"It shall be so," she promised. "Even now my followers are awakening those of our people who sleep. When all are gathered, we will move into the mine headquarters and the forts. We go slowly, for some of our enemies will be in spaceships, safe from the mist drug. But we will take enough weapons as we go to overcome them!" "I hope," Barry muttered. Deisanocta seemed not to hear him. Her grey eyes were alight, her cheeks flushed with excitement. "The hour is very near," she said. "Mars shall be free! "Come, I must speak with my men." She led the way toward a nearby sand-swell, moving with that marvelous sense of direction that seemed a characteristic of Martians. For generations, they had made their way unerringly over the trackless desert. Now, even in the mist blanket that made objects invisible short feet away, the Princess did not falter. Straight to a cleverly concealed door she walked, through, and into the same type of room Barry Williams had seen before. At her entrance, a Martian lowered his ready heat ray and stood respectfully for her commands. IV Deisanocta walked to the visa-radio, clicked it on. This time she switched in the view screen also. Her white hands spun dials, and she began to speak in Martian, calmly, insistently. The view screen took on depth and color. She adjusted condensing levers and it divided into a dozen smaller squares. Slowly each square filled, until the faces of a dozen Martian men looked out at her--silent, waiting faces, behind each of which the white mist formed a backdrop. Deisanocta's red lips twitched, and her lovely eyes leaped into sudden flame. For a moment, she was silent. Barry could feel tension building up in the room, and see it in the faces of those who looked out of the screen. Then the Princess spoke a single short sentence in her own tongue. Barry Williams did not need an interpretation. The meaning of the command was clear in its ringing syllables; "Strike for Mars!" Twenty-four eyes blazed from the screen--the eyes of twelve field commanders flashing hatred of their oppressors and fierce exultation that the hour of revenge was here! From each throat rose the same word, spoken in awe, reverence, resolution. "Deisanocta!" Thus they saluted their leader, the Mother of Mist, Queen-to-be of Mars! Then the screen was blank. "In short minutes Mars will belong again to its people, Barry Williams," said the girl softly. "We wait here for the report of my commanders." She sank to a sitting position on the red sand, arranging the silver mesh of her dress about her slim body. Barry did likewise, as did the Martian. Minutes dragged by. The radio screen glowed softly, but remained blank. Barry felt the muscles gather in his arms and shoulders. This idle waiting was hard to bear. If he could only be in there fighting--