His death was remarkably close, nothing remaining but the order to fire, when loudspeakers from the landing-grid office froze everything.  One of the grain ships from Weald had broken out of overdrive and its pilot was triumphantly calling for landing coordinates.  The grid office relayed his call to loudspeaker circuits as the quickest way to get it on the communication system of the whole planet.

“Calling ground,” boomed the triumphant voice of the first of the student pilots Calhoun had trained.  “Calling ground!  Pilot Franz in captured ship requests coordinates for landing!  Purpose of landing is to deliver half a million bushels of grain captured from the enemy!”

At first, nobody dared believe it.  But the pilot could be seen on vision.  He was known.  No blueskin would be left alive long enough to be used as a decoy by the men of Weald!  Presently the giant ship on its second voyage to Dara—­the first had been a generation ago, when it threatened death and destruction—­appeared as a dark pinpoint in the sky.  It came down and down, and presently it hovered over the center of the tarmac, where Calhoun composedly stood on the spot where he was to have been executed.

The landing-grid crew shifted the ship to one side, and only then did Calhoun stroll in a leisurely fashion toward the Med Ship by the grid’s metal-lace wall.

The big ship touched ground, and its exit port revolved and opened, and the student pilot stood there grinning and heaving out handfuls of grain.  There was a swarming, yelling, deliriously triumphant crowd, then, where only minutes before there’d been a mob waiting to rejoice when Calhoun’s living body exploded into flame.

They no longer hated Calhoun, but he had to fight his way to the Med Ship, nevertheless.  He was surrounded by ecstatically admiring citizens of Dara.  They shouted praise and rejoicing in his ears until he was half-deafened, and they almost tore his clothing from them in their desire to touch, to pat, to assure him of their gratitude and affection, minutes since they’d thirsted for his blood.

Two hours after the first ship, a second landed.  Dara went wild again.  Four hours later still, the third arrived.  The fourth came down to ground on the following day.

When Calhoun faced the executive and cabinet of Dara for the second time his tone and manner were very dry.

“Now,” he said curtly, “I would like a few more astrogators to train.  I think it likely that we can raid the Wealdian grain fleet one more time, and in so doing get the beginning of a fleet for defense.  I insist, however, that it must not be used in combat.  We might as well be sensible about this situation!  After all, four shiploads of grain won’t break the famine!  They’ll help a lot, but they’re only the beginning of what’s needed for a planetary population!”

“How much grain can we hope for?” demanded a man with a blue mark covering all his chin.