It was this game that Dejah Thoris and John Carter were playing when Tara of Helium bid them good night, retiring to her own quarters and her sleeping silks and furs.  “Until morning, my beloved,” she called back to them as she passed from the apartment, nor little did she guess, nor her parents, that this might indeed be the last time that they would ever set eyes upon her.

The morning broke dull and gray.  Ominous clouds billowed restlessly and low.  Beneath them torn fragments scudded toward the northwest.  From her window Tara of Helium looked out upon this unusual scene.  Dense clouds seldom overcast the Barsoomian sky.  At this hour of the day it was her custom to ride one of those small thoats that are the saddle animals of the red Martians, but the sight of the billowing clouds lured her to a new adventure.  Uthia still slept and the girl did not disturb her.  Instead, she dressed quietly and went to the hangar upon the roof of the palace directly above her quarters where her own swift flier was housed.  She had never driven through the clouds.  It was an adventure that always she had longed to experience.  The wind was strong and it was with difficulty that she maneuvered the craft from the hangar without accident, but once away it raced swiftly out above the twin cities.  The buffeting winds caught and tossed it, and the girl laughed aloud in sheer joy of the resultant thrills.  She handled the little ship like a veteran, though few veterans would have faced the menace of such a storm in so light a craft.  Swiftly she rose toward the clouds, racing with the scudding streamers of the storm-swept fragments, and a moment later she was swallowed by the dense masses billowing above.  Here was a new world, a world of chaos unpeopled except for herself; but it was a cold, damp, lonely world and she found it depressing after the novelty of it had been dissipated, by an overpowering sense of the magnitude of the forces surging about her.  Suddenly she felt very lonely and very cold and very little.  Hurriedly, therefore, she rose until presently her craft broke through into the glorious sunlight that transformed the upper surface of the somber element into rolling masses of burnished silver.  Here it was still cold, but without the dampness of the clouds, and in the eye of the brilliant sun her spirits rose with the mounting needle of her altimeter.  Gazing at the clouds, now far beneath, the girl experienced the sensation of hanging stationary in mid-heaven; but the whirring of her propellor, the wind beating upon her, the high figures that rose and fell beneath the glass of her speedometer, these told her that her speed was terrific.  It was then that she determined to turn back.