“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.  Weeks was in charge of the procession and Dane went to work with the cargo plan Van had left, seeing that the brilliant scarlet lengths were hoist into the lower cargo hatch and stacked according to the science of stowage.  He discovered that Rip had been right, the wood for all its incredible hardness was light of weight.  Weak as he still was he could lift and stow a full sized log with no great difficulty.  And he thought Weeks was correct in thinking that it would sell on their home world.  The color was novel, the durability an asset—­it would not make fortunes as the Koros stones might, but every bit of profit helped and this cargo might cover their fielding fees on Terra.

Sinbad was in the cargo space when the first of the logs came in.  With his usual curiosity the striped tom cat prowled along the wood, sniffing industriously.  Suddenly he stopped short, spat and backed away, his spine fur a roughened crest.  Having backed as far as the inner door he turned and slunk out.  Puzzled, Dane gave the wood a swift inspection.  There were no cracks or crevices in the smooth surfaces, but as he stopped over the logs he became conscious of a sharp odor.  So this was one scent of the perfumed planet Sinbad did not like.  Dane laughed.  Maybe they had better have Weeks make a gate of the stuff and slip it across the ramp, keeping Sinbad on ship board.  Odd—­it wasn’t an unpleasant odor—­at least to him it wasn’t—­just sharp and pungent.  He sniffed again and was vaguely surprised to discover that it was less noticeable now.  Perhaps the wood when taken out of the sunlight lost its scent.

They packed the lower hold solid in accordance with the rules of stowage and locked the hatch before Van Rycke returned from his meeting with the storm priests.  When the Cargo-master came back he was followed by two servants bearing between them a chest.

But there was something in Van Rycke’s attitude, apparent to those who knew him best, that proclaimed he was not too well pleased with his morning’s work.  Sparing the feelings of the accompanying storm priests about the offensiveness of the spacer Captain Jellico and Steen Wilcox went out to receive them in the open.  Dane watched from the hatch, aware that in his present pariah-hood it would not be wise to venture closer.

The Terran Traders were protesting some course of action that the Salariki were firmly insistent upon.  In the end the natives won and Kosti was summoned to carry on board the chest which the servants had brought.  Having seen it carried safely inside the spacer, the aliens departed, but Van Rycke was frowning and Jellico’s fingers were beating a tattoo on his belt as they came up the ramp.