THE COSMIC COMPUTER

Back Forward Menu

The old Rebel cursed. "Gehenna of a big crop; we're up to our necks in
melons. This time next year we'll be washing our feet in brandy."

"Hold onto it and age it; you ought to see what they charge for a drink
of Poictesme brandy on Terra."

"This isn't Terra, and we aren't selling it by the drink," Colonel
Zareff said. "We're selling it at Storisende Spaceport, for what the
freighter captains pay us. You've been away too long, Conn. You've
forgotten what it's like to live in a poor-house."

The cargo was coming off, now. Cask staves, and more cask staves. Zareff
swore bitterly at the sight, and then they started toward the wide doors
of the shipping floor, inside the Airlines Building. Outgoing cargo was
beginning to come out; casks of brandy, of course, and a lot of boxes
and crates, painted light blue and bearing the yellow trefoil of the
Third Fleet-Army Force and the eight-pointed red star of Ordnance. Cases