He believed that there were Darians here, and the girl in the Med ship, so he also believed, was also a Darian.  But any who might be hiding had so much to lose if they were discovered that they might be hundreds or even thousands of miles from anywhere a space ship would normally land—­if they hadn’t fled after the incident of the spaceship’s departure with its load of doomed passengers.

Considered detachedly, the odds were that there was again a food shortage on Dara; that blueskins, in desperation, had raided or were raiding or would raid the cattle herds of Orede for food to carry back to their home planet; that somehow the miners on Orede had found that they had blueskin neighbors, and died of the consequences of their terror.  It was a risky guess to make on such evidence as Calhoun considered he had, but no other guess was possible.

If his guess were right, he was under some obligation to do exactly what he believed the girl considered her mission—­to warn all blueskins that Weald would presently try to find them on Orede, when all hell must break loose upon Dara for punishment.  But if there were men here, he couldn’t leave a written warning for them in default of friendly contact.

They might not find it, and a search party of Wealdians might.  All he could possibly do was try to make contact and give warning by such means as would leave no evidence behind that he’d done so.  Weald would consider a warning sure proof of blueskin guilt.

It was not satisfactory to be limited to broadcasts which might or might not be picked up, and were unlikely to be acknowledged.  But he settled down with the communicator to make the attempt.

He called first on a GC wave length and form.  It was unlikely that blueskins would use general communication bands to keep in touch with each other, but it had to be tried.  He broadcast, tuned as broadly as possible, and went up and down the GC spectrum, repeating his warning painstakingly and listening without hope for a reply.

He did find one spot on the dial where there was re-radiation of his message, as if from a tuned receiver.  But he could not get a fix on it:  nobody might be listening.  He exhausted the normal communication pattern.  Then he broadcast on old-fashioned amplitude modulation which a modern communicator would not pick up at all, and which therefore might be used by men in hiding.

He worked for a long time.  Then he shrugged and gave it up.  He’d repeated to absolute tedium the facts that any Darians—­blueskins—­on Orede ought to know.  There’d been no answer.  And it was all too likely that if he’d been received, that those who heard him took his message for a trick to discover if there were any hearers.

He clicked off at last and stood up, shaking his head.  Suddenly the Med Ship seemed empty.  Then he saw Murgatroyd staring vexedly at the exit port.  The inner door of that small airlock was closed.  The telltale light said the outer door was not locked.  Someone had gone out quietly.  The girl.  Of course.