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Then the moaner stopped, and there were four deep whistle blasts for Fourth Ward, and four more shrill ones for Bottom Level. There was an instant's silence, and then a bedlam of shouts from the hunter-boat captains. That was where the tallow-wax that was being held out from the Co-operative was stored. "Shut up!" Dad roared, the loudest I'd ever heard him speak. "Shut up and listen!"
A hunter-boat captain, even a good one like Joe Kivelson, won't make much more in a year than Dad and I make out of the Times. Chemically, tallow-wax isn't like anything else in the known Galaxy. The molecules are huge; they can be seen with an ordinary optical microscope, and a microscopically visible molecule is a curious-looking object, to say the least.
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