"I knew they
ought to!"
Meillard indicated himself and said, "_Fwoonk_."
That wasn't right. The village elder immediately corrected him.
The word, it seemed, was, "_Fwoonk_."
His three companions agreed that that was the word for self,
but that was as far as the agreement went. They rendered it,
respectively, as "_Pwink_," "_Tweelt_" and "_Kroosh_."
Gofredo gave a barking laugh. He was right; anything that could go
wrong would go wrong. Lillian used a word; it was not a ladylike
word at all. The Svants looked at them as though wondering what
could possibly be the matter. Then they went into a huddle, arguing
vehemently. The argument spread, like a ripple in a pool; soon
everybody was twittering vocally or blowing on flutes and Panpipes.
Then the big horn started blaring. Immediately, Gofredo snatched the
hand-phone of his belt radio and began speaking urgently into it.
"What are you doing, Luis?" Meillard asked anxiously.
"Calling the reserve in. I'm not taking chances on this." He spoke
again into the phone, then called over his shoulder: "Rienet; three
one-second bursts, in the air!"
A Marine pointed a submachine gun skyward and ripped off a string of
shots, then another, and another.
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