_The other air-breathing one is gone, the other Big Fish is feeding, as I have done just now, and it is not clear about the far Terran who lacks a Big Fish._ "All the bastards on both worlds are out to lunch," growled Harris, "and here I sit!" _You are in to lunch_, agreed the monster. The three eyes that bore upon the imprisoned man as the thinker swept past the tank had an intelligent alertness. Harris had come to imagine that he could detect expressions on Big Fish's limited features. "You're the only friend I've got!" he exclaimed, slipping suddenly into self-pity. "I wish I could go with you." _Once you could, when you had your own tank._ "It was what we call a submarine," said Harris. "I was looking to see what was on the ocean floor. Tell me, is it all like this?" _Is it all like what? With blue lobsters?_ Harris still retained enough sanity to realize that the Tridentians did not suggest Terran lobsters to this being who probably could not even imagine them. That was an automatic translation of thought furnished out of his own memory and name-calling. "No," he said. "I mean is it all sand and mud with a few chasms here and there? Where do these crabs get their metals?" _There are different kinds of holes and hills. It is all mostly the same. You cannot swim in it anywhere, although there are little things that dig under the soft sand. Some of them are good to eat but you have to spit out a lot of sand. The crabs dig with machines sometimes, in big holes, but what they catch I do not know._ "Isn't there anything that catches _them_?" asked Harris bitterly. _No. They are big enough to catch other things, except a few. Things that are bigger than I am are not smart._ The monster made a pass along the ocean bed near the Tridentians, stirring up a cloud of sand and causing Harris's captor to shrink against the side of his tank. The Terran laughed heartily. He clapped the backs of his fists against his forehead above the eyes and wiggled his forefingers at the Tridentians on the other side of the clear barrier. Even after the sand had settled, he ran back and forth along the side of his tank, making sure that every sightseer had opportunity to note his gesture. He had an idea that they did not like it much. _They do not like it at all_, thought Big Fish. _Some of them are asking for the man who lets the sea into your tank._ "Don't call it a man!" objected Harris, giving up his posturing. "I am a man." _What else can I call these men except men?_ asked the other. _I do not understand why you want to be called a man. You are different._ "Forget it," said Harris. "It was just a figure of thought." He felt like sitting down again, but decided against it in case the onlookers should succeed in obtaining the services of the tank attendant. He walked to the end of the tank, where he could stare into the greenish distance without looking at the Tridentian camp.