"I trust," he said, "that you are wholeheartedly working in the interests of peace among the planets?"
"So I have said," she replied simply. "So I shall always say."
Incredible! Did she take him for an imbecile? Or—or—?
"Thank you for this kind assurance," he said, bowing again and retiring.
When he had cornered Dr. Carewe he said agitatedly: "I don't get it at all. I simply don't understand. Is she lying into my teeth? The least she could have done would have been to turn aside the questions. I never dreamed I'd get an answer at a time like this!"
"Neither did I," she said slowly. "Something is rotten in the Matriarchy, and it isn't the customary scent of senile decay peculiar to dictatorships. The biology of the Martians demands a dictatorship, what with their weird reproductive methods. Unless there were a strong and centralized authority they'd slump back into barbarism after a few thousand years of unrestricted matings. Here's one dictator who's loved by the dictatees."
She was silent a moment, then said: "To change the subject, I have the place and time for tomorrow's party. The lady is—I knew you couldn't tell one from another—director of a munitions and fabrication syndicate."
"Thanks," he said vaguely, taking the memo. "That's the perfect spot of irony to top off the evening—in fact this whole damned mission that failed."
He went to the party with Dr. Carewe, both thoroughly wrapped up in fur and wool against the Martian ten-below temperature. And they carried thermos flasks full of hot coffee for an occasional warming nip in a dark corner. Anything but that would be unmannerly.