Battle on Venus

With astonishing acceleration it bore down on the small tank and shouldered it out of its path as a maddened bull charges a hapless, dismounted picador. There was a sound like the clash of giant cymbals. The tank rolled helplessly on its back, like a turtle. Its tracks churned the air uselessly. The wheeled monster pulled up within its own length with a shrieking of brakes. It became quiescent again.

George cheered and, becoming aware of Freiburg beside him, a fellow witness, bawled in the skipper’s ear: “Those guys in the HQ are right on their toes!”

Freiburg nodded, and pointed to the helpless tank. He shouted some reply, but the din of battle drowned it save for the word “Triangle!”

George took another look at the tank, and noticed the big green triangle painted on it—just where their own tanks carried the white circle. Sometime, he thought, if he lived, he would try to solve this puzzle. Without provocation, the white circles attacked the terrestrial camp. Then, for no apparent reason, turned to defend it against the green triangles. What was the fighting about, anyhow?

And who were the combatants? Did it go on like this all of the time all over Venus, or had they happened to drop into the middle of some local war?

In the midst of his bewilderment, and adding to it, all the small tanks wheeled around simultaneously, as if obeying a single voice. They clattered swiftly back in the direction from which they’d come, leaving behind them dust trails and the dozen of their number which were disabled and burning. The defending tanks ceased to fire.

Freiburg said, triumphantly: “We’ve beaten ’em off.”

“We?” echoed George. “What are ‘we?’”

“A leading question,” said Freiburg, peering at the fleeing tanks. He became suddenly rigid. “Uh-huh. Telescope, George.”

George gave it to him.

“There’s no end to it,” said Freiburg, presently. “Unless this is the end coming. It sure looks like it.”

George strained to try to see what the Captain could see. He could make out, somewhere near the blurred horizon, a dark spot that hadn’t been there before.

“What is it, Skip?”

“It’s the grandfather of all tanks, my boy. About five times the size of our friends here. It’s taller than that damn wheel—anything up to ten metres high, I guess. Must be hellish heavy: can’t think why it doesn’t just sink away into the ground. It’s coming this way. Rather slowly. Looks formidable—downright grim. It seems to be alone, though. Hope it hasn’t got any brothers.”

“Maybe it’s coming to our rescue. Maybe that’s what’s frightened the triangle corps away.”

“I’d like to think that, too, George, but I’m afraid it just ain’t so. Those beastly little tanks are rushing towards it like lads running to greet their mother. Perhaps it is their mother. Anyhow, it’s not firing at them. What a sight—reminds me of a big, fat, female spider and her brood. They’re forming up behind her now— hanging onto her apron-strings, as it were… Yes, it’s no use, George. It’s carrying their sign: the jolly old green triangle. We’re in for another big headache. Do you have any aspirin on you?”

He relinquished the telescope to George with a slight smile. George looked at him curiously.

“You seem to be perking up again, Skip. For a while there I thought you’d given up.”

“I had, George, and I have again—now I’ve seen what’s coming. That first time I felt that everything and everybody was against us. But when the boys in the HQ over there started carrying a gun for us, I felt a whole lot better. It’s nice to know you’ve someone on your side. But I’m afraid the game’s really up this time.”

“I see,” said George, and thought he did see something of Freiburg’s strange psychological make-up. Freiburg hated being out on his own, bearing the whole responsibility when he was helpless to do anything about it. He was still helpless now, but not alone; the unknown commander of the wheeled HQ had taken over their defense. He’d acquired an ally at his own level. He seemed to have forgotten that two of his crew had been killed by the white circle tanks. Or else he regarded it as just a mistake.

Sparks and the mate crouched at the bottom of the pit, beginning to look pale and battle-fatigued.

A heavy boom sounded from the distance. It was the first ranging shot from the monster tank. The large-caliber shell screamed through the air. George flung himself down beside the mate. He could feel the man trembling in anticipation of the burst.

It came, an over-shot, some three hundred metres behind the hull of the space-ship. With a sound like the crack of doom, a tremendous gusher of brown earth, squirted towards the dreary sky. Black smoke boiled up around it. Seemingly untroubled, Freiburg remained up on the rim, observing. The white circle tanks began firing, their guns