s eyebrows.

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

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 wrung her hands. Then 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 ships' control board and sat down before it.

"Twenty minutes to breakhour," 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 made friends, awkwardly on the girl's part, very pleasantly on
Murgatroyd's. But only moments ago there had been bitter emotion in
the air. Murgatroyd had fled to his cubbyhole to escape it. He was
distressed. Now that there was silence again, he peered out unhappily.

"_Chee?_" he queried plaintively. "_Chee-chee-chee?_"

Calhoun said matter-of-factly, "It's all right, Murgatroyd. If we
aren't blasted as we try to land, we should be able to make friends
with everybody and get something accomplishe