Hilton's plan had been beautifully simple. All the teams were to meet at the Hall of Records. The linguists and their Omans would study the records and pass them out. Specialty after specialty would be unveiled and teams would work on them. He and Sandy would sit in the office and analyze and synthesize and correlate. It was a very nice plan. It was a very nice office, too. It contained every item of equipment that either Sandra or Hilton had ever worked with--it was a big office--and a great many that neither of them had ever heard of. It had a full staff of Omans, all eager to work. Hilton and Sandra sat in that magnificent office for three hours, and no reports came in. Nothing happened at all. "This gives me the howling howpers!" Hilton growled. "Why haven't I got brains enough to be on one of those teams?" "I could shed a tear for you, you big dope, but I won't," Sandra retorted. "What do you want to be, besides the brain and the kingpin and the balance-wheel and the spark-plug of the outfit? Do you want to do _everything_ yourself?" "Well, I _don't_ want to go completely nuts, and that's all I'm doing at the moment!" The argument might have become acrimonious, but it was interrupted by a call from Karns. "Can you come out here, Jarve? We've struck a knot." "'Smatter? Trouble with the Omans?" Hilton snapped. "Not exactly. Just non-cooperation--squared. We can't even get started. I'd like to have you two come out here and see if you can do anything. I'm not trying rough stuff, because I know it wouldn't work." "Coming up, Bill," and Hilton and Sandra, followed by Laro and Sora, dashed out to their cars. * * * * * The Hall of Records was a long, wide, low, windowless, very massive structure, built of a metal that looked like stainless steel. Kept highly polished, the vast expanse of seamless and jointless metal was mirror-bright. The one great door was open, and just inside it were the scientists and their Omans. "Brief me, Bill," Hilton said. "No lights. They won't turn 'em on and we can't. Can't find either lights or any possible kind of switches." "Turn on the lights, Laro," Hilton said. "You know that I cannot do that, Master. It is forbidden for any Oman to have anything to do with the illumination of this solemn and revered place." "Then show me how to do it." "That would be just as bad, Master," the Oman said proudly. "I will not fail any test you can devise!" "Okay. All you Omans go back to the ship and bring over fifteen or twenty lights--the tripod jobs. Scat!" They "scatted" and Hilton went on, "No use asking questions if you don't know what questions to ask. Let's see if we can cook up something. Lane--Kathy--what has Biology got to say?"