One after another, came the reports. Each was brief, and although Barry could not understand the Martian words, he knew that he had been right. The news was bad.
Deisanocta's face paled as she listened. Deep in her eyes raged a conflict of emotions, dismay, sorrow, anger. When the last report was heard, she spoke again.
There was no hesitation in the throaty accents. Words followed each other in a torrent that slowly swept away the numbness from the twelve faces before her! When she had finished, her commanders were again eager, their eyes flashing, exulting.
"Deisanocta! Deisanocta!" came their chant, a promise of victory. Again they faded from the screen to carry out her orders.
When the girl turned from the screen, some of the confidence had slipped from her. Her dark head was bowed, and her slim figure had lost some of its proud erectness.
"Grey's men were waiting for the attack," she told Barry. "They wore space suits!
"We waited too long—until he discovered how to protect his men from the mist. Many of my followers have died in battle. We have not won a single objective!"
"I am sincerely sorry," he said slowly. "Sorry that some of your people have died; sorry that you have failed."
Her head snapped up, color flooding the pale cheeks. "We have not lost! The mist that covers Mars will remain. My men have surrounded the enemy. They will harass his every move.
"Let Grey wait for another attack—wait until his oxygen tanks are empty, and his space suits useless! Then the mist will triumph!"