"You know. Like when you guttip. Carooms get awfully bevvergrit. Why, I saw one actually—"
"Let's go back a little, shall we?" Jonathan suggested. "What does shurgub mean?"
There was a pause while the machine hummed and the recorder tape whirred. Jonathan remembered the look on Easton's face when he had asked him that. Easton had pulled away slightly, mouth open, eyes hurt.
"Why—why, I told you!" he had shouted. "Weeks ago! What's the matter? Don't you blikkel English?"
Jonathan Blair reached out and snapped the switch on the machine. Putting his head in his hands, he stared down at the top of his desk.
You learned Navajo in six months, he reminded himself fiercely.
You are a highly skilled linguist. What's the matter? Don't you blikkel English?
e groaned and started searching through his briefcase for the reports from Psych. Easton must be insane. He must! Ramirez says it's no language. Stoughton says it's no language. And I, Jonathan thought savagely, say it's no language.