Chapter 7

“What can I do for you, Officer?”

Connel heaved his bulk out of the jet launch and looked hard at the man standing in front of him. “You Rex Sinclair?”

Sinclair nodded. “That’s right.”

Connel offered his hand. “Major Connel, Solar Guard.”

“Glad to meet you,” replied the planter, gripping the spaceman’s hand. “Have something to cool you off.”

“Thanks,” said Connel. “I can use it. Whew! Must be at least one twenty in the shade.”

Sinclair chuckled. “This way, Major.”

They didn’t say anything more until Connel was resting comfortably in a deep chair, admiring the crystal roof of Sinclair’s house. After a pleasant exchange about crops and problems of farming on Venus, the gruff spaceman squared his back and stared straight at his host. “Mr. James, the Solar Delegate, told me you’ve resisted pressure to join the Venusian Nationalists.”

Sinclair’s expression changed slightly. His eyebrows lifting quizzically. “Why--yes, that’s true.”

“I’d like you to tell me what you know about the organization.”

“I see,” mused Sinclair. “Is that an order?” he added, chuckling.

“That’s a request. I’d like to learn as much about the Nationalists as possible.”

“For what purpose?”

Connel paused and then said casually, “A spot check. The Solar Guard likes to keep its eyes open for trouble.”

“Trouble?” exclaimed Sinclair. “You’re not serious!”

Connel nodded his head. “It’s probably nothing but a club. However, I’d like to get some facts on it.”

“Have you spoken to anyone else?” asked Sinclair.

“I just came from the Sharkey plantation. It’s deserted. Not a soul around. I’ll drop back by there before I return to Venusport.” Connel paused and looked squarely at Sinclair. “Well?”

“I don’t know much about them, Major,” replied the planter. “It always seemed to me nothing more than a group of planters getting together--”

Connel cut him off. “Possibly, but why didn’t you join?”

“Well--”

“Aren’t all your friends in it?”

“Yes, but I just don’t have time. I have a big place, and there’s only me and my foreman and housekeeper now. All the field hands left some time ago.”

“Where’d they go?”

“Venusport, I guess. Can’t get people to farm these days.”

“All right, Mr. Sinclair,” declared Connel, “let’s lay our cards on the table. I know how you must feel talking about your friends, but this is really important. Vitally important to every citizen in the Solar Alliance. Suppose the Nationalists were really a tight organization with a purpose--a purpose of making Venus independent of the Solar Alliance. If they succeeded, if Venus did break away, Mercury might follow, then Mars--the whole system fall apart--break up into independent states. And when that happens, there’s trouble--customs barriers, jealousies, individual armies and navies, and then, ultimately, a space war. It’s more than just friendship, Sinclair, it’s the smallest crack in the solid front of the Solar Alliance, but it’s a crack that can be opened further if we don’t stop it now.”

Sinclair was impressed. “Very well, Major, I’ll tell you everything I know about them. And you’re right, it is hard to talk about your friends. I’ve grown up here in the Venusian jungle. I helped my father clear this land where the house is built. Most of the men in the Nationalists are friends of mine, but”--he sighed--”you’re right, I can’t allow this to happen to the Solar Alliance.”

“Allow what to happen?” asked Connel.

“Just what you said, about Venus becoming an independent state.”

“Tell me all you know,” said Connel.

“The group began to form about three years ago. Al Sharkey came over here one night and said a group of the planters were getting together every so often to exchange information about crops and farming conditions. I went a few times, we all did, on this part of Venus. At first it was fun. We even had picnics and barn dances every three or four weeks. Then one night someone suggested we come dressed in old costumes--the type worn by our forefathers who founded Venus.”

Connel nodded.

“Well, one thing led to another,” continued Sinclair. “They started talking about the great history of our planet, and complaining about paying taxes to support the Solar Alliance. Instead of opening up new colonies like the one out on Pluto, we should develop our own planet. We stopped dancing, the women stopped coming, and then one night we elected a president. Al Sharkey. The first thing he did was order all members to attend meetings in the dress of our forefathers. He gave the organization a name, the Venusian Nationalists. Right after that, I stopped going. I got tired of listening to speeches about the wonderful planet we live on, and how terrible it was to be governed by men on Earth, millions of miles away.”

“Didn’t they consider that they had equal representation in the Solar Alliance Chamber?” asked Connel.

“No, Major. There wasn’t anything you could say to any of them. If you tried to reason with them, they called you a--a--” Sinclair stopped and turned away.

