“That might also be just their naivete,” said Bronowski, unimpressed.

“You mean they think there is only one language, spoken and written, and that another intelligence in another Universe speaks and writes as they do? Come on!”

Bronowski said, “Even if I were to grant your point, what do you want me to do? I’ve looked at the para-symbols; I suppose every archaeologist and philologist on Earth has. I don’t see what I can do; neither, I’m sure, does anyone else. In over twenty years, no progress has been made.”

Lament said, intensely, “What’s true is that in twenty years, there has been no desire for progress. The Pump Authority does not want to solve the symbols.”

“Why shouldn’t they want to?”

“Because of the annoying possibility that communication with the para-men will show them to be distinctly more intelligent. Because that would show human beings to be the puppet-partners in connection with the Pump to the hurt of their ego. And, specifically,” (and Lament strove to keep venom out of his voice) “because Hallam would lose the credit for being the Father of the Electron Pump.”

“Suppose they did want to make progress. What could be done? The will is not the deed, you know.”

“They could get the para-men to cooperate. They could send messages to the para-Universe. This has never been done, but it could be. A message on metal foil might be placed under a pellet of tungsten.”

“Oh? Are they still looking for new samples of tungsten, even with Pumps in operation?”

“No, but they’ll notice the tungsten and they’ll assume we’re trying to use it to attract their attention. We might even place the message on tungsten foil itself. If they take the message and make any sense of it at all, even the slightest, they’ll send back one of their own, incorporating their findings. They might set up an equivalence table, of their words and ours, or they might use a mixture of their words and ours. It will be a kind of alternate push, first on their side, then on ours, then on theirs, and so on.”

“With their side,” said Bronowski, “doing most of the work.”

“Yes.”

Bronowski shook his head. “No fun in that, is there? It doesn’t appeal to me.”

Lament looked at him with flaring anger. “Why not? Don’t you think there’ll be enough credit in it for you? Not enough fame? What are you, a connoisseur of fame? What kind of fame did you get out of the Etruscan inscriptions, damn it. You beat out five others in the world. Maybe six. With them you’re a household word and a success and they hate you. What else? You go about lecturing on the subject before audiences amounting to a few dozen and they forget your name the day after. Is that what you’re really after?”

“Don’t be dramatic.”

“All right. I won’t be. I’ll get someone else. It may take longer but, as you say, the para-men will do most of the work anyway. If necessary, I’ll do it myself.”

“Have you been assigned this project?”

“No, I haven’t. What of it? Or is that another reason you don’t want to get involved. Disciplinary problems? There is no law against attempting translation and I can always place tungsten on my desk. I will not choose to report any messages I get in place of the tungsten and to that extent I will be breaking the research-code. Once the translation is made, who will complain? Would you work with me if I guaranteed your safety and kept your part in it secret? You would lose your fame but you may value your security more. Oh, well,” Lament shrugged, “If I do it myself, there’s the advantage of not having to worry about someone else’s security.”

He rose to go. Both men were angry and bore themselves with that stiff-legged courtesy one assumes when addressing someone who is hostile, but still mannerly. “I presume,” said Lament, “you will at least treat this conversation as confidential.”

Bronowski was on his feet, too. “Of that you may be assured,” he said coldly, and the two shook hands briefly.

Lamont did not expect to hear from Bronowski again. He then began the process of talking himself into believing it would be better to handle the translation effort on his own.

Two days later, however, Bronowski was at Lament’s laboratory. He said, rather brusquely, “I’m leaving the city now, but I’ll be back in September. I’m taking the position here and, if you’re still interested, I’ll see what I can do about the translation problem you mentioned.”

Lamont had barely time for a surprised expression of thanks when Bronowski stalked off, apparently angrier at having given in, than at having resisted.

They became friends in time; and, in time, Lamont learned what had brought Bronowski around. The day after their discussion, Bronowski had had lunch at the Faculty Club with a group of the higher officials of the university, including, of course, the president. Bronowski had announced that he would accept the position and send in a formal letter to that effect in due time and all had expressed gratification.

The president had said, “It will be quite a feather in our cap to have the renowned translator of the Itascan Inscriptions at the university. We are honored.”

The malapropism had gone uncorrected, of course, and Bronowski’s smile, though strained, did not actually waver. Afterward, the head of the Department of Ancient History explained the president to be more of a Minnesotan than a classical scholar and since Lake Itasca was the point of origin of the mighty Mississippi, the slip of the tongue was a natural one.

But, in combination with Lament’s sneer at the extent of his fame, Bronowski found the expression rankling.

When Lamont finally heard the story, he was amused. “Don’t go on,” he said. “I’ve been down that road, too. You said to yourself, ‘By God, I’ll do something even that knot-head will have to get straight.’ ”

“A little like that,” said Bronowski.

A year’s work, however, had netted them very little. Messages had finally come across; messages had come back. Nothing.

“Just guess!” Lamont had said feverishly to Bronowski. “Any wild guess at all. Try it out on them.”

“It’s exactly what I’m doing, Pete. What are you so jumpy about? I spent twelve years on the Etruscan Inscriptions. Do you expect this job to take less time?”

“Good God, Mike. We can’t take twelve years.”

“Why not? Look, Pete, it hasn’t escaped me that there’s been a change in your attitude. You’ve been impossible this last month or so. I thought we had it clear at the start that this work can’t go quickly, and that we’ve got to be patient. I thought you understood that I had my regular duties at the university, too. Look, I’ve been asking you this several times, now. Let me ask again. Why are you in such a hurry now?”

“Because I’m in a hurry,” said Lament abruptly. “Because I want to get on with it.”

“Congratulations,” said Bronowski, dryly, “so do I. Listen, you’re not expecting an early death, are you? Your doctor hasn’t told you you’re hiding a fatal cancer?”

“No, no,” groaned Lamont.

“Well, then?”

“Never mind,” said Lamont, and he walked away hurriedly.

When he had first tried to get Bronowski to join forces with him, Lament’s grievance had concerned only Hallam’s mean-minded obstinacy concerning the suggestion that the para-men were the more intelligent. It was in that respect and that respect only that Lamont was striving for a breakthrough. He intended nothing beyond that—at first.

But in the course of the following months, he had been subjected to endless exasperation. His requests for equipment, for technical assistance, for computer time were delayed; his request for travel funds snubbed; his views at interdepartmental meetings invariably overlooked.

The breaking point came when Henry Garrison, junior to himself in point of service and definitely so in point of ability, received an advisory appointment, rich in prestige, that, by all rights, should have gone to Lamont. It was then that Lament’s resentment built up to the point where merely proving himself right was no longer sufficient. He yearned to smash Hallam, destroy him utterly.