Don't be ashamed if you can't blikkel any more. It's because
you couldn't help framishing.
* * * * *
"Shurgub," said the tape recorder. "Just like I told you before, Dr.
Blair, it's krandoor, so don't expect to vrillipax, because they just
won't stand for any. They'd sooner framish."
"Framish?" Jonathan heard his own voice played back by the recorder,
tinny and slightly nasal. "What is that, Mr. Easton?"
"_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?
* * * * *
He 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.