He referred to the blueskins, of course.  He did not need to tell the people of Weald what vigilance, what constant watchfulness was necessary against that race of deprived and malevolent deviants from the norm of humanity.  But Weald, he said with emotion, held aloft the torch of all that humanity held most dear, and defended not alone the lives of its people against blueskin contagion, but their noble heritage of ideals against blueskin pollution.

When he sat down, Calhoun said very politely, “It looks as if some day it should be practical politics to urge the massacre of all blueskins.  Have you thought of that?”

The chief executive said comfortably, “The idea’s been proposed.  It’s good politics to urge it, but it would be foolish to carry it out.  People vote against blueskins.  Wipe them out, and where’d you be?”

Calhoun ground his teeth—­quietly.

There were more speeches.  Then a messenger, white-faced, arrived with a written note for the chief executive.  He read it and passed it to Calhoun.  It was from the Ministry of Health.  The spaceport reported that a ship had just broken out from overdrive within the Wealdian solar system.  Its tape-transmitter had automatically signaled its arrival from the mining planet Orede.

But, having sent off its automatic signal, the ship lay dead in space.  It did not drive toward Weald.  It did not respond to signals.  It drifted like a derelict upon no course at all.  It seemed ominous, and since it came from Orede, the planet nearest to Dara of the blueskins, the health ministry informed the planet’s chief executive.

“It’ll be blueskins,” said that astute person firmly.  “They’re next door to Orede.  That’s who’s done this.  It wouldn’t surprise me if they’d seeded Orede with their plague, and this ship came from there to give us warning!”

“There’s no evidence for anything of the sort,” protested Calhoun.  “A ship simply came out of overdrive and didn’t signal further.  That’s all!”

“We’ll see,” said the chief executive ominously.  “We’ll go to the spaceport.  There we’ll get the news as it comes in, and can frame orders on the latest information.”

He took Calhoun by the arm.  Calhoun said sharply, “Murgatroyd!”

During the banquet, Murgatroyd had been visiting with the wives of the higher-up officials.  They had enough of their husbands normally, without listening to their official speeches.  Murgatroyd was brought, his small paunch distended with cakes and coffee and such delicacies as he’d been plied with.  He was half comatose from overfeeding and overpetting, but he was glad to see Calhoun.

Calhoun held the little creature in his arms as the official groundcar raced through traffic with screaming sirens claiming the right of way.  It reached the spaceport, where enormous metal girders formed a monster frame of metal lace against a star-filled sky.  The chief executive strode magnificently into the spaceport offices.  There was no news; the situation remained unchanged.