“No, sir,” Jupiter said politely. “From what we have seen of your country so far it is very attractive.”

“Most of your countrymen,” Duke Stefan said, “find us hopelessly impractical and behind the times. I only hope our slow pace will not bore you. However, you must excuse me now. I have to attend the council meeting.”

He turned on his heel and strode off.

Bob gave a little sigh of relief. “He didn’t like us, that’s for certain,” he said in a low voice.

“Because you are my friends,” Djaro said. “And he does not want me to have friends. He does not want me to speak up and oppose him, as I have been doing lately — especially since visiting America. But let’s forget him. Look, here is a picture of Prince Paul himself.”

He led them to a life-size painting of a man wearing a brilliant red uniform with gold buttons, a sword held in one hand so the point touched the floor. He had a noble face and an eagle gaze. His other hand was outstretched, and on it sat a spider. The boys examined it closely. It was really very handsome, with a velvety black body specked with gold.

“My ancestor,” Djaro said proudly. “Prince Paul the Conqueror. And the spider that saved his life.”

As the boys studied the picture, they could hear voices behind them in many languages, including English. The room was quite crowded with people, most of them obviously tourists. They carried cameras or guidebooks, or both. Two royal guards were stationed in the room, standing at attention, each of them holding a spear.

One American couple, a rather stout man and his wife, took up positions just behind the four.

“Ugh!” they heard the woman say. “Look at that nasty old spider!”

“Sssh!” the man cautioned. “Don’t let these people hear you say that. That’s their good-luck mascot. Besides, spiders are much nicer than they’re given credit for. It’s just a case of getting a bad name.”