THIS WORLD IS TABOO

1

The little Med Ship came out of overdrive and the stars were strange and the Milky Way seemed unfamiliar.  Which, of course, was because the Milky Way and the local Cepheid marker-stars were seen from an unaccustomed angle and a not-yet-commonplace pattern of varying magnitudes.

But Calhoun grunted in satisfaction.  There was a banded sun off to port, which was good.  A breakout at no more than sixty light-hours from one’s destination wasn’t bad, in a strange sector of the galaxy and after three light-years of journeying blind.

“Arise and shine, Murgatroyd,” said Calhoun.  “Comb your whiskers.  Get set to astonish the natives!”

A sleepy, small, shrill voice said:  “Chee!”

Murgatroyd the tormal came crawling out of the small cubbyhole which was his own.  He blinked at Calhoun.

“We’re due to land shortly,” Calhoun observed.  “You will impress the local inhabitants.  I will get unpopular.  According to the records, there’s been no Med Ship inspection here for twelve standard years.  And that was practically no inspection, to judge by the report.”

Murgatroyd said:  “Chee-chee!”

He began to make his toilet, first licking his right-hand whiskers and then his left.  Then he stood up and shook himself and looked interestedly at Calhoun. Tormals are companionable small animals.  They are charmed when somebody speaks to them.  They find great, deep satisfaction in imitating the actions of humans, as parrots and mynahs and parakeets imitate human speech.  But tormals have certain valuable, genetically transmitted talents which make them much more valuable than mere companions or pets.

Calhoun got a light-reading for the banded sun.  It could hardly be an accurate measure of distance, but it was a guide.

“Hold on to something, Murgatroyd!” he said.

Murgatroyd watched.  He saw Calhoun make certain gestures which presaged discomfort.  He popped back into his cubbyhole.  Calhoun threw the overdrive switch and the Med Ship flicked back into that questionable state of being in which velocities of hundreds of times that of light are possible.  The sensation of going into overdrive was unpleasant.  A moment later, the sensation of coming out was no less so.  Calhoun had experienced it often enough, and still didn’t like it.

The sun Weald burned huge and terrible in space.  It was close, now.  Its disk covered half a degree of arc.

“Very neat,” observed Calhoun.  “Weald Three is our port, Murgatroyd.  The plane of the ecliptic would be ...  Hm....”

He swung the outside electron telescope, picked up a nearby bright object, enlarged its image to show details, and checked it against the local star-pilot.  He calculated a moment.  The distance was too short for even the briefest of overdrive hops, but it would take time to get there on solar-system drive.