“Yes. Only your picture of the nzred is not exactly—”
“Listen, Pierre,” he growled, “I’ll call it the way I see it. And that’s the way I see it. A love-story, now, let me think…”
I waited while he cerebrated upon this strange thing called a story which was essential to the making of a stereo, which, in turn, was essential to our beginning upon culture and civilization. Soon, soon, we would have dwellings like this powerful one in which I sat, we would have tubular weapons like that the robot had used when I entered—
“How would this be?” he asked suddenly. “Understand, this isn’t the finished product—I’m just working off the cuff, just trying it on for size. Srob meets mlenb, tkan loses guur, flin gets blap. How’s it sound? Only one I can’t fit in is the nzred.”
“I coordinate.”
“Yeah, you coordinate. That would make it, srob meets—Ah, shaddap! All you’re supposed to do is say ‘yes’ once in a while.” He murmured a few words to the robot who moved over to my chair. “Bronzo will take you to the projection room now. I’ll think some more.”
Tumbling painfully to the floor, I prepared to follow the robot.
“A love story is going to be tough,” Shlestertrap mused behind me. “I can see that right now. Like three-dimensional chess with all pawns wild and the queen operating in and out of hyperspace. Wonder if these potato sprouts have a religion. A nice, pious little stereo every once in a while—Hey! Got a religion?”
“Yes,” I said.