"You don't seem at all envious of Mr. Powart," commented Mona, watching the athlete curiously. He looked around as though surprised, and protested: "On the contrary, I am really proud of his success. You see, it's this way, Mona: If he fails, then I fail too!" And before she could ask what he meant he raised his voice enough for the dictator to hear: "Congratulations, Powart! Everything coming along all right?" Powart gave Fort one of his piercing looks, but showed no sign of irritation as he replied: "All reports satisfactory. We shall have our little fireworks promptly on the second." Then to Mona: "Sorry I cannot invite you aboard my ship; but I shall be so occupied with the ceremonial end of this, you know, that--" "Of course," instantly. "I would really be in the way; and I shouldn't care to be that, to-day of all days." And Van Emmon, through Powart's eyes, judged that the dictator stood mountain-high in her respect at that instant. Fort listened with the utmost indifference, seeming to take a boy's rapt interest in the spectacle below him rather than in the affair at his elbow. He glanced at his watch and remarked: "Less than half an hour now. I can hardly wait!" Mona eyed him speculatively. "What did you mean, just now, about your success depending upon Mr. Powart's?" "Just that," he returned lightly. "Why, if he fails, my little scheme is a miserable fiasco! I shan't be able to marry you at all; that is, unless you grant an extension!" Mona did not respond to his levity. "I wish you'd be serious!" she rebuked him. "Just think what this affair means!" He pretended to be thoughtful. "Oh, to Alma, you mean! Yes, indeed; the folks will be badly upset, I imagine, if the projectile actually reaches their roof." "Why, do you think it may not?" surprised. "It's barely possible. The whole thing has been very scientifically calculated, of course; but the slightest flaw in the mathematics could cause a miss. Yes, the projectile may never reach its mark; it's something to be considered." "In which case," returned Mona, evidently convinced that he was teasing, "in which case, your own scheme falls through!" "Oh, no," with the utmost calm. "My scheme depends upon the cannon, not upon the projectile." Mona nearly lost her temper. "I wish you wouldn't talk in riddles!" But Fort was plainly unwilling to say anything further just then; he changed the subject, directing Mona's glasses toward a point far to the rear, where the blue wall of the contact loomed, some twenty miles away. The spot had been chosen, of course, because there were fewer inhabitants in that locality than any other; the discharge of the gun would mean an immense volume of smoke and gas, likely to prove disagreeable for days. Nobody cared to live near the contact, because of its queer, sunless conditions.