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An unusual cargo.
The ancient miner emerged from the jump , and instinctively checked the sector as the ‘voy he was escorting materialised into the space around him . He waved to Waldoze , escorting a ‘voy in the opposite direction , and sent a friendly hail to Foo Fighter .
“ Hey Ecka , you are always heading somewhere , what is it you trade so much , goods or weapons ? “ asked Foo.
Ecka grinned to himself , feeling that his answer would leave Foo with the impression that the ancient one was well awa’ with the fairies.
He swung the big ‘taur round , engaged turbo , stretched , and as he so often did these days drifted off into a dwam . His thoughts went back to a tale told to him in his youth in Nyrius by a miner as old then as Ecka was now. The sort of folklore passed down through the generations , at any time when men gather to talk . Paper crumbles to dust , but collective reverie lives on by renewal .
“ Heh young Ecka “ laughed the old man, “ I’ll tell ye a tale . A tale from the days of old earth , when men built ships to sail across great oceans , a time before flight , before space. Men built these ships in great yards by the sea , and into them went the sweat and the toil and often the blood of many . “
It is the close of the working day in one such yard , the hooter goes and tired men trudge to the gates through the drizzle. McTavish the security guard watches them , and sees Wee Jimmy the labourer pushing a wheelbarrow with an old tarpaulin over it . Wee Jimmy is fly in his way , and McTavish is immediately suspicious.
“ Och now Jimmy , whit huv ye there in that barrow ? “
Jimmy lifts the tarpaulin, revealing broken scraps of wood of no use to the yard .
“Aw , Mr McTavish sir , ‘tis only a bit of kindling , so ma’ missus can boil the tatties fur wur tea “
Despite his suspicions McTavish can see nothing wrong with this and lets him pass. The next evening , once again Wee Jimmy approaches the gate pushing his wheelbarrow .
“ Now Jimmy , Whit is under that tarp ? “
“Aw , Mr McTavish sir , ‘tis only a bit of kindling , so ma’ missus can boil the neaps fur wur tea “
Again the scraps of wood are all there is to be seen, and McTavish uneasily allows Wee Jimmy through the gate. Time passes , and the nightly ritual continues for 20 years until eventually both men are pensioned off , backs bent by years in this harsh world.
Shipyards are communities , and as it happens the two pensioners meet in a local bar . Wee Jimmy treats McTavish to a hauf an’a hauf and a game of dominoes, and they sit and reminisce.
“ Weel Jimmy” says McTavish, “ ah always kent ye was on the make somehow , but ah never saw how you did well oot of taking firewood”
Wee Jimmy grins toothlessly.
“ Och Mr McTavish, ah wisnae stealing firewood, ah wis stealing wheelbarrows......”
“ Hey Ecka , you are always heading somewhere , what is it you trade so much , goods or weapons ? “ asked Foo.
Ecka grinned to himself , feeling that his answer would leave Foo with the impression that the ancient one was well awa’ with the fairies.
He swung the big ‘taur round , engaged turbo , stretched , and as he so often did these days drifted off into a dwam . His thoughts went back to a tale told to him in his youth in Nyrius by a miner as old then as Ecka was now. The sort of folklore passed down through the generations , at any time when men gather to talk . Paper crumbles to dust , but collective reverie lives on by renewal .
“ Heh young Ecka “ laughed the old man, “ I’ll tell ye a tale . A tale from the days of old earth , when men built ships to sail across great oceans , a time before flight , before space. Men built these ships in great yards by the sea , and into them went the sweat and the toil and often the blood of many . “
It is the close of the working day in one such yard , the hooter goes and tired men trudge to the gates through the drizzle. McTavish the security guard watches them , and sees Wee Jimmy the labourer pushing a wheelbarrow with an old tarpaulin over it . Wee Jimmy is fly in his way , and McTavish is immediately suspicious.
“ Och now Jimmy , whit huv ye there in that barrow ? “
Jimmy lifts the tarpaulin, revealing broken scraps of wood of no use to the yard .
“Aw , Mr McTavish sir , ‘tis only a bit of kindling , so ma’ missus can boil the tatties fur wur tea “
Despite his suspicions McTavish can see nothing wrong with this and lets him pass. The next evening , once again Wee Jimmy approaches the gate pushing his wheelbarrow .
“ Now Jimmy , Whit is under that tarp ? “
“Aw , Mr McTavish sir , ‘tis only a bit of kindling , so ma’ missus can boil the neaps fur wur tea “
Again the scraps of wood are all there is to be seen, and McTavish uneasily allows Wee Jimmy through the gate. Time passes , and the nightly ritual continues for 20 years until eventually both men are pensioned off , backs bent by years in this harsh world.
Shipyards are communities , and as it happens the two pensioners meet in a local bar . Wee Jimmy treats McTavish to a hauf an’a hauf and a game of dominoes, and they sit and reminisce.
“ Weel Jimmy” says McTavish, “ ah always kent ye was on the make somehow , but ah never saw how you did well oot of taking firewood”
Wee Jimmy grins toothlessly.
“ Och Mr McTavish, ah wisnae stealing firewood, ah wis stealing wheelbarrows......”
heh i heard one like it before, good story.
what is that? 52 weeks X 6 days a week X 20 years = 6240 wheelbarrow's
what is that? 52 weeks X 6 days a week X 20 years = 6240 wheelbarrow's
hehe, so in reality you are just ferrying Centaurs Ecka?
Good story:)
-Hortan
Good story:)
-Hortan
arent they available everywhere?
Silly people.
He was hauling wheelbarrows! :)
He was hauling wheelbarrows! :)
lnh: Not if they were Tunguska centaurs :P