Not words, but mere concept--the abstract idea of listing hurled into the machine and the wire reel sang swiftly through the machine to slow down at a listing. Useless, of course--there were things like, "_Walklin--norva Kin. Fol sa ganna mel zin._" Chapter and verse, probably. What Carroll sought was a dictionary. He tried another reel and found it as mystifying. A third reel came upon a listing that seemed vaguely familiar. Along with the mere words, of course, there were mental pictures. "_Zale_," he learned, was a measure of distance equivalent to seventeen thousand times ten to the eighth power times the wavelength of the spectroscopic line of _evaalorg_. Carroll had hit upon a section of physical identities found in most physics texts. * * * * * He also learned a large number of physical identities of no consequence. The unit of gravity expressed in the alien terms meant nothing to a man used to dynes and poundals. There was too much left unsaid. What the element _evaalorg_ might be Carroll had no idea, although if he persisted he might hit upon a chemistry text--and it was safe to assume that the Periodic Chart of the atoms would be the same in any of the galaxy. He smiled. It was like trying to calculate the true size of Noah's Ark by assuming the length of a cubit. When you have finished calculating you have a plus or minus thirty percent. He was about to select another case when the door opened softly and Rhinegallis entered. "Why do you try?" she asked. Her voice and her manner were as though she had not walked away from his question of almost eighteen hours ago. "Why?" he repeated dully. "Yes why? Why do you insist in the face of the impossible?" "Because," he said, facing her deliberately, "when I admit defeat James Forrest Carroll dies!" "You're not suicidal." "Madness," he said, "is suicide of the mind!" Rhinegallis nodded and then looked down. He went to her and lifted her face by placing a hand under her chin. "Rhinegallis," he said softly, "place yourself in my position. You are a prisoner of a culture that is inimical to your own. You are kept alive as a museum piece, a sample of life that refuses to be swayed by your mind-directing machinery. Of all the people of your race, you are the only one that knows and believes. "Death--or worse--awaits you and yours at the end of some unknown time. You are in the position of being the only one that can do anything at all. Tell me, Rhinegallis, would you sit quietly and accept it?" "Since I would be unable to do anything alone," replied Rhinegallis, "I would accept fate." "Then die!" snapped Carroll. "Do nothing? Try nothing? That is stagnation--and stagnation is death!" "I think Kingallis knows that," said the alien girl with a flash of recognition.