"There isn't any language barrier in a thought, but you might say there's sometimes an attitude barrier. Usually, we can pick up an equivalent meaning if we assume, for instance, that our time sense is similar to that of these fish." "Well, try asking Harris how deep he is," suggested Smith. They watched Johnson look away, although the man did not seem to be going through any marked effort of concentration. Hardly thirty seconds of this had elapsed when they saw him scowl. "This fish off my beach can't get it through his massive intellect that he can't think directly to another fish at your position. He thinks you must be pretty queer not to have someone to do your thinking for you." Smith turned a little red. Westervelt admired Joe Rosenkrantz's pokerface. Johnson appeared to be insisting. "Harris says he is two minutes' swim under the surface," he reported. "Well, how far from your position, then?" asked Smith. The distance turned out to be a day-and-a-half swim. "Does he need anything? Are they keeping him under livable conditions?" The pause, and Johnson relayed, "They pump him air and feed him. He needs someone to get him out." "How can we find him?" asked Smith. "Can he work up any way of signaling us?" "You are signaling him now, he says. He wants you to get him out." Smith looked around him for questions. Lydman suggested asking how Harris was confined. Smith put it to Johnson, and after the maddening pause, got an answer. "He says he's in a big glass box like a freight trailer. It's like a cage. Inside, he is free to move around, and he wants to get out." "Then have him tell us where it is!" snapped Smith. "He doesn't know," came the reply. "They move about every so often." "What did I say?" whispered Parrish. "Nomadic." No one took the time to congratulate him because Smith was asking what the Tridentians were like. Johnson's mental connection seemed to develop static. They saw him shake his head as if to clear it. He turned a puzzled expression to the screen. "I didn't get that very plainly," he admitted. "A sort of combination of thoughts--they feed him and they don't taste good." "Well, tell your fishy friend to keep his own opinions out of it," said Smith, surprising Westervelt, who had not quite caught up to the situation. Johnson, a moment later, grimaced. His expression became apologetic. "Don't say things like that!" he told Smith, turning again to the screen. "It slipped through my mind as I heard you, and he didn't like it!" "Who? Harris?" "No, the fish at his end. I apologized for you." There was a general restless shifting of feet in the Terran office. Smith seemed, in the dim lighting of the communications room, to flush a deeper shade. "And what does Harris say?" Johnson inquired. Harris requested that they get him out. "Goddammit!" muttered Smith. "He must be punchy!" "It happens," Lydman reminded him softly.