days, or three, Calhoun would be escorted back to the landing-grid,
and lifted out to space, and he'd spend long empty days in overdrive
and land somewhere else to do the whole thing all over again.

It all happened exactly as he expected, with one exception. Every
human being he met on Weald wanted to talk about blueskins. Blueskins
and the idea of blueskins obsessed everyone. Calhoun listened without
asking questions until he had the picture of what blueskins meant to
the people who talked of them. Then he knew there would be no use
asking questions at random.

Nobody mentioned ever having seen a blueskin. Nobody mentioned a
specific event in which a blueskin had at any named time taken part.
But everybody was afraid of blueskins. It was a patterned, an
inculcated, a stage-directed fixed idea. And it found expression in
shocked references to the vileness, the depravity, the monstrousness
of the blueskin inhabitants of Dara, from whom Weald must at all costs
be protected.

It did not make sense. So Calhoun listened politely until he found an
undistinguished medical man who wanted some special information about
gene selection as practised halfway across the galaxy. He invited that
man to the Med Ship, where he supplied the information not hitherto
available. He saw his guest's eyes shine a little with that joyous awe
a man feels when he finds out something he has wanted long and badly
to know.

"Now," said Calhoun, "tell me something? Why does everybody on this
planet hate the inhabitants of Dara? It's light-years away. Nobody
claims to have suffered in person from them. Why make a point of