The second time, he frowned and tugged at his pointed chin. The third found him already at work. The computational translator, and the time inverter. Two lunatic concepts, born of monomania and genius. Two concepts that, it appeared increasingly, just might work. Time out for Korea ... Chinese communists in quilted coats ... blood and iron and freezing death. Well, at least it would pay for the rest of the doctorate, under the GI Bill. If he lived through it. The notice of the car crash reached him at Heartbreak Ridge. No mother now, no father. Just an inheritance. More courses, more digging, more Professor's letters, pulsing excitement and jubilation for all their veiled language. Home again. Back to the university. The shock of seeing at first hand just how far The Professor had gone; how short a distance there remained to go. And then, at last, The Girl, and the old line about passes and glasses turning out not always to be true after all. More courses, more digging, more months slipping by. The discussions, increasingly acerbic, as it developed that The Director was a stiff-necked, belligerent bigot who classed Sir Arthur Evans and God in that order when it came to authority on matters Minoan. The Girl, encouraging, all intellect and well-bred adoration. The Professor, designing a new-type radiation detector to help search out the truth about Knossos' fall, just in case they never did get the time inverter to work properly. The Director, adamant. The inverter, failing again and and again. The faint, nagging disappointment of discovering that The Girl could discuss the courtship customs of Papua and Parthia and Patagonia in detail, yet still hold a man at arm's length here on the campus. But still, there was his dissertation to sustain him, his long-planned trip to Crete to cling to. Even if it took every penny of his inheritance, even if The Girl wouldn't marry him and go along because he still lacked his degree, the journey couldn't help but prove worthwhile. By air, to London. Then to Athens and the British School, to complete contacts. Finally, down across the Aegean to Crete itself. He had to shove his hands deep into his pockets to hide their trembling when first he stepped from the car at Knossos. Even seeing the reconstructed palace with his own eyes shook him that much. The British, polite and helpful as they tried to hide their amusement at the use of the detector. The Cretan workmen, exchanging glances that said openly that he was surely mad. And then, the needle, going crazy--trying to bounce clear off the dial. The headphones, buzzing till his ears hurt. Endless hours of aching to talk to someone, yet not daring. Long days when the right words for the dissertation just wouldn't come.