"Usual pattern," Ali answered, "He's sleeping. Got a pain, Fella?"
Rip shook his head. "Right as a Com-unit. I don't get it. Why does it strike Tang who didn't even hit dirt much—and yet you keep on—?"
Dane grimaced. "If we had an answer to that, maybe we'd know what caused the whole thing—"
Ali's eyes narrowed. He was staring straight at the unconscious Com-tech as if he did not see that supine body at all. "I wonder if we've been salted—" he said slowly.
"We've been what?" Dane demanded.
"Look here, we three—with Weeks—drank that brew of the Salariki, didn't we? And we—"
"Were as sick as Venusian gobblers afterwards," agreed Rip.
Light dawned. "Do you mean—" began Dane.
"So that's it!" flashed Rip.
"It might just be," Ali said. "Do you remember how the settlers on Camblyne brought their Terran cattle through the first year? They fed them salt mixed with fansel grass. The result was that the herds didn't take the fansel grass fever when they turned them out to pasture in the dry season. All right, maybe we had our 'salt' in that drink. The fansel-salt makes the cattle filthy sick when it's forced down their throats, but after they recover they're immune to the fever. And nobody on Camblyne buys unsalted cattle now."