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John Crichton was bellowing at the top of his lungs.  “For God’s sake, Rygel!  The kid is only eight
cycles old!”  

“How would I know what age your species reaches sexual maturity?” the Dominar grumped.  

“Bull dren.  You know damned well we mature a whole lot later than luxans.  I was talking about a
toy for kids, not some paraphernalia suitable for a bordello!”  

“You said you wanted to get him --”

“I said I wished I could get him an Erector Set, Guido!  Not --”  Crichton took a deep breath and
let it out slowly.  “The word is erector, not erection.”

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