"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."