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.

[Illustration]

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.

[Illustration]

One of the green-clad men released Hilmarc from the effects of Connel's

ninth shot and he stepped forward to stare straight into Connel's eyes.

"I know you can hear me, Major. I want to compliment you on your

shooting. But your brave resistance now is as futile as the resistance

of the entire Solar Guard in the near future." Hilmarc smiled

arrogantly and stepped back. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I will attend to

the business I came here for--to take care of a weakling and an

informer!" He turned and shouted to his men. "You have your orders! Get

Sinclair and then burn everything in sight."

* * * * *

"Astro, Tom," gasped Roger. "I--I can't go on."

The blond-haired cadet fell headlong to the ground, almost burying

himself in the mud. Tom and Astro turned without a word, and gripping

Roger under each arm, helped him to his feet. Behind them, the thunder

of the stalking tyrannosaurus came closer, and they forced themselves to

greater effort. For two days they had been running before the monster.

It was a wild flight through a wild jungle that offered them little

protection. And while their fears were centered on the brute behind

them, their sleepy, weary eyes sought out other dangers that lay ahead.

More than once they stopped to blast a hungry, frightened beast that

barred their path, leaving it for the tyrannosaurus and giving

themselves a momentary respite in their flight.

Astro led the way, tirelessly slashing at the vines and creepers with

his jungle knife, opening the path for Roger and Tom. The Venusian cadet

was sure that they were near the clearing around the Sinclair

plantation. Since early morning he had seen the trail markers they had

left when they started into the jungle. The cadets knew that if they

didn't reach the clearing soon they would have to stand and fight the

terrible thing that trailed them. During the first wild night, they had

stumbled into a sinkhole, and as Tom wallowed helplessly in the

clinging, suffocating mud, Astro and Roger stood and fought the giant

beast. The shock rifles cracked against the armorlike hide of the

monster, momentarily stunning him, but in the darkness and rain, they

were unable to get a clear head shot. When Tom finally pulled himself

out of the mudhole, they struggled onward through the jungle, with only

one shot left in each blaster.

"How much farther, Astro?" asked Tom, his voice weak with fatigue. "I'm

starting to fold too."

"Not too far now, Tom," the big cadet assured him. "We should be hitting

the clearing soon now." He turned and looked back. "If we could only get

a clear shot at that brute's head!"

"Hang on, Roger," said Tom. "Just a little more now."

Roger didn't answer, merely bobbing his head in acknowledgment.

Behind them, the crashing thunderous steps seemed to be getting closer

and Astro drove himself harder, slashing at the vines and tangled

underbrush, sometimes just bursting through by sheer driving strength.

But the heavy-footed creature still stalked them ponderously.

Suddenly Astro stopped and sniffed the air. "Smoke!" he cried. "We're

almost there!"

Tom and Roger smiled wanly and they pushed on. A moment later the giant

cadet pointed through the underbrush. "There! I see the clearing!

And--by the stars--there's a fire! The house is burning!"

Forgetting the danger behind them, the three boys raced toward the

clearing. Just before they emerged from the jungle, they stopped and

stood openmouthed with astonishment, staring at the scene before them.

"By the craters of Luna!" gasped Astro. "Look!"

The outbuildings of the plantation were burning furiously, sending up

thick columns of smoke. The wind blew the dense fumes toward them and

they began to cough and gag. Through the smoke they saw a strange array

of jet craft in the clearing. Then suddenly their attention was jerked

back to another danger. The tyrannosaurus was nearly upon them.

"Run!" roared Astro. He broke for the clearing, followed by Roger and

Tom. Once in the open, the boys ran several hundred yards to the nearest

jet craft, and safely in the hatch, turned to see the monster come to

the edge of the clearing and stop. They saw the brute clearly for the

first time.

It stood up on its hind legs, standing almost a hundred feet high. It

moved its flat, triangular-shaped head in a slow arc, peering out over

the clearing. The smoke billowed around it. It snorted several times in

fear and anger. Astro looked at it, wide-eyed, and finally spoke in awed

tones. "By the rings of Saturn, it is!"

"Is what?" asked Tom.

"The same tyranno I blasted when I was a kid, the one that trapped me in

the cave!"

"Impossible!" snorted Roger. "How can you tell?"

"There on the head, the scars--and that eye. That's the mark of a

blaster!"

"Well, I'll be a rocket-headed Earthworm!" said Tom.

