Dane Thorson, Cargo-master-apprentice of the Solar Queen, Galactic
Free Trader spacer, Terra registry, stood in the middle of the
ship's cramped bather while Rip Shannon, assistant Astrogator and
his senior in the Service of Trade by some four years, applied gobs
of highly scented paste to the skin between Dane's rather prominent
shoulder blades. The small cabin was thickly redolent with spicy
odors and Rip sniffed appreciatively. "You're sure going to be
about the best smelling Terran who ever set boot on Sargol's soil,"
his soft slur of speech ended in a rich chuckle. Dane snorted and
tried to estimate progress over one shoulder. "The things we have
to do for Trade " his comment carried a hint of present
embarrassment. "Get it well in-this stuff's supposed to hold for
hours. It'd better. According to Van those Salariki can talk your
ears right off your head and say nothing worth hearing. And we have
to sit and listen until we get a straight answer out of them. Phew
"
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