Hennings got his cigar going. He listened to confirmation of a previous report that a massive exchange of "sick and wounded" prisoners had been accomplished, and learned that the Ursans now suspected that they had accepted unknowingly about as many secret agents as they had sent the Polluxians. "Oh, well!" he sighed. "As long as the amenities were preserved! We must be as friendly as possible about that sort of thing, or run the risk of antagonizing them." Seeing that the commodore was tense with impatience, the marshal rose to his feet. An aide deftly received the cigar for disposal, and the party drifted expectantly toward the balcony doors. From among that part of the staff which would remain to man headquarters, an officer was dispatched to alert the Polluxian honor guard. * * * * * _One more touch before the die is cast_, thought the marshal, as two young officers opened the balcony doors to admit the blare of trumpets. Cheers rolled successively across the square, rising like distant waves from somewhere beneath the gigantic banner that draped the capitol opposite with fiery letters spelling out "PEACE CONFERENCE." With a dramatic gesture, Hennings held up the sheaf of reports they had just reviewed. Smiles disappeared in response to his own serious mien. "So much for the hostilities!" he snapped. He tossed the reports to the officer who would remain in charge. "_Now for the actual war!_" Pivoting on his heel, he led them smartly out to the ornate balcony stairway that curved down into the sea of cheering Polluxians. THE END * * * * * End of Project Gutenberg's The Outbreak of Peace, by Horace Brown Fyfe