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 merclite 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 canal 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 rushing
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 persis