"I see. You said the donovan was taboo to you. Could it be that you, likewise, are taboo to the donovan?"
"Yes, mister. The donovan and I grew up together."
"Oh, so that's it," said Duncan.
He put a pinch of the parched and powdered corn into his mouth and took a sip of brackish water. He chewed reflectively on the resultant mash.
He might go ahead, he knew, and ask why and how and where Sipar and the donovan had grown up together, but there was no point to it. This was exactly the kind of tangle that Shotwell was forever getting into.
Half the time, he told himself, I'm convinced the little stinkers are doing no more than pulling our legs.
What a fantastic bunch of jerks! Not men, not women, just things. And while there were never babies, there were children, although never less than eight or nine years old. And if there were no babies, where did the eight-and nine-year-olds come from?
suppose," he said, "that these other things that are your taboos, the stilt-birds and the screamers and the like, also grew up with you."