The corridor floor was littered with tapes, DVDs and their plastic covers.  Even twenty motras
away, John could hear that the devastation had not ended.  

“Crichton ... you are a dead man!”

He accelerated to a run, fully aware that he was charging headlong into danger without the first
idea what had triggered the death threats.  “What is the problem?”   

Aeryn glared at him, and then turned to D’Argo, who was watching his parents with glee.  “Say
the word again,” she coaxed.  “Talk to your mother.”  

Wide innocent eyes gazed at her.  “N’uk,” their son burbled at last.  “N’uk, nyuk, nyuck.”     


                                                      
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