Jones’s eyes focused on Helena. He flushed. “’m deeply sorry,” he mumbled. “Unf’rgivable vulgararrity. Mom’ntarily f’rgot ladies were present.” Again that sweet summons sounded. “Pull yourself together, doctor,” Ross begged. “This is Earth. The people seem—very advanced. Don’t disgrace us. Please!” Jones’s face went pale and perspiration broke out. “’Scuse me,” he mumbled, and staggered out again. Ross closed the door on him and said, “We’ll leave him. He’ll be all right; nothing’s going to happen here.” He took a deep breath. “We’ll all go out,” he said. Unconsciously Ross and Helena drew closer together and joined hands. They walked together down the unfolding ramp and approached the vehicle. One of the coolly lovely women scrutinized them and turned to the man beside her. She remarked melodiously, “Yuhsehtheybebems!”, and laughed a silvery tinkle. Panic gripped Ross for a long moment. A thing he had never considered, but a thing which he should have realized would be inevitable. Of course! These folk—older and incomparably more advanced than the rest of the peoples in the universe—would have evolved out of the common language into a speech of their own, deliberately or naturally rebuilt to handle the speed, subtlety, and power of their thoughts. But perhaps the older speech was merely disused and not lost. He said formally, quaking: “People of Earth, we are strangers from another star. We throw ourselves on your mercy and ask for your generosity. Our problem is summed up in the genetic law L-sub-T equals L-sub-zero e to the minus T-over-two-N. Of course——” One of the men was laughing. Ross broke off. The man smiled: “Wha’s that again?” They understood! He repeated the formula, slowly, and would have explained further, but the man cut him off. “Math,” the man smiled. “We don’ use that stuff no more. I got a lab assistant, maybe he uses it sometimes.” They were beyond mathematics! They had broken through into some mode of symbolic reasoning that must be as far beyond mathematics as math was beyond primitive languages! “Sir,” he said eagerly, “you must be a scientist. May I ask you to——” “Get in,” he smiled. Gigantic doors unfolded from the vehicle. Thought-reading? Had the problem been snatched from his brain even before he stated it? Mutely he gestured at Helena and Bernie. Jones would be all right where he was for several hours if Ross was any judge of blackouts. And you don’t quibble with demigods. The man, the scientist, did something to a glittering control panel that was, literally, more complex than the Wesley board back on the starship. Noise filled the vehicle—noise that Ross identified as music for a moment. It was a starkly simple music whose skeleton was three thumps and a crash, three thumps and a crash. Then followed an antiphonal chant—a clear tenor demanding in a monotone: “Is this your car?” and a tremendous chorally-shouted: “NO!”