"Supplies have given out. Weeks had an
idea--but it won't bring in Koros. That red wood he's so mad about, he's
persuaded Van to stow some in the cargo holds since we have enough Koros
stones to cover the voyage. Luckily the clansmen will take ordinary trade
goods in exchange for that and Weeks thinks it will sell on Terra. It's
tough enough to turn a steel knife blade and yet it is light and easy to
handle when it's cured. Queer stuff and the color's interesting. That
stockade of it planted around Groft's town has been up close to a hundred
years and not a sign of rot in a log of it!"
"Where is Van?"
"The storm priests sent for him. Some kind of a gabble-fest on the
star-star level, I gather. Otherwise we're almost ready to blast. And we
know what kind of cargo to bring next time."
They certainly did, Dane agreed. But he was not to idle away his morning.
An hour later a caravan came out of the forest, a line of complaining,
burdened orgels, their tiny heads hanging low as they moaned their woes,
the hard life which sent them on their sluggish way with piles of red
logs lashed to their broad toads' backs.
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