The Med Ship actually moved at a rate which was a preposterous number
of times the speed of light, but it felt absolutely solid, absolutely
firm and fixed. A ship in overdrive feels exactly as if it were buried
deep in the core of a planet. There is no vibration. There is no sign
of anything but solidity and, if one looks out a port, there is only
utter blackness plus an absence of sound fit to make one's eardrums
crack.

But within seconds random tiny noises began. There was a reel and
there were sound-speakers to keep the ship from sounding like a grave.
The reel played and the speakers gave off minute creakings, and
meaningless hums, and very tiny noises of every imaginable sort, all
of which were just above the threshold of the inaudible.

Calhoun fretted. Sector Twelve was in very bad shape. A conscientious
Med Service man would never have let the anti-blueskin obsession go
unmentioned in a report on Weald. Health is not only a physical
affair. There is mental health, also. When mental health goes a
civilization can be destroyed more surely and more terribly than by
any imaginable war or plague germs. A plague kills off those who are
susceptible to it, leaving immunes to build up a world again. But
immunes are the first to be killed when a mass neurosis sweeps a
population.

Weald was definitely a Med Service problem world. Dara was another.
And when hundreds of men jammed themselves into a cargo spaceship
which could not furnish them with air to breathe, and took off and
went into overdrive before the air could fail.... Orede called for no
less of worry.