When he got back to the restaurant he found, in addition to the inevitable stack of dishes, a heated discussion abou the draft bill pending in the Estates General. He pricked up his ears; if conscription came, he was sure fodder for it and he wanted to beat them to it by enlisting in the High Guard. McMasters' advice about the "only way to get to Mars" stuck in his mind.
Most of the opinions seemed to favor a draft, nor could Don argue against it; it seemed reasonable to him even though he would be caught in it. One quiet little man heard the others out, then cleared his throat. "There will be a draft," he announced.
The last speaker, a co-pilot still wearing the triple globe on his collar, answered, "Huh? What do you know about it, Shorty?"
"Quite a bit. Let me introduce myself-Senator Ollendorf of CuiCui Province. In the first place we don't need a draft; the nature of our dispute with the Federation is not such as to employ a large army. Secondly, our people are not of the temperament to put up with it. By the drastic process of selective immigration we have here on Venus a nation of hardy individualists almost anarchists. They don't take to forced service. Thirdly, the taxpayers will not support a mass army; we have more volunteers now than we can find money to pay for. Lastly, my colleagues and I are going to vote it down about three to one."
"Shorty," complained the co-pilot, "why did you bother with the first three reasons?"
"Just practicing the speech I mean to make tomorrow," apologized the Senator. "Now, sir, since you are so strong for the draft, pray tell why you haven't joined the High Guard? You are obviously qualified."
"Well, I'll tell you, just like you told me. First or firstly, I'm not a colonial, so it's not my war. Secondly, this is my first vacation since the time they grounded the Comet-class ships. And thirdly, I joined up yesterday and I'm drinking up my bounty money before reporting in. Does that satisfy you?"
"Completely, sir! May I buy you a drink?"
"Old Charlie doesn't serve anything but coffee-you ought to know that. Here, have a mug and tell us what's cooking over on Governor's Island. Give us the inside data."
Don kept his ears open and his mouth (usually) shut. Among other things he learned why the "war" was producing no military action-other than the destruction of Circum-Terra. It was not alone that a distance varying from about thirty million to better than one hundred, fifty million miles was, to say the least, awkwardly inconvenient for military communications; more important was the fear of retaliation which seemed to have produced a stalemate.
A sergeant technician of the Middle Guard outlined it to anyone who would listen: "Now they want to keep everybody up half the night with space raid alerts. Malarky! "
"Terra won't attack-the big boys that run the Federation know better. The war's over."
"Why do you figure they won't attack?" Don asked. "Seems to me we're sitting ducks here."
"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."
X "While I Was Musing the Fire Burned"
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.