Lament frowned. “Perhaps they don’t want a unilateral stoppage. They consider us their partners and they want a mutual agreement to stop. Don’t you suppose that might be so?”

“It might. But it might also be that communication is less than perfect; that they don’t quite understand the significance of the words B-A-D. From what I said to them via their symbols, which I might well have twisted utterly, they may think that B-A-D means what we consider G-O-O-D.”

“Oh, no.”

“Well, that’s your hope, but there’s no pay-off on hopes.”

“Mike, just keep on sending messages. Use as many of the words they use as possible and keep ringing the changes. You’re the expert and it’s in your hands. Eventually, they’ll know enough words to say something clear and unmistakable and then we’ll explain that we’re willing to have the Pump stopped.”

“We lack the authority to make any such statement.”

“Yes, but they won’t know, and in the end we’ll be mankind’s heroes.”

“Even if they execute us first?”

“Even so. ... It’s in your hands, Mike, and I’m sure it won’t take much longer.”

10

And yet it did. Two weeks passed without another message and the strain grew worse.

Bronowski showed it. The momentary lightness of heart had dissipated, and he entered Lament’s laboratory in glum silence.

They stared at each other and finally Bronowski said, “It’s all over the place that you’ve received your show-cause.”

Lament had clearly not shaved that morning. His laboratory had a forlorn look about it, a not-quite-definable, packing-up look. He shrugged. “So what? It doesn’t bother me. What does bother me is that Physical Reviews rejected my paper.”

“You said you were expecting that.”

“Yes, but I thought they might give me reasons. They might point out what they thought were fallacies, errors, unwarranted assumptions. Something I could argue about.”

“And they didn’t?”

“Not a word. Their referees did not consider the paper suitable for publication. Quote, unquote. They just won’t touch it. ... It’s really disheartening, the universal stupidity. I think that I wouldn’t grieve at mankind’s suicide through sheer evilness of heart, or through mere recklessness. There’s something so damned undignified at going to destruction through sheer thickheaded stupidity. What’s the use of being men if that’s how you have to die.”

“Stupidity,” muttered Bronowski.

“What else do you call it? And they want me to show-cause why I ought not to be fired for the great crime of being right.”

“Everyone seems to know that you consulted Chen.”

“Yes!” Lamont put his fingers to the bridge of his nose and wearily rubbed his eyes. “I apparently got him annoyed enough to go to Hallam with tales, and now the accusation is that I have been trying to sabotage the Pump project by unwarranted and unsupported fright tactics in an unprofessional manner and that this makes me unsuitable for employment on the Station.”

“They can prove that easily, Pete.”

“I suppose they can. It doesn’t matter.”

“What are you going to do.”

“Nothing,” said Lamont indignantly. “Let them do their worst. I’ll rely on red tape. Every step of this thing will take weeks, months, and meanwhile you keep working. We’ll hear from the para-men yet.”

Bronowski looked miserable. “Pete, suppose we don’t. Maybe it’s time you think about this again.”

Lamont looked up sharply. “What are you talking about?”

“Tell them you’re wrong. Do penance. Beat your breast. Give up.”

“Never! By God, Mike, we’re playing a game in which the stakes are all the world and every living creature on it.”

“Yes, but what’s that to you? You’re not married. You have no children. I know your father is dead. You never mention your mother or any siblings, I doubt if there is any human being on earth to whom you are emotionally attached as an individual. So go your way and the hell with it all.”

“And you?”

“I’ll do the same. I’m divorced and I have no children. I have a young lady with whom I’m close and that relationship will continue while it can. Live! Enjoy!”

“And tomorrow!”

“Will take care of itself. Death when it comes will be quick.”

“I can’t live with that philosophy.... Mike. Mike! What is all this? Are you trying to tell me that we’re not going to get through? Are you giving up on the para-men?”

Bronowski looked away. He said, “Pete, I did get an answer. Last night. I thought I’d wait for today and think about it, but why think? ... Here it is.”

Lament’s eyes were staring questions. He took the foil and looked at it. There was no punctuation:

“By God,” muttered Bronowski, “they sound desperate.”

Lamont was still staring. He said nothing.

Bronowski said, “I gather that somewhere on the other side is someone like you—a para-Lamont. And he can’t get his para-Hallams to stop, either. And while we’re begging them to save us, he’s begging us to save them.”

Lamont said, “But if we show this—”

“They’ll say you’re lying; that it’s a hoax you’ve concocted to save your psychotically-conceived nightmare.”

“They can say that of me, maybe; but they can’t say it of you. You’ll back me, Mike. You’ll testify that you received this and how.”

Bronowski reddened. “What good would that do? They’ll say that somewhere in the para-Universe there is a nut like yourself and that two crackpots got together. They’ll say that the message proves that the constituted authorities in the para-Universe are convinced there’s no danger.”

“Mike, fight this through with me.”

“There’s no use, Pete. You said yourself, stupidity! Those para-man may be more advanced than ourselves, even more intelligent, as you insist, but it’s plain to see that they’re just as stupid as we are and that ends it Schiller pointed that out and I believe him.”

“Who?”

“Schiller. A German dramatist of three centuries ago. In a play about Joan of Arc, he said, ‘Against stupidity, the gods themselves contend in vain.’ I’m no god and I’ll contend no longer. Let it go, Pete, and go your way. Maybe the world will last our time and, if not, there’s nothing that can be done anyway. I’m sorry, Pete. You fought the good fight, but you lost, and I’m through.”

He was gone and Lamont was alone. He sat in his chair, fingers aimlessly drumming, drumming. Somewhere in the Sun, protons were clinging together with just a trifling additional avidity and with each moment that avidity grew and at some moment the delicate balance would break down...

“And no one on Earth will live to know I was right,” cried out Lamont, and blinked and blinked to keep back the tears.