Either end of a moldy-green leather thong had been
fastened to the two front paws for a shoulder-baldric. When new, Rand
thought, it must have given its wearer a really distinctive aroma, even
for Africa. He drew the blade gingerly, looked at it, and sheathed it
with caution.
"East African; Danakil, or Somali, or something like that," he commented.
"Be damn good and careful not to scratch yourself on that; if you do,
you'll need about a gallon of anti-tetanus shots."
"Y'think it might be poisoned?" the man with the dirty neck and the
month-old haircut inquired eagerly. "See, Miss Lawrence? What I told you;
a real African native sword. I got that-there from Hen Sourbaw, over at
Feltonville; his uncle, the Reverend Sourbaw, that used to preach at
Hemlock Gap Church, brung it from Africa, himself, about fifty years ago.
He used to be a missionary, in his younger days.... I can make you an
awful good price on that-there item, Miss Lawrence."
"God forbid!" she exclaimed. "All my customers are heavy drinkers; I
wouldn't want to answer for what might happen if some of them saw that
thing, suddenly."
"Oh, well.... How about that-there little amethyst bottle, then?"
"Well ... I would give you seven dollars for that," she grudged.
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