Weald was definitely a Med Service problem world.  Dara was another.  And when hundreds of men jammed themselves into a cargo spaceship 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.  Ordinarily he stirred immediately on hearing it, and watched the coffeemaker with bright, interested eyes.  He’d even tried to imitate Calhoun’s motions with it, once, and had scorched his paws in the attempt.  But 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 than 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.

And the people of Weald had refused to help Dara in a time of famine, and had blockaded that pariah world for years afterward.  And 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 in unsuspiciously, only 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 come 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!”