re were more and more
men to be found on ships where they did not belong, and more and more
not to be found where they did. By the time half the fleet had been
aground, there was no longer any pretense of holding a ship down until
all its crew returned. There were too many other ships' companies
clamoring for their turn to loot. The rosters of many ships, indeed,
bore no particular relationship to the men actually on board.

There were less than fifteen ships whose to-be-fumigated holds were
still empty, when the watchful government of Dara broadcast a new
message to the invaders. It requested that the looting stop. No matter
what payment Weald claimed, it had taken payment five times over. Now
was time to stop.

It was amusing. The space-admiral of Weald ordered his ships alerted for
action. The message-ship, ordering the Darian fleet away from Weald,
had been sent off long since. No other ship could get away now! The
Darians could take their choice; accept the consequences of surrender,
or the fleet would rise to throw down bombs.

Calhoun was asking politely to be taken to the Wealdian admiral when the
trouble began. It wasn't on the ground, at all. Everything was under
splendid control where a landing-force occupied the grid and all the
ground immediately about it. The space admiral had headquarters in the
landing-grid office. Reports came in, orders were issued, admirably
crisp salutes were exchanged among sag-suited men.... Everything was in
perfect shape there.

But there was panic among the ships in space. Communicators gave off
horrified, panic-stricken yells. There were screamings. Intelligible
communications ceased. Ships plunged crazily this way and that. Some
vanished in overdrive. At least one plunged at full power into a Darian
ocean.

The space-admiral found himself in command of fifteen ships only, out of
all his former force. The rest of the fleet went through a period of
hysterical madness. In some ships it lasted for minutes only. In others
it went on for half an hour or more. Then they hung overhead, but did
not reply to calls.

Calhoun arrived at the space-port with Murgatroyd riding on his
shoulder. A bewildered officer in a sag-suit halted him.

"I've come," said Calhoun, "to speak to the admiral. My name is Calhoun
and I'm Med Service, and I think I met the Admiral at a banquet a few
weeks ago. He'll remember me."

"You'll have to wait," protested the officer. "There's some trouble--"