At nearly seven feet, the big Volton was easily the strongest, most imposing figure among the Legionnaires, even if his stringy dark hair, protruding tusks, and misshapen head didn’t give him the appearance of a cross between a warthog and Frankenstein’s monster. Stepping forward, he grasped one end of the log as Phule and Armstrong got the other, and together they rolled it sideways until it rested against the center span. A few more moments, and the third log was shoved into place next to the others.
“This is easier to cross,” Phule declared, walking out to the center of the makeshift bridge and jiggling it with his feet to check its steadiness, “but it’s still a little wobbly if we’re all going to cross it in a hurry. Anyone have any rope in your packs?”
Nobody did.
“Well, I know you all have knives. They were issued to you, and while they aren’t the best-quality cutlery, they’ll do for the moment. Do-Wop?”
Here, Captain!”
“Grab a partner and go get us some rope to tie these logs together with.”
“Sir?”
“Think, soldier! I believe you’ll find some back at the last station. That is, of course, if you don’t feel it will compromise your well-known principles to stoop to liberating something for the company’s benefit.”
Whoops and cheers went up from the Legionnaires at this, as Do-Wop could normally be relied on to requisition anything that wasn’t nailed down solidly-and chained, to boot.
“While we’re waiting,” Phule called, waving them into grinning silence, “let’s kick around some ideas of how to beat the next obstacle. Anyone have any ideas?”