Part 16 (1/2)

”The great Pantheus has so decreed it,” the speaker was shouting in a cracked voice that at times dribbled into a whine. ”We must shake off forever this menace from the green planet--this planet dominated by wicked women.

”Oh, my friends, last night they came to me in dreams, these pale women of the green star. They tempted me and they mocked me. They laid their cold hands on my throbbing brow, and their cold hands burned me!

”Oh great Pantheus! How I have suffered! The creatress who in her malice created this wicked world beyond the gulf--”

The Martians were entertained by the quavering denunciation. Some grinned broadly at one another; others placed their thumbs in their ears and wiggled their fingers. But the old man continued. Finally, two of the foremost spectators, sensing the tiny body crowded between them, stepped aside.

”Don't miss this, my little man. Listen, and maybe you will laugh yourself a little bigger.” He gave Sira a gentle shove, so that she almost stumbled over the block on which the speaker was standing.

And that old man suddenly stopped talking, so that his toothless mouth sucked in, then stood agape. The rheumy eyes rolled, and a wisp of dirty gray hair strayed across his gnarled face. He lifted a shaking hand, pointed a knotty finger.

”There she is!” he croaked. ”There she is! I claim--”

”There she is!” guffawed a tipsy merc.l.i.te chewer. ”The creatress, come to punish you! Cut off his nose, O creatress, and stuff it into his mouth!”

There were shouts of laughter, a surge to see better.

”No! No! I, Deacon Homms, claim the reward!” the old man screamed.

”She is the princess; I know her. She came out of the ca.n.a.l to tempt me! She is the Princess Sira. Now shall I at last enter the Palace of Joys! I claim the 100,000 dollars!”

But he still had to catch Sira. The crowd, suddenly sensing that this old fanatic might be telling the truth, rushed in savagely, each eager to seize the prize, or at least to establish some claim to a share of the award. Men and women went down, to be trampled mercilessly.

Inevitably they got in one another's way, and soon swords were rising redly, falling again.

”Guards! Guards! A riot!” Some were fleeing the scene; others rus.h.i.+ng in, grateful for the opportunity to expend excess pugnacity. A fresh platoon of soldiers tumbled out of a kiosk leading to an underground barracks like ants out of a disturbed nest. They deployed, holding their neuro-pistols before them, focalizers set for maximum dispersion, therefore non-fatal--merely of paralyzing intensity. Some of the rioters now turned to run, but others persisted, willing to be rendered unconscious, just so it would be near the valuable princess.

A few moments later the captain of the guard surveyed the ma.s.s of paralysed bodies and the sword-slashed corpses, all intermingled.

”What's this all about?” he demanded of a scarred, evil-looking fellow who was the first to rise to his elbow.

”The Princess Sira! I claim the reward. In there! She stood right there!”

”Get out, you galoon!” the captain growled, knocking the fellow unconscious with the heavy barrel of his neuro. ”Sort 'em out there.

Moggins, Schkamitch. On the double. You will share, according to rank.”

But eagerly as they searched, they did not find Sira. Creeping between the legs of the maddened reward seekers, she had fought clear, had gained the shelter of a tall, red conical tree whose closely laced branches pressed her to the ground, clinging to the greasy trunk.

She realized that her sanctuary was none too secure. There would surely be a methodical search after the first excitement, and she would be discovered. She had lost her sun-helmet, but nevertheless she must risk making a break. A large proportion of the people were wearing such helmets. Perhaps she could s.n.a.t.c.h one.

But before such an opportunity came, she saw a chance to dash to a nearby clump of shrubbery. On the other side was a long hedge, leading to an alley back of a group of warehouses. If she could gain this alley, she felt sure she would be safe for the time being.

All over the park, which was thirty or forty acres in extent, there were minor riots, as some unfortunate was mistaken for the princess and blindly struggled for.

Sira lost no time. She scuttered along the hedge like a frightened kangrat. But as she crossed a small open s.p.a.ce, a stentorian voice shouted:

”There she is! That's her! The princess!”