"What are they?" Starke told her. She shook her head, laughing. "Why
weigh yourself down that way? There's no trouble to breathe in this
ocean."
"For cripesake," said Starke. "Well I'll be damned. Must be a heavy
gas, then, radioactive, surface tension under atmospheric pressure,
enough to float a light hull, and high oxygen content without any
dangerous mixture. Well, well. Okay, why doesn't somebody go down and
see if the sea-people will help? They don't like Rann's branch of the
family, you said."
"They don't like us, either," said Faolan. "We stay out of the southern
part of the sea. They wreck our ships, sometimes." His bitter mouth
twisted in a smile. "Did you want to go to them for help?"
Starke didn't quite like the way Faolan sounded. "It was just a
suggestion," he said.
Beudag rose, stretching, wincing as the stiffened wounds pulled her
flesh. "Come, on, Faolan. Let's sleep."
He rose and laid his hand on her shoulder. Romna's harpstrings breathed
a subtle little mockery of sound. The bard's eyes were veiled and
sleepy. Beudag did not look at Starke, called Conan.