“A
collective what?” Captain Briggs demands.
“Hallucination,”
Phoebe tells him, “Only it's a bit more complicated than that.
Call it a partially targeted collective hallucination.”
“I
didn't loosen that gag for you to spout gibberish,” the Captain
yells, unable to contain his frustration. “Speak sense, or the
chains go back on and over the side you go.”
“Okay,”
Phoebe says, “Let's try this from a different angle. Your cargo?
Have you had much experience transporting these type of goods.”
“I've
carried alcohol before, if that's what you're asking, but I don't
touch a drop of it.”
“Transported
alcohol, I'm sure,” Phoebe replies, “But not this type of
commercial alcohol?”
The
captain frowns, but shakes his head.
“And
that's where your problems begin.”
