raised on Weald would
willingly go to Orede, with all of Weald believing that a shipload of
miners preferred death to remaining there. It tied in, like everything
else that was unpleasant, to blueskins. Nobody from Weald would dream of
landing on Orede! Not now!

* * * * *

A little before the Med Ship was due to break out from overdrive, the
girl said very carefully;

"You've been--very kind. I'd like to thank you. I--didn't really believe
I would--live to get to Orede."

Calhoun raised his eyebrows.

"I--wish I could tell you everything you want to know," she added
regretfully. "I think you're--really decent. But some things...."

Calhoun said caustically;

"You've told me a great deal. You weren't born on Weald. You weren't
raised there. The people of Dara--notice that I don't say blueskins,
though they are--the people of Dara have made at least one space-ship
since Weald threatened them with extermination. There is probably a new
food-shortage on Dara now, leading to pure desperation. Most likely it's
bad enough to make them risk landing on Orede to kill cattle and freeze
beef to help. They've worked out."

She gasped and sprang to her feet. She snatched out the tiny blaster in
her pocket. She pointed it waveringly at him.

"I--have to kill you!" she cried desperately. "I--I have to!"

Calhoun reached out. She tugged despairingly at the blaster's trigger.
Nothing happened. Before she could realize that she hadn't turned off
the safety, Calhoun twisted the weapon from her fingers. He stepped
back.

"Good girl!" he said approvingly. "I'll give this back to you when we
land. And thanks. Thanks very much!"

She stared at him. "Thanks? When I tried to kill you?"

"Of course!" said Calhoun. "I'd made guesses. I couldn't know that they
were right. When you tried to kill me, you confirmed every one. Now,
when we land on Orede I'm going to get you to try to put me in touch
with your friends. It's going to be tricky, because they must be pretty
well scared about that ship. But it's a highly desirable thing to get
done!"

He went to the ship's control-board and sat down before it.

"Twenty minutes to break-hour," he observed.

Murgatroyd peered out of his little cubbyhole. His eyes were anxious.
_Tormals_ are amiable little creatures. During the days in overdrive,
Calhoun had paid less than the usual amount of attention to Murgatroyd,
while the girl was fascinating. They'd ma