He found no other reference to blueskins.  He looked up Dara.  It was listed as an inhabited planet, some four hundred years colonized, with a landing-grid and, at the time the main notice was written out, a flourishing interstellar commerce.  But there was a memo, evidently added to the entry in some change of editions:  “Since plague, special license from Med Service is required for landing.”

That was all.  Absolutely all.

The communicator said suavely: 

“Med Ship Aesclipus Twenty!  Come in on vision, please!”

Calhoun went to the control board and threw on vision.

“Well, what now?” he demanded.

His screen lighted.  A bland face looked out at him.

“We have—­ah—­verified your statements,” said the third voice from Weald.  “Just one more item.  Are you alone in your ship?”

“Of course,” said Calhoun, frowning.

“Quite alone?” insisted the voice.

“Obviously!” said Calhoun.

“No other living creature?” insisted the voice again.  “Of—­oh!” said Calhoun, annoyed.  He called over his shoulder.  “Murgatroyd!  Come here!”

Murgatroyd hopped to his lap and gazed interestedly at the screen.  The bland face changed remarkably.  The voice changed even more.

“Very good!” it said.  “Very, very good!  Blueskins do not have tormals!  You are Med Service!  By all means come in!  Your coordinates will be....”

Calhoun wrote them down.  He clicked off the communicator again and growled to Murgatroyd, “So I might have been a blueskin, eh?  And you’re my passport, because only Med Ships have members of your tribe aboard!  What the hell’s the matter, Murgatroyd?  They act like they think somebody’s trying to get down on their planet with a load of plague germs!”

He grumbled to himself for minutes.  The life of a Med Ship man is not exactly a sinecure, at best.  It means long periods in empty space in overdrive, which is absolute and deadly tedium.  Then two or three days aground, checking official documents and statistics, and asking questions to see how many of the newest medical techniques have reached this planet or that, and the supplying of information about such as have not arrived.

Then the lifting out to space for long periods of tedium, to repeat the process somewhere else.  Med Ships carry only one man because two could not stand the close contact without quarreling with each other.  But Med Ships do carry tormals, like Murgatroyd, and a tormal and a man can get along indefinitely, like a man and a dog.  It is a highly unequal friendship, but it seems to be satisfactory to both.

Calhoun was very much annoyed with the way the Med Service had been operated in Sector Twelve.  He was one of many men at work to correct the results of incompetence in directing Med Service in this sector.  But it is always disheartening to have to labor at making up for somebody else’s blundering, when there is so much new work that needs to be done.