The smoke thickened at the moment, and when it cleared again, the great

beast was gone. "I guess the smoke chased him away," said Astro.

"Smoke!" He whirled around. With the threat of the tyrannosaurus gone,

they could face the strange happenings around the clearing.

"Come on," said Tom. He started for the burning buildings in back of the

house.

Just at that moment a group of the green-clad men came around the side

of the house. Astro grabbed Tom by the arm and pulled him back.

"What's going on here? All these ships, buildings burning, and those men

dressed in green. What is it?"

The three boys huddled behind the jet and studied the scene.

"I don't get it," said Tom. "Who are those men? They almost look as if

they're soldiers of some kind, but I don't recognize the uniform."

"Maybe it's the fire department," suggested Roger.

"Wait a minute!" roared Tom suddenly. "There on the porch! Major

Connel!"

"Omigosh!" said Astro. "It is, but what's the matter with him? Why is he

standing there like that?"

"He's been paralo-rayed!" exclaimed Roger. "See how still he is!

Whatever these jokers in uniforms are, they're not friendly!" He raised

his shock rifle. "This last shot in my blaster should--"

"Wait a minute, Roger," said Tom, "don't go off half-cocked. We can't do

much with just three shots. We'd better take over one of these ships.

There must be guns aboard."

"Yeah," said Astro. "How about that big one over there?" He pointed to

the largest of the assembled crafts.

"O.K.," said Tom. "Sneak around this side and make a dash for it."

Gripping their rifles, they slipped around the stern of the small ship,

and keeping a wary eye on the milling men around the front of the

building, they dashed toward the bigger ship.

On the porch of the main house, Major Connel, every muscle in his body

paralyzed, saw the three cadets dart across the field and his heart

skipped a beat. Immediately before him, two of the green-clad men were

holding Sinclair while Hilmarc addressed him arrogantly.

"This is just the beginning, Sinclair. Don't try to cross us again.

Neither you nor anyone else can stop us!" He whirled around and faced

Connel. "And as for you and your Solar Guard, Major Connel, you can

tell them--"

Hilmarc's tirade was suddenly interrupted by a shrill whistle and the

glare of a red flare overhead. There was a chorus of shouts as the men

ducked for cover.

A voice, Connel recognized as Tom's, boomed out over the loud-speaker of

the large jet ship near the edge of the clearing. "Now hear this! You

are covered by an atomic mortar. Drop your guns and raise your hands!"

The men stared at the ship, confused, but Hilmarc issued a curt command.

"Return to the ships!"

"But--but he'll blast us," whined one of the men. "He'll kill us all."

"You fool!" roared Hilmarc. "It must be a friend of Connel's or

Sinclair's. He won't dare fire an atomic shell near this house, for fear

of killing his friends! Now get aboard your ships and blast off!"

From their ship, Tom, Roger, and Astro saw the men scatter across the

field, and realizing their bluff had failed, they opened fire with the

paralo-ray guns. But their range was too far. In a few moments the

clearing around the Sinclair home was alive with the coughing roar of

the jets blasting off.

As soon as they were alone, Sinclair snatched up an abandoned ray gun

and released the major from the charge. Connel immediately jumped for

another gun. But then, as the jets started to take off, he saw that it

would be useless to pursue the invaders. Thankful that the cadets had

arrived in time, he trotted across the clearing to meet them as they

climbed wearily from the remaining jet ship.

"By the craters of Luna," he roared good-naturedly, "you three

space-brained idiots had me scared! I thought you would really let go

with that mortar!"

Tom and Roger grinned, relieved to find the spaceman unhurt, while

Astro looked off at the disappearing fleet of ships.

"What's happened, sir?" asked Tom. "What's it all about?"

"Haven't time to explain now," said Connel. "I just want you three to

know you got back here in time to save the rest of this man's property."

He turned toward Sinclair, who was just approaching. "Did you recognize

any of them?" he asked the planter.

Sinclair shook his head. "I thought I did--by their voices, I mean. But

I couldn't see anyone through that frosted headgear they were wearing."

"Well, they left a ship. We'll find out who that belongs to," said

Connel. "All right, Corbett, Manning, Astro. Stand by to blast off!"

"Blast off?" exclaimed Roger. "But we're on leave, sir!"

[Illustration]

"Not any more, you're not!" snapped Connel. "You're recalled as of now!

Get this ship ready to blast off for Venusport in five minutes!"