashed into the luxurious gloom of the passage.
At an intersection a maid was awaiting her. She curtseyed as she threw
a cape over the girl's shoulder, and together they hurried out into
the night.
A magnificently uniformed hotel servant called a private car, drew the
vitrine curtains, and saluted as the car lifted sharply into the
chilly night air. The car sped across the canal to the jeweled city
across the water, to a residence district whose magnificence even the
pale night light revealed.
The two women entered a mansion of glittering metal and came to a
private apartment.
"Everybody's gone to bed," said the girl, addressing her maid.
"That's one thing we can be thankful for."
"Yes, Your Highness. Did you discover anything of importance in the
man's room?"
"No. Draw me a bath, Mellie. He--he caught me--and kissed me!"
The maid, with flasks of perfume and aromatic oils in her hand,
paused, discreetly impudent.
"You seem not displeased, Your Highness."
"But of that he had no inkling." And Princess Sira laughed. "I left
him standing, utterly at a loss. He took me for a common assassin, and
yet he wanted to kiss me. That pleased me. But if he had valuable
information he kept it. And I promised him death for his kiss."
* * * * *
As Princess Sira, claimant to the throne of a planet, slipped into the
tepid waters of her bath, Mellie stood by, her smooth little Martian's
face disturbed. For she loved her mistress, and could not comprehend
the things she did under ambition's sway.
"Your Highness, couldn't you let your royal friends do these dangerous
things for you?"
"For what? For fear? And how could a Martian princess who knows fear
lay claim to a throne? No, Mellie, one gets used to it. The enemies of
the house of Sira are ever alert. Didn't they murder my father and my
mother, and my only brother? My peril in this palace is as great as in
the room of a terrestrial detective. Only their fear of the people--"
She was interrupted by the tinkling of a bell. The maid left the
alcove, and returned a moment later with the news that Joro, Prince of
Hanlon, awaited the princess's pleasure in the ante-room.
"At this hour!" exclaimed the princess. "Did he say what brought him
here?"
"Something about a new plot."
"Plots! They fall thicker than rain on Venus. Bid him wait."
Fifteen minutes later, swathed in a trailing orange silk robe that
made her look like a Venus orchid, she greeted the prince.
"Greetings, Joro. We seem to have the unusual this night."
The prince, a thin, elderly man of medium stature, smiled admiringly.
His sharp features and bright little button eyes gave some hint of the
energy which suffused him. Here was a man both ruthless and loyal to
his royal house. He addressed her by her given name.
"The hour seems to make no difference with you; Phobos has set, but as
long as you are awake there is loveliness enough. I have come, dear
one, to tell you that success is ours at last!"
* * * * *
Sira smiled. "I will restrain my joy, my good Joro, until I hear the
price."
"Always the same!" Joro chuckled. "A price, 'tis true, but not too
heavy, since you are, in a manner, fond of him."
"I've had vague promises from Wilcox," Sira said, with a wry smile. "I
would rather trade places with Mellie than be espoused by that
madman."
"Not Wilcox, but Scar Balta. He is badly smitten, for which I can not
blame him. He has great political power, and the backing of the
military. He could have dictated better terms, but for love of you has
yielded, point after point. He wants nothing now but your hand in
marriage, and is prepared to cede to the royal cause all the
advantages he has gained--"
"Not to mention," Sira interjected, "the royal prestige he will gain
with the common people."
Joro laughed, a little impatiently.
"True, true! But after all, what does the support of the people amount
to? They are powerless. If you are ever to establish your royal house
you must have other help."
"And I suppose," Sira continued sweetly, "that you have also arranged
a deal with the central banks and the secret war interests?"
Joro coughed uncomfortably.
"As a matter of fact--you see, my dear princess, there are certain
commercial interests--transportation, mining, and so forth. They have
defied the power of the bankers. They are likely to upset our whole
order of society. They need a set-back. And the military men are
chafing at their inaction. The war will be ended before too much harm
is done, by agreement of the interplanetary bankers. You see--"
"No!" Sira interrupted him coldly. "No! No! No! Oh, I'm sick of the
whole thing! I'm sick of the men I know! I hate Scar Balta, and you
too. I would rather be the wife of a common interplanetary patrolman
than queen of Mars! I withdraw, now!"
* * * * *
Joro, struck by her vehemence, paled. The muscles of his jaw lumped.
From a pocket he took a portable disk-radio, an inch in diameter, and
spoke a few words. From outside there was a sudden uproar, shouts and
curses. The draperies moved, as with an outrush of air caused by the
careless handling of an airlock, and the temperature dropped suddenly.
Sira was irresolute only a split second. With a cat-like leap she
seized a short sword from the wall, made a lunge at the prince. But
Joro, the veteran of many a battle of wits and arms, parried the
stroke with the thick barrel of his neuro-pistol, caught the girl's
wrist and disarmed her. The screams of the maid went unheeded.
From the other parts of the palace came sounds of struggle, the
clashing of sword on sword.
"Sira! Sira!" Joro panted, struggling to hold the girl. "You must
give up your impractical ideas! Take the world as it is. Do as I tell
you and you'll not be sorry."
"I relinquish my claims!" the girl cried fiercely. "To-morrow I will
publicly announce that decision. All my life has been spent feeding
that hopeless ambition. Now I will be free!"
"I am loyal to the monarchy," Joro grunted, pinioning her arms at
last. "I will guard your interest against yourself."
He began to shout:
"Hendricks, Mervin, Carpender, Nassus! Here, to the princess's
chamber."
Several men, after further delay and fighting, responded. They wore
civilian blouses and trousers, but there was that something in their
alert carriage that proclaimed them trained fighting men. One of them
sat down with a grunt on the threshold, holding his hand to a bleeding
wound under his armpit. He appeared to be mortally wounded.
* * * * *
Most of the others carried minor wounds, showing that the palace
guards had put up a good battle in the sword-play. Both sides had
refrained from using the neuro-pistols for fear that the beams, which
readily penetrated walls at short range, might injure the princess.
"Let go!" Sira wrenched herself free. "Where is Tolto? Has Tolto
turned traitor? How did you get past Tolto?"
"Do not use that ugly word against me. I implore you!" Joro protested.
"What we are doing is out of loyalty to the monarchy--not treason. The
monarchy is of greater importance than individuals. Consider your duty
to the rule of your fathers! As for Tolto--"
He issued a curt command, and there was the sound of movement.
Presently four men staggered in, one to each leg, each arm, of the
most impressive giant Mars had ever produced--Tolto, to whom there was
no god but the one divinity: and Princess Sira was she. Slow of
perception, mighty of limb, he had come into her service from some
outlying agricultural region of the red planet. His tremendous muscles
were hers to command or destroy, as she wished. He would not have
consented to this invasion of her home, she knew!
And he had not. Joro had been too wise to try. A dose of _marchlor_ in
a glass of wine had done what fifty men could not have accomplished by
main strength. Tolto was in a drugged sleep.
Joro said: "He isn't hurt. We will simply send him back to his valley,
and you, my dear princess, will do your duty to your subjects!"
And there, though he probably did not know it, Prince Joro harked back
to the youth of the human race--the compensatory, atavistic principle
that gods, rulers, kings, must hold themselves in readiness as
sacrifices for the good of their subjects. Joro might have been a
tribal high priest invoking their dread rule in the dawn of time. The
Martians were, for all their scientific advancement, still the
descendants of those prehistoric human savages. Sira knew,
instinctively, that the people who loved her would nevertheless
approve of Joro's judgment.