Then he said, "You," to
Luis Gofredo. It went around the contact team; when it came to him,
he returned it to point of origin.
"I don't think they get it at all," he added in a whisper.
"They ought to," Lillian said. "Every language has a word for self
and a word for person-addressed."
"Well, look at them," Karl Dorver invited. "Six different opinions
about what we mean, and now the band's starting an argument of their
own."
"Phase Two-A," Lillian said firmly, stepping forward. She pointed
to herself. "Me--Lillian Ransby. Lillian Ransby--me _name_.
You--_name_?
"_Bwoooo!_" the spokesman screamed in horror, clutching his staff
as though to shield it from profanation. The others howled like
a hound-pack at a full moon, except one of the short-tunic boys,
who was slapping himself on the head with both hands and yodeling.
The horn-crew hastily swung their piece around at the Terrans,
pumping frantically.
"What do you suppose I said?" Lillian asked.
"Oh, something like, 'Curse your gods, death to your king, and
spit in your mother's face,' I suppose.
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