“What d’you think has happened, sir?” asked Burman. He looked both uneasy and annoyed.

“Heaven alone knows. The last general call was seven years ago when the Starider exploded halfway along the Mars run. They grounded every ship in existence while they investigated the cause.” He rubbed his chin, pondered, went on, “And the call before that one was when the entire crew of the Blowgun went nuts. Whatever it is this time, you can bet it’s serious.”

“It wouldn’t be the start of a space war?”

“Against whom?” McNaught made a gesture of contempt. “Nobody has the ships with which to oppose us. No, it’s something technical. We’ll learn of it eventually. They’ll tell us before we reach Zaxted or soon afterward.”

They did tell him. Within six hours. Burman rushed in with face full of horror.

“What’s eating you now?” demanded McNaught, staring at him.

“The offog,” stuttered Burman. He made motions as though brushing off invisible spiders.

“What of it?”

“It’s a typographical error. In your copy it should read off. dog.”

The commander stared owlishly.

“Off. dog?” echoed McNaught, making it sound like foul language.

“See for yourself.” Dumping the signal on the desk, Burman bolted out, left the door swinging. McNaught scowled after him, picked up the message.

Terran Headquarters to Bustler. Your report V1098, ship’s official dog Peaslake. Detail fully circumstances and manner in which animal came apart under gravitational stress. Cross-examine crew and signal all coincidental symptoms experienced by them. Urgent and Important. Welling. Alarm and Rescue Command. Terra.

In the privacy of his cabin McNaught commenced to eat his nails. Every now and again he went a little cross-eyed as he examined them for nearness to the flesh.