Their dialect fell soft and familiar on my ears. One of
them, without altering the expression on his face or the easy tone of
his voice, began to make elaborate comments on my entrance, my
appearance, my ancestry and probably personal habits, all defined in the
colorfully obscene dialect of Shainsa.
That had happened before. The Wolfan sense of humor is only half-human.
The finest joke is to criticize and insult a stranger, preferably an
Earthman, to his very face, in an unknown language, perfectly deadpan.
In my civilian clothes I was obviously fair game.
A look or gesture of resentment would have lost face and dignity--what
the Dry-towners call their _kihar_--permanently. I leaned over and
remarked in their own dialect that I would, at some future and
unspecified time, appreciate the opportunity to return their
compliments.
By rights they should have laughed, made some barbed remark about my
command of language and crossed their hands in symbol of a jest decently
reversed on themselves.
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