"Cedar--lacquel bark--forsh weed--"
"Cinnamon," Mura added to the list. "Imported in small quantities--"
"Naturally! Only the problem now is--how much cedar, lacquel bark, forsh
weed, cinnamon do we have on board?" demanded Van Rycke.
His sarcasm did not register with Weeks for the little man pushed by Dane
and left the cabin to their surprise. In the quiet which followed they
could hear the clatter of his boots on ladder rungs as he descended to
the quarters of the engine room staff. Tang turned to his neighbor,
Johan Stotz, the Queen's Engineer.
"What's he going for?"
Stotz shrugged. Weeks was a self-effacing man--so much so that even in
the cramped quarters of the spacer very little about him as an individual
impressed his mates--a fact which was slowly dawning on them all now.
Then they heard the scramble of feet hurrying back and Weeks burst in
with energy which carried him across to the table behind which the
Captain and Van Rycke now sat.
In the wiper's hands was a plasta-steel box--the treasure chest of a
spaceman. Its tough exterior was guaranteed to protect the contents
against everything but outright disintegration.
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