Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Greg Weeks, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction December 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. Rough Translation By JEAN M. JANIS Illustrated by Hunter 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. But-- Margery tiptoed into the study with a tray. "But Psych," he continued aloud to her, "Psych says it _must_ be a language because, they say, Easton is _not_ insane!" "Oh, dear," sighed Margery, blinking her pale blue eyes. "That again?" She set his coffee on the desk in front of him. "Poor Jonathan. Why doesn't the Institute give up?" "Because they can't." He reached for the cup and sat glaring at the steaming coffee. "Well," said his wife, settling into the leather chair beside him, "_I_ certainly would. My goodness, it's been over a month now since he came back, and you haven't learned a thing from him!" "Oh, we've learned some. And this morning, for the first time, Easton himself began to seem puzzled by a few of the things he was saying. He's beginning to use terms we can understand. He's coming around. And if I could only find some clue--some sort of--"