Then, slowly, the thing appeared to have pattern. Whatever it was, the output of the slowly-distorting crystals was fed in or out of phase through filters and transmission bars to the topmost crystal. It was multi-faceted and obviously not a natural formation. It scintillated and pulsed rapidly, and the facets gleamed against the lights as the crystal throbbed in tune with the feeding currents. "This," said Thompson, "is going to be reproduced later if for no other reason than just sheer curiosity. Whoever built it is a little ahead of our time and I want to get caught up. Benign or malignant, it must be remade and studied." Then for hours, Thompson's technicians went over the machine with a fine-tooth comb. Pictures--tridimensional shots, moving pictures, microtime film, and hand sketches. Technicians measured potentials, made pictures of wave shapes from the oscilloscope patterns, and drew endless schematic diagrams. Metallurgists took minute samples of the metals, of the dielectrics, of the crystals themselves, cutting bits out with microscopic modine beams. Then, as they ran out of things to measure, Thompson took one last look at it. "O.K., fellows," he said, "can you rebuild it?" "To the last decimal place." "It's alien," warned Thompson. "It's still made of metal and crystal." "O.K." He turned to Toralen Ki and made suggestive motions. He turned off the main feed line, and the atomics thrummed to a stop. Then he suggested that now it was off, why didn't they just take it back to Terra and not bother reproducing it. Toralen Ki shook his head--No. He waved Thompson to come along, and they left the machine in the meteor forever. "I'm finished," said Thompson, "but wait before you blast. The Little Man seems to want me to confer with him for a moment." Thompson's ship took off. Toralen Ki emerged from his stateroom with the instrument. He planted it on a table, turned it on, and strapped the plate to his forehead. He offered the other one to Thompson. Thompson understood. He knew that the Little People had a means of mental communication that augmented their speech. He accepted the plate and strapped it on his own head. "Now," said Toralen Ki, "I may at last converse with you and your race." "What is the machine?" asked Thompson. "The others--they are all right?" Thompson nodded. "They are destroying the machine. Tell me, what is it?" Toralen Ki nodded in agreement. "Tell them to destroy it and then to return, for I must speak with them through this, now that the machine is stopped and I may. But destroy it, for the Loard-vogh may have remote control and if they have, it may be started again at any moment." "Before I blast any alien machine," said Thompson, "I must know what it is. You insist that it be destroyed. How do I know that the machine is not benign?" * * * * *