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"Shall we take a chance? Ringg son of Rahan greets you." "Bartol son of Berihun." "I don't remember seeing you in the port, Bartol." "I've mostly worked on the Polaris run." "Way off there?" Ringg son of Rahan sounded startled and impressed. "You really get around, don't you? Shall we sit here?" They sat on triangular chairs at a three-cornered table.
"Well, Bart Steele, alias Bartol son of Berihun," said one old Lhari, "what have you to say for yourself?" Bart stood silent, not moving. What could he say that would not reveal how desperately alone, how young and foolish and frightened he felt? All his brave resolutions seemed to drain away before their old, gnomish faces.
He fumbled in the capacious folds of his cloak for his papers. His voice sounded shrill, even to himself. "Bartol son of Berihun in respectful greeting, rieko mori." Unmistakably, Vorongil's snort was laughter. "So you've been talking, Ringg?" Ringg retorted, "Better that I tell one man than that you have to hunt the planet over or run the long haul with the drive-room watches short by one man."
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