Chapter 2

There was a certain coldness in the manner of those at the Weald spaceport when the Med Ship left next morning. Calhoun was not popular because Weald was scared. It had been conditioned to scare easily, where blueskins might be involved. Its children were trained to react explosively when the word “blueskin” was uttered in their hearing, and its adults tended to say “blueskin” when anything to cause uneasiness entered their minds. So a planet-wide habit of non-rational response had formed and was not seen to be irrational because almost everybody had it.

The volunteer who’d discovered the tragedy on the ship from Orede was safe, though. He’d made a completely conscientious survey of the ship he’d volunteered to enter and examine. For his courage, he’d have been doomed but for Calhoun. The reaction of his fellow-citizens was that by entering the ship he might have become contaminated by blueskin infective material if the plague still existed, and if the men in the ship had caught it--but they certainly hadn’t died of it--and if there had been blueskins on Orede to communicate it--for which there was no evidence--and if blueskins were responsible for the tragedy. Which was at the moment pure supposition. But Weald feared he might bring death back to Weald if he were allowed to return.

Calhoun saved his life. He ordered that the guard-ship admit him to its airlock, which then was to be filled with steam and chlorine. The combination would sterilize and partly even eat away his space-suit, after which the chlorine and steam should be bled out to space, and air from the ship let into the lock. If he stripped off the space-suit without touching its outer surface, and reëntered the investigating ship while the suit was flung outside by a man in another space-suit, handling it with a pole he’d fling after it, there could be no possible contamination brought back.

Calhoun was quite right, but Weald in general considered that he’d persuaded the government to take an unreasonable risk.

There were other reasons for disapproving of him. Calhoun had been unpleasantly frank. The coming of the death-ship stirred to frenzy those people who believed that all blueskins should be exterminated as a pious act. They’d appeared on every visionscreen, citing not only the ship from Orede but other incidents which they interpreted as crimes against Weald. They demanded that all Wealdian atomic reactors be modified to turn out fusion-bomb materials while a space-fleet was made ready for an anti-blueskin crusade. They confidently demanded such a rain of fusion-bombs on Dara that no blueskin, no animal, no shred of vegetation, no fish in the deepest ocean, not even a living virus-particle of the blueskin plague could remain alive on the blueskin world!

One of these vehement orators even asserted that Calhoun agreed that no other course was possible, speaking for the Interstellar Medical Service. And Calhoun furiously demanded a chance to deny it by broadcast, and he made a bitter and indiscreet speech from which a planet-wide audience inferred that he thought them fools. He did.

So he was definitely unpopular when his ship lifted from Weald. He’d curtly given his destination as Orede, from which the death-ship had come. The landing-grid locked on, raised the small space-craft until Weald was a great shining ball below it, and then somehow scornfully cast him off. The Med Ship was free, in clear space where there was not enough of a gravitational field to hinder overdrive.

He aimed for his destination, his face very grim. He said savagely;

“Get set, Murgatroyd! Overdrive coming!”

He thumbed down the overdrive button. The universe of stars went out, while everything living in the ship felt the customary sensations of dizziness, of nausea, and of a spiralling fall to nothingness. Then there was silence. The Med Ship actually moved at a rate which was a preposterous number of times the speed of light, but it felt absolutely solid, absolutely firm and fixed. A ship in overdrive feels exactly as if it were buried deep in the core of a planet. There is no vibration. There is no sign of anything but solidity and--if one looks out a port--there is only utter blackness plus an absence of sound fit to make one’s eardrums crack.

But within seconds random tiny noises began. There was a reel and there were sound-speakers to keep the ship from sounding like a grave. The reel played and the speakers gave off minute creakings, and meaningless hums, and very tiny noises of every imaginable sort, all of which were just above the threshold of the inaudible.

Calhoun fretted. Sector Twelve was in very bad shape. A conscientious Med Service man would never have let the anti-blueskin obsession go unmentioned in a report on Weald. Health is not only a physical affair. There is mental health, also. When mental health goes a civilization can be destroyed more surely and more terribly than by any imaginable war or plague-germ. A plague kills off those who are susceptible to it, leaving immunes to build up a world again. But immunes are the first to be killed when a mass neurosis sweeps a population.

Weald was definitely a Med Service problem world. Dara was another. And when hundreds of men jammed themselves into a cargo-boat which could not furnish them with air to breathe, and took off and went into overdrive before the air could fail ... Orede called for no less of worry.

“I think,” said Calhoun dourly, “that I’ll have some coffee.”

“Coffee” was one of the words that Murgatroyd recognized immediately. He would usually watch the coffee-maker with bright, interested eyes. He’d even tried to imitate Calhoun’s motions with it, once, and had scorched his paws in the attempt. This time he did not move.

Calhoun turned his head. Murgatroyd sat on the floor, his long tail coiled reflectively about a chair-leg. He watched the door of the Med Ship’s sleeping-cabin.

“Murgatroyd,” said Calhoun. “I mentioned coffee!”

“Chee!“ shrilled Murgatroyd.

