It was a six-sided fort, each wall 133 yards long - making a perimeter of 800 yards. Each wall was 9 and 1/2 feet high, about 15 feet wide at the top, where the sentries stood, and much thicker at the bottom. Around the fort was a ditch 8 and 1/2 feet deep, 20 feet wide where we finished it, 15 feet wide where we hadn't. We were less than 100 yards from the north shore of the Mare Frigoris, where it narrowed, so that the southern shore, and the port of Matamoonos, was only another 200 yards across.

"Assemble the men," Major Jacob Brown quietly told Captain Francis Lee. Orders bellered down the chain of command, each lower link a little louder.

When the men of the Seventy Infantry had arrayed themselves in our neat Euclidian rows (the rows that took the mob out of the mass), minus sentries and the two dozen men of the 2nd Artillery, Com- pany E, who was lovingly scrubbing and greasing their iron Buddha- babies, we made more than 450 voters. Sarah, Martha, and all the other wives along with Old Sock and the Prince-President, Franklin Stove, - all these non-voting non-combatants stood quietly beside the red-suited Musics, who held their horns and cymbals and such at Present Arms; their awful racket of martial music could repel a Lunar bayonet charge better than a volley from our old muskets, which is why they earned 8 dollars a month, while we privates earned 7.

Martha Mule was braying sort of lonesome and mournful. She didn't like those banging bells better than the rest of us brutes. She didn't like being cooped up in her own little fort, either. It was just a ditch in the yard; it was in fact the first four feet of Captain Edgar Hawkin's attempted well. He'd figured he could tap the fresh water of the Cold Sea only twelve feet down; and in \plaina war, a fort well is worth a few cannon. But Captain Mansfield, the engineer, took his men away to dig the giant Bomb-Proof, which was more important. During the night, lacking a corral, Martha Mule had moseyed around. The yard's vegetation lacking, she pulled down Martha Mile's straw hat from way up high on the laundry pole. It was seven feet; she had to stand on her hind legs and maybe even climb a little. Martha Mule was part monkey, we figured. She ate the hat, paper flowers and all. Then she moseyed around some more, sniffed around, and poked her sniffer into the Officer's Tent, where, on the big table set inside, there were some maps and charts of fine cotton paper. Martha chewed a crescent chaw off of the great Lunar map; didn't like that, so she settled down to Captain Mansfield's fine fort specifications. So, with Major Brown and Martha Miles looking on, Old Sock dragged the mule into the unfinished well ditch and that corralled her fine. Sometimes a mule's worth more than a well anyway.

The tips of her long ears showed, turning slowly this way and that, harking on them bells. She used to be called Princess Milig, named by P. P. F. S., but after a few hours of dragging our dirt around, we all took a vote and renamed her in honor of the captain's wife. That was to try to pacify her righteous braying a bit by a measure of earthy humility. But it didn't work. The name, however, stuck.

All of us stood waiting, eyes on our commander, whilst the bells of Plato's Crater rang on, banging and clanging on and on.

Major Brown stood on the slope between the Number 3 and Number 4 gun platform, beside the flagpole, the seven captains lined behind him. The flag cut the Lunar sky, whip-crackling its lightning stripes.

"Men," he began solemnly, "it is my unhappy duty to tell you that American blood has been shed on American soil. One week ago, on the 24th of April, the Lunar hussars who aimed to cut off communications between this fort and Fort Polk ambushed and slaughtered sixteen dragoons patrolling Texas soil for the United States Army. We believe the remaining forty-seven to be held prisoner. Not only for them, but for the widows and orphans of Captain Seth Thornton and his men, this war has already begun. My friends, I fear the war has begun for us, too. But we will stand firm! For we defend much more than a fort -

"On this side of the Mare Frigoris, lives prosperity and democracy. On that side, poverty and despotism. We Cotton Balers defend the frontier of justice. As thirty years ago we whipped the Martians invaders at New Orleans, so today we will whip these Lunar invaders, here in Texas. As yesterday we cried, "Fifty-four forty or fight!" to protect our Oregon Territory on Venus, today we cry, "The Moon or Bust! All the Moon!" to protect Texas, right here. So shall we sail our steam-balloons, inward and outward across the Spheres, forging by shot and shell , sword and electric bayonet, an empire dedicated to liberty.

"And, if after the Moon, we steam over the wilderness of the Inner Spheres, and take all Venus, and all Mercury, and then - who knows? - turn our eyes on the benighted Outer Spheres, who would dare raise their voice against us? We soldiers of democracy don't bring fire and famine. We bring freedom and prosperity! We bring our Constitution, and the popular vote! There is infinite space on our flag for more brethren of stars. The Peninsula of Texas stands or falls with this fort. Starting right here, we will take - if need be - all the Moon.

"For these reasons, our president has added another warning against the Martian Empires to the Monroe Doctrine:the United States alone shall decide the destiny of the Inner Spheres. The million voices of Democracy out-shout any lisping protest from a dozen petty dictators. From planet to planet, the Inner Spheres must fulfill the shining role inscribed to it by Destiny! It is an old dream, one shared by our fellow former colonies. The children of George Washington and the children of Simcentsn Bolivar belong to but one family, the family of freedom; that family can be and will be united under only one flag. And that flag, Cotton Balers! - is our flag."

"Three cheers for Old Glory!" bellered Captain Edgar Hawkins, saluting the flag. "Hip hip - " he began...

"Hurrah!" we roared. Thrice our cry shouted down them bells of Plato's Crater.

But still, they persisted to toll on and on and on...

"Yes, by gum," cried Kelly, lifting his shako on the point of his saber. "We will emancipate the Inner Spheres!" I could have kicked him.

" - I mean, liberate. Liberate, - not emancipate," he added with a half-smile.

Major Brown looked uncomfortable. A slight atmosphere of embarrassment wafted among the ladies. The men shifted slightly, confused.

Major Brown pointed a finger at the Musics, who began a jolly jumping and thumping "Jimmy Crack Corn". But to me, this was as poor a choice of song as my brother's choice of word - emancipate - and, as we all sung out, "Jimmy crack corn, and I don't care, my master's gone away...", the tune did not abolish the nasty, nasty banging of bells in my brain.

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