"Get the idea? Scar Balta is one of the electors. If he married Sira he'd have the backing of the monarchists, and of course he's done a lot for the bosses. They'd elect him to head off the monarchists, anyway. Then heigh-ho for a war with the Earth, to kill off a lot of the kickers--and soft pickins in a lot of ways. Neat, huh?" "Very neat!" Sime assented drily. "But we won't live to see it. Anyway, I won't. They're going to bump me off in the morning." "As they have a lot of our men," Murray agreed. "But they won't do it in the morning. Or for several days. Look here!" He held up his hand. On the back of it was what appeared to be a boil. "But it isn't a boil," Murray explained. "That was done by a stream of water, fine as a needle, under a thousand pounds pressure. They held it there for a minute at a time--I don't know how many times, because I keeled over. Any time I was willing to give them the information they wanted they'd turn it off. Wasn't important info, either. But what is it to them, how much they make me suffer for a trifle?" Sime couldn't help the lump that rose in his throat. Men like Murray certainly justified the world's faith in the service. "Listen, old man," Sime said in a low voice, "out in the corridor--" But Murray squeezed his hand warningly, pulled him to the floor. "Might as well get some sleep," the old man said in ordinary tones. "Plenty cool here. Let's lie together." He kept his hold on Sime's wrist, and, by alternately squeezing and releasing, began to talk in a silent telegraphic code. "Don't say anything of importance," he spelled out. "They have mikes in here to pick up all we say. Probably infra-red telenses too, so they can see what we do." So Sime told him, as they huddled together in simulated sleep, about the walled passages, and they speculated on the possibility of felling the guards and breaking their way to freedom through some underground cavern. But at last they slept soundly to await the tortures of the next morning. CHAPTER III _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."