“What did they call you?” demanded Connel, getting madder by the minute.

“Anyone that disagreed with them was called an Earthling.”

“And you disagreed?” asked Connel.

“I quit,” said Sinclair stoutly. “And right after that, I started losing livestock. I found them dead in the pens, poisoned. And some of my crops were burned.”

“Did you protest to the Solar Guard?”

“Of course, but there wasn’t any proof any one of my neighbors had done it. They don’t bother me any more, but they don’t speak to me either. It’s as though I had a horrible disease. There hasn’t been a guest in this house in nearly two years. Three space cadets are the first visitors here since I quit the organization.”

“Space Cadets?” Connel looked at the planter quizzically.

“Yes, nice young chaps. Corbett, Manning, and a big fellow named Astro. They’re out in the jungle now hunting for tyrannosaurus. I met them through a friend in Venusport and invited them to use my house as a base of operations. Do you know them?”

Connel nodded. “Very well. Finest cadet unit at the Academy. How long have they been in the jungle?”

“About four and a half days now.”

“Hope they get themselves a tyranno. But at the same time”--Connel couldn’t help chuckling--”if they do, Space Academy will never hear the end of it!”

Suddenly the hot wilting silence around the house was shattered by a thunderous roar. Connel jumped up, followed Sinclair to the window, and stared out over the clearing. They saw what appeared to be a well-organized squadron of jet boats come in for a landing with near military precision. The doors opened quickly and men poured out onto the dusty field. They were dressed alike in coveralls with short quarter-length space boots and round plastic crash helmets. Each man carried a paralo-ray gun strapped to his hips. The uniforms were a brilliant green, with a white band across the chest. The men formed ranks, waited for a command from a man dressed in darker green, and then marched up toward the house.

“By the craters of Luna!” roared Connel. “Who are they?”

“The Nationalists!” cried Sinclair. “They threatened to burn down my house and destroy my farm if I wrote that letter to the delegate. They’ve come to carry out their threat!”

Connel pulled the paralo-ray gun from his hip and gripped it firmly. “Do you want those men in your house?” he asked Sinclair.

“No--no, of course not!”

“Then you have Solar Guard protection.”

“How--?” Sinclair asked. “There are no Solar Guardsmen around here!”

“What in blazes do you think I am, man!” roared Connel as he lunged for the door and stepped out onto the porch. The men were within a hundred feet of the porch when they saw Connel. The Solar Guard officer spread his legs and stuck out his jaw, his paralo-ray gun leveled. “The first one of you tin soldiers that puts a foot on these steps gets frozen stiffer than a snowball on Pluto! Now stand where you are, state your business, and then blast off!”

“Halt!” The leader of the column of men held up his hand. Connel saw that the plastic helmets were frosted over, except for a clear band across the eye level. All of the faces were hidden. The leader stepped forward, his hand on his paralo-ray gun. “Greetings, Major Connel.”

Connel snorted. “If you’d take off that Halloween mask, I might know who I’m talking to!”

“My name is Hilmarc.”

“Hilmarc?”

“Yes. I am the leader of this detachment.”

“Leader, huh?” grunted Connel. “Leader of what? A bunch of little tin soldiers?”

“You shall see, Major.” Hilmarc’s voice was low and threatening.

“I’m going to count to five,” announced Connel grimly, lifting his paralo-ray gun, “and if you and your playmates aren’t back in your ships, I start blasting.”

“That would be unwise,” replied Hilmarc. “Your one gun against all of ours.”

Connel grinned. “I know. It’s going to be a whale of a fight, isn’t it?” Then, without pause, he shouted, “One--two--three--four--five!“

He opened fire, squeezing the trigger rapidly. The first row of green-clad men were immediately frozen. Dropping to one knee, the spaceman again opened fire, and men in the second row stiffened as they tried to return the fire.

“Fire! Cut him down!” roared Hilmarc frantically.

The men broke ranks and the area in front of Sinclair’s house crackled with paralo-ray gunfire. Darting behind a chair, Connel dropped to the floor, his gun growing hot under the continuous discharge of paralyzing energy. In a matter of moments the Solar Guard officer had frozen nearly half of the attacking troop, their bodies scattered in various positions. Suddenly his gun spit fire and began to smoke. The energy charge was exhausted. Connel jumped to his feet and snapped to attention. He knew from experience that if being hit was inevitable, the best way to receive the charge was by standing at attention, taking the strain off the heart. He faced the clearing and a dozen shots of paralyzing energy hit him simultaneously. He became rigid and the short furious battle was over.