Quern shivered. "They're under," he sighed. "They're under."
"Send them out. North, to the quicksands." My arms and shoulders ached and I was swaying on my feet. I hardly heard Quern's thin, dreamy voice. I did hear the slow, obedient noise of their great feet slogging away, the last male cansin a dull green mote above them.
And I heard Gow crying.
We got the last of the animals back by noon of the next day. We did what we could for Nahru. Thank God our own beasts hadn't done much damage. We left a lot of Beamish's credits to help out, and took the old tub off away from there.
Bucky Shannon recovered nicely. I'm still herding his Imperial Washout around the Triangle. We're not doing so hot without Gertrude, but what the hell—we're used to the sewage lock.
And if anyone has a cansin he wants to sell.... Thanks, chum, but we're not in the market. Now, or ever.
I sometimes wonder if there are any more of them in the deep swamps, waiting for their mate to come back.