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. Jaro stopped short. "What do you mean? What's coming off here?"