Bloody hell, he thought. He’s alive! Me too. Who’d have thought it? Perhaps there is something in this reflected-sound-of-underground-spirits? It was a cumbersome phrase. Rincewind tried to get his tongue around the thick syllables that were the word in Twoflower’s own language. “Ecolirix?” he tried. “Ecro-gnothics? Echo-gnomics?” That would do. That sounded about right.
