"Sure we are. One bomb and they blow this mudhole out of the swamp. Same for Buchanan. Same for CuiCui Town. What good does that do them?"

"I don't know, but I don't relish being A-bombed."

"You won't be! Use your head. They knock out a few shopkeepers and a lot of politicians-and they don't touch the back country. Venus Republic is as strong as ever-because those three spots are the only targets fit to bomb on this whole fogbound world. Then what happens?"

"It's your story; you tell me."

"A dose of reprisal, that's what-with all those bombs Commodore Higgins snagged out of Circum-Terra. We've got some of their fastest ships and we'd have the juiciest targets in history to shoot at. Everything from Detroit to Bolivarsteel mills, power plants, factories. They won't risk pulling our nose when they know we're all set to kick them in the belly. Let's be logical!" The sergeant set down his cup and looked around triumphantly.

A quiet man at the end of the counter had been listening. Now he said softly, "Yes-but how do you know that the strong men in the Federation will use logic?"

The sergeant looked surprised. "Huh? Oh, come off it! The war's over, I tell you. We ought to go home. I've got forty acres of the best rice paddies on the planet; somebody's got to get the crop in. Instead I'm sitting around here, playing space raid drill. The government ought to do something."

THE GOVERNMENT did do something; the draft act was passed the next day. Don heard about it at noon; as soon as the lunch hour rush was over he dried his hands and went uptown to the recruiting station. There was a queue in front of it; he joined its tail and waited.

Over an hour later he found himself facing a harried-looking warrant officer seated at a table. He shoved a form at Don. "Print your name. Sign at the bottom and thumb it. Then hold up your right hand."

"Just a minute," Don answered. "I want to enlist in the High Guard. This forms reads for the Ground Forces."

The officer swore mildly. "Everybody wants the High Guard. Listen, son, the quota for the High Guard was filled at nine o'clock this morning-now I'm not even accepting them for the waiting list."

"But I don't want the Ground Forces. I'm-I'm a spaceman."

The man swore again, not so mildly. "You don't look it. You last-minute patriots make me sick-trying to join the sky boys so you won't have to soldier in the mud. Go on home; when we want you we'll send for youand it won't be for the High Guard. You'll be a duckfoot and like it."

"But..."

"Get out, I said."

Don got. When he reached the restaurant Old Charlie looked at the clock then at him. "You soldier boy now?"

"They wouldn't have me."

"Good thing. Get me up some cups."

He had time to think about it while bending over suds. Although not inclined to grieve over spilt milk Don could see now that Sergeant McMasters' advice had been shrewd; he had missed what was probably his only chance (slim as it might have been) to get to Mars. It seemed a vacuum-tight certainty that he would spend the war (months? years?) as a duckfoot in the Ground Forces ~ getting no nearer to Mars than opposition distance-say sixty, seventy million miles. Hardly shouting distance.

He thought about the possibility of claiming exemption on the basis of Terran citizenship-but discarded it at once. He had already claimed the right to come here as a citizen of Venus; blowing hot and cold from the same mouth did not suit him. His sympathies lay with Venus anyhow, no matter what the lawyers eventually decided about his nationality.

More than that, even if he could stomach making such a claim, he could not see himself behind wire in an enemy alien camp. There was such a camp, he knew, over on East Spit. Sit out the war there and let Isobel bring him packages on Sunday afternoons?

Don't kid yourself, Don, my boy-Isobel was fiercely patriotic; she'd drop you like a mud louse.

"What can't be cured must be endured"-Confucius or somebody. He was in it and that was that-he didn't feel too upset about it; the Federation didn't have any business throwing its weight around on Venus anyhow. Whose planet was it?

He was most anxious to get in touch with his parents and to let them know he had Dr. Jefferson's ring, even if he couldn't deliver it right away. He would have to get up to the I. T. & T. office and check-there might be communication today. Charlie ought to have a phone in this dump.

He remembered that he had one possible resource that he had not exploited-"Sir Isaac." He had sincerely intended to get in touch with his dragon friend as soon as he landed, but it had not proved to be easy: "Sir Isaac" had not landed at New London, nor had he been able to find out from the local office where he had landed. Probably at CuiCui Town or at Buchanan-or, possibly, since "Sir Isaac" was a V.I.P., the Middle Guard might have accommodated him with a special landing. He might be anywhere on a planet with more land surface than Earth.

Of course, such an important personage could be traced down-but the first step would be to consult the Office of Aborigine Affairs over on Governor's Island. That meant a two-hour trip, what with a gondola ride both ways and the red tape he was sure to run into. He told himself that he just hadn't had time.

But now he must take time. "Sir Isaac" might be able to get him assigned, or transferred, to the High Guard, quotas or no. The government was extremely anxious to keep the dragons happy and friendly to the new regime. Mankind remained on Venus at the sufferance of the dragons; the politicians knew that.

He felt a little bit sheepish about resorting to political influence-but there were times when nothing else would work.

"Charlie."

"Huh?"

"Go easy on the spoons; I've got to go uptown again."

Charlie grunted grumpily; Don hung up his apron and left. Isobel was not on the desk at 1. T. & T.; Don sent in his name via the clerk on duty and got in to see her father. Mr. Costello looked up as he came in and said, "I'm glad you came in, Mr. Harvey. I wanted to see you."

"My message got through?"

"No, I wanted to give you back your note."

"Huh? What's the matter?"

"I haven't been able to send your message and I don't know when I shall be able to send it. If it turns out later that it can be sent, I'll accept your note-or cash, if you have it."

Don had an unpleasant feeling that he was being given a polite brush-off. "Just a moment, sir. I understood that today was the earliest that communication could be expected. Won't conditions be better tomorrow-and still better the next day?"

"Yes, theoretically. But conditions were satisfactory today. There is no communication with Mars."

"But tomorrow?"

"I haven't made myself clear. We tried to signal Mars; we got no answer. So we used the radar check. The bounce came back right on schedule-two thousand two hundred and thirty-eight seconds, no chance of a ghost blip. So we know that the channel was satisfactory and that. our signal was getting through. But Schiaparelli Station fails to answer -no communication."

"Out of order, maybe?"

"Most unlikely. It's a dual station. They depend on it for astrogation, you know. No, I'm afraid the answer is obvious."

"Yes?"

"The Federation forces have taken the station over for their own uses. We won't be able to communicate with Mars until they let us."

Don left the manager's office looking as glum as he felt. He ran into Isobel just coming into the building. "Don!"

"Oh-hi, Grandma."

She was excited and failed to notice his mood. "Don-I'm just back from Governor's Island. You know what? They're going to form a women's corps!"