"And I must confess, I told them of you, ere I knew their full intentions. Much can I tell you of their doings. But first, I pray, the block and tackle."
Retief found the hoist where the Fustian directed him, maneuvered it into position, hooked onto the edge of the carapace and hauled away. The immense Fustian rose slowly, teetered ... then flopped on his chest.
Slowly he got to his feet.
"My name is Whonk, fleet one," he said. "My cows are yours."
"Thanks. I'm Retief. I'd like to meet the girls some time. But right now, let's get out of here."
Whonk leaned his bulk against the ponderous stacks of baled kelp, bulldozed them aside. "Slow am I to anger," he said, "but implacable in my wrath. Slock, beware!"
"Hold it," said Retief suddenly. He sniffed. "What's that odor?" He flashed the light around, played it over a dry stain on the floor. He knelt, sniffed at the spot.
"What kind of cargo was stacked here, Whonk? And where is it now?"
Whonk considered. "There were drums," he said. "Four of them, quite small, painted an evil green, the property of the Soft Ones, the Groaci. They lay here a day and a night. At full dark of the first period they came with stevedores and loaded them aboard the barge Moss Rock."
"The VIP boat. Who's scheduled to use it?"