But he continued to look at the door. The temperature was kept lower in the other cabin, and the look of things was different from the control-compartment. The difference was part of the means by which a man was able to be alone for weeks on end--alone save for his tormal--without becoming ship-happy. There were other carefully thought out items in the ship with the same purpose. But none of them should cause Murgatroyd to stare fixedly and fascinatedly at the sleeping-cabin door. Not when coffee was in the making!

Calhoun considered. He became angry at the immediate suspicion that occurred to him. As a Med Service man, he was duty-bound to be impartial. To be impartial might mean not to side absolutely with Weald in its enmity to blueskins. The people of Weald had refused to help Dara in a time of famine; they’d blockaded that pariah world for years afterward; they had other reasons for hating the people they’d treated badly. It was entirely reasonable for some fanatic on Weald to consider that Calhoun must be killed lest he be of help to the blueskins Weald abhorred.

In fact, it was quite possible that somebody had stowed away on the Med Ship to murder Calhoun, so that there would be no danger of any report favorable to Dara ever being presented anywhere. If so, such a stowaway would be in the sleeping-cabin now, waiting for Calhoun to walk unsuspiciously in to be shot dead.

So Calhoun made coffee. He slipped a blaster into a pocket where it would be handy. He filled a small cup for Murgatroyd and a large one for himself, and then a second large one.

He tapped on the sleeping-cabin door, standing aside lest a blaster-bolt came through it.

“Coffee’s ready,” he said sardonically. “Come out and join us.”

There was a long pause. Calhoun rapped again.

“You’ve a seat at the captain’s table,” he said more sardonically still. “It’s not polite to keep me waiting!”

He listened, alert for a rush which would be a fanatic’s desperate attempt to do murder despite premature discovery. He was prepared to shoot quite ruthlessly.

But there was no rush. Instead, there came hesitant foot-falls. The door of the cabin slid slowly aside. A girl appeared in the opening, desperately white and desperately composed.

“H-how did you know I was there?” she asked shakily. She moistened her lips. “You didn’t see me! I was in a closet, and you didn’t even enter the room!”

Calhoun said grimly;

“I’ve sources of information.” He pointed to Murgatroyd.

The girl did not move. Her eyes went from Murgatroyd to Calhoun.

“And now,” said Calhoun, “do you want to tell me your story? You have one ready, I’m sure.”

“There--there isn’t any,” said the girl unsteadily. “Just--I--I need to get to Orede, and you’re going there. There’s no other way to go--now.”

“To the contrary,” said Calhoun, “there’ll undoubtedly be a fleet heading for Orede as soon as it can be assembled and armed. But I’m afraid that’s not a very good story. Try another.”

She shivered a little.

“I’m--running away...”

“Ah!” said Calhoun. “In that case I’ll take you back.”

“No!” she said fiercely. “I’ll--I’ll die first! I’ll wreck this ship first!”

Her hand came from behind her. There was a tiny blaster in it. But it shook visibly as she tried to aim it.

“I’ll--shoot out the controls!”

Calhoun blinked. He’d had to make a drastic change in his estimate of the situation the instant he saw that the stowaway was a girl. Now he had to make another when her threat was not to kill him but to disable the ship. Women are rarely assassins, and when they are they don’t use energy weapons. Daggers and poisons are more typical.

“I’d rather you didn’t do that,” said Calhoun drily. “Besides, you’d get deadly bored if we were stuck in a derelict waiting for our air and food to give out.”

Murgatroyd, for no reason whatever, felt it necessary to enter the conversation. He said;

“Chee-chee-chee!“

“A very sensible suggestion,” observed Calhoun. “We’ll sit down and have a cup of coffee.” To the girl he said, “I’ll take you to Orede, since that’s where you say you want to go.”

“I--there’s a boy there--”

Calhoun shook his head.

“No,” he said reprovingly. “Nearly all the mining colony had packed itself into the ship that came into Weald with everybody dead. But not all. And there’s been no check of what men were in the ship and what men weren’t. You wouldn’t go to Orede if it were likely your fellow had died on the way to you. Here’s your coffee. Sugar or saccho, and do you take cream?”

She trembled a little, but she took the cup.

“I--don’t understand--.”

“Murgatroyd and I,” explained Calhoun--and he did not know whether he spoke out of anger or something else--”we are do-gooders. We go around trying to keep people from getting killed. It’s our profession. We practise it even on our own behalf. We want to stay alive. So since you make such drastic threats, we will take you where you want to go. Especially since we’re going there anyhow.”

“You--don’t believe anything I’ve said!” It was a statement.

“Not a word,” admitted Calhoun. “But you’ll probably tell us something more believable presently. When did you eat last?”

“Yesterday--.”

“Better have something now. We’ll talk more later.” Calhoun showed her how to punch the readier for such-and-such dishes, to be extracted from storage and warmed or chilled, as the case might be, and served at dialed-for intervals.

Calhoun deliberately immersed himself in the Galactic Directory, looking up the planet Orede. He was headed there, but he’d had no reason to inform himself about it before. Now he read with every appearance of absorption.