Rip whispered to Weeks:
"There's one to the left--on the very end of that log. Can you net it?"
The small oiler slipped the coiled mesh through his calloused hands. He
edged around Ali, keeping his eyes on the protuding protruding bump of
red upon red which was his quarry.
"--two--three--four--five--" Ali was counting under his breath but Dane
could not see that many. He was sure of only four, and those because he
had seen them move.
The things were ringing in the pile of wood where the Hoobat fiddled, and
two had ascended the first logs toward their doom. Weeks went down on one
knee, ready to cast his net, when Dane had his first inspiration. He drew
his sleep rod, easing it out of its holster, set the lever on "spray" and
beamed it at three of those humps.
Rip seeing what he was doing, dropped a hand on Weeks' shoulder, holding
the oiler in check. A hump moved, slid down the rounded side of the log
into the narrow aisle of deck between two piles of wood. It lay quiet, a
bright scarlet blot against the gray.
Then Weeks did move, throwing his net over it and jerking the draw string
tight, at the same time pulling the captive toward him over the deck.
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