One man's trash is another man's treasure. -- Knitnan
Sooner or later, someone will buy it. This is the mantra of both Junker Nomads and Tall Tale Tellers alike. Some of whom do both jobs at once. The further one goes, the more one can sell it for. Unless, of course, said object is everywhere. In which case, one has to take it to the Edge Territories or beyond.
And every trader, large or small, has a minimum of one Standard Weight Unit of beads somewhere in their cargo. After all, one never knows when someone will want something shiny. And, in the rare event of a rough landing on a primitive planet, one can trade them for materials that the natives may possess. It is advisable to attempt to avoid godhood in such cases, rare though they may be.
Godhood was the last thing on Prexin's mind in this blasted wasteland. The good news was that the food printers were still working. The bad news was that they were stuck on anchovy salad. The rest of it was awful news. The ship was just about toast and, unless Prexin wanted to be stuck for the rest of their life on this rock, they would have to leave their cargo behind.
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