The doctor moved toward the Med Ship's exit port.

"I answered your questions," he said grimly. "But if I talked to
anyone else as I've done to you, I'd be lucky only to be driven into
exile!"

"I shan't give you away," said Calhoun. He did not smile.

* * * * *

When the doctor had gone, Calhoun said deliberately, "Murgatroyd, you
should be grateful that you're a _tormal_ and not a man. There's
nothing about being a _tormal_ to make you ashamed!"

Then he grimly changed his garments for the full-dress uniform of the
Med Service. There was to be a banquet at which he would sit next to
the planet's chief executive and hear innumerable speeches about the
splendor of Weald. Calhoun had his own, strictly Med Service opinion
of the planet's latest and most boasted-of achievement. It was a domed
city in the polar regions, where nobody ever had to go outdoors.

He was less than professionally enthusiastic about the moving streets,
and much less than approving of the dream broadcasts which supplied
hypnotic, sleep-inducing rhythms to anybody who chose to listen to
them. The price was that while asleep one would hear high praise of
commercial products, and might believe them when awake.

But it was not Calhoun's function to criticize when it could be
avoided. Med Service had been badly managed in Sector Twelve. So at