The groundcar passed through a gate.  It stopped before a lighted door.  The armed men hanging to its outside dropped off.  They watched Calhoun closely as he stepped out with Murgatroyd riding on his shoulder.

Minutes later they faced a hastily summoned group of officials of the Darian government.  For a ship to land on Dara was so remarkable an event that it called practically for a cabinet meeting.  And Calhoun noted that they were no better fed than the guards at the spaceport.

They regarded Calhoun and Maril with oddly burning, eyes.  It was, of course, because the two of them showed no signs of hunger.  They obviously had not been on short rations.  Darians had this, now, to increase a hatred which was inevitable anyhow, directed at all peoples off their own planet.

“My name is Calhoun,” said Calhoun briskly.  “I’ve the usual Med Service credentials.  Now—­”

He did not wait to be questioned.  He told them of the appalling state of things in the Twelfth Sector of the Med Service, so that men had been borrowed from other sectors to remedy the intolerable, and he was one of them.  He told of his arrival at Weald and what had happened there, from the excessively cautious insistence that he prove he was not a Darian, to the arrival of the death-ship from Orede.

He was giving them the news affecting them, as they had not heard it before.  He went on to tell of his stop at Orede and his purpose, and his encounter with the men he found there.  When he finished there was silence.  He broke it.

“Now,” he said, “Maril’s an agent of yours.  She can add to what I’ve told you.  I’m Med Service.  I have a job to do here to carry out what wasn’t done before.  I should make a planetary health inspection and make recommendations for the improvement of the state of things.  I’ll be glad if you’ll arrange for me to talk to your health officials.  Things look bad, and something should be done.”

Someone laughed without mirth.

“What will you recommend for long-continued undernourishment?” he asked derisively.  “That’s our health problem!”

“I recommend food,” said Calhoun.

“Where’ll you fill the prescription?”

“I’ve the answer to that, too,” said Calhoun curtly.  “I’ll want to talk to any space pilots you’ve got.  Get your astrogators together and I think they’ll approve my idea.”

The silence was totally skeptical.

“Orede—­”

“Not Orede,” said Calhoun.  “Weald will be hunting that planet over for Darians.  If they find any, they’ll drop bombs here.”

“Our only space pilots,” said a tall man, presently, “are on Orede now.  If you’ve told the truth, they’ll probably head back because of your warning.  They should bring meat.”

His mouth worked peculiarly, and Calhoun knew that it was at the thought of food.

“Which,” said another man sharply, “goes to the hospitals!  I haven’t tasted meat in two years!”