"Why?"

"It couldn't possibly work," Calhoun told her. "With only dead men on
board, the ship wouldn't arrive at a place where the landing-grid
could bring it down. So that would be no good. And plague-stricken
living men wouldn't try to conceal that they had the plague. They
might ask for help, but they'd know they'd instantly be killed on
Weald if they were found to be plague victims. So that would be no
good, either! No, the ship wasn't intended to land plague on Weald."

"Are you friendly to blueskins?" she asked uncertainly.

"Within reason," said Calhoun, "I am a well-wisher to all the human
race. You're slipping, though. When using the word _blueskin_ you
should say it uncomfortably, as if it were a word no refined person
liked to pronounce. You don't. We'll land on Orede tomorrow, by the
way. If you ever intend to tell me the truth, there's not much time
left."

She bit her lips. Twice, during the remainder of the day, she faced
him and opened her mouth as if to speak, and then turned away again.
Calhoun shrugged. He had fairly definite ideas about her, by now. He
carefully kept them tentative, but no girl born and raised on Weald
would willingly go to Orede, with all of Weald believing that a
shipload of miners preferred death to remaining there. It tied in,
like everything else that was unpleasant, to blueskins. Nobody from
Weald would dream of landing on Orede! Not now!

A little before the Med Ship was due to break out from overdrive, the