"There's usually somebody hanging out there. It makes a good club. But they're always hoping the old folks will try something. If they do—there's the grid to take care of them!"
"We're landing with or without help," said Calhoun. "But if you don't call ahead and convince somebody that one of their own is returning from the wars, they might take care of us with the landing-grid."
Fredericks kept his jaunty air.
"What'll I say about you?"
"This is a Med ship," said Calhoun with precision. "According to the Interstellar Treaty Organization agreement, every planet's population can determine its government. Every planet is necessarily independent. I have nothing to do with who runs things, or who they trade or communicate with. I have nothing to do with anything but public health. But they'll have heard about Med ships. You had, hadn't you?"
"Y-yes," agreed Fredericks. "When I went to school. Before I was shipped off to here."
"Right," said Calhoun. "So you can figure out what to say."
He turned back to the control board, watching the steadily swelling gibbous disk of the planet as the Med ship drew near. Presently he reached out and cut the drive. He switched on the spacephone.
"Go ahead," he said dryly. "Talk us down or into trouble, just as you please."