sturdily toward the enigmatic ship.

Calhoun took no part in the agitated conferences among the officials
and news reporters at the spaceport. But he listened to the talk about
him. As the investigating small ship drew nearer to the deathly-still
cargo vessel, the guesses about the meaning of its breakout and
following silence grew more and more wild.

But, singularly, there was no single suggestion that the mystery might
not be the work of blueskins. Blueskins were scape-goats for all the
fears and all the uneasiness a perhaps over-civilized world developed.

Presently the investigating spaceboat reached the mystery ship and
circled it, beaming queries. No answer. It reported the cargo ship
dark. No lights anywhere on or in it. There were no induction-surges
from even pulsing, idling engines. Delicately, the messenger craft
maneuvered until it touched the silent vessel. It reported that
microphones detected no motion whatever inside.

"Let a volunteer go aboard," commanded the chief executive. "Let him
report what he finds."

A pause. Then the solemn announcement of an intrepid volunteer's name,
from far, far away. Calhoun listened, frowning darkly. This pompous
heroism wouldn't be noticed in the Med Service. It would be routine
behavior.

Suspenseful, second-by-second reports. The volunteer had rocketed
himself across the emptiness between the two again separated ships. He
had opened the airlock from outside. He'd gone in. He'd closed the