It rocked him for a second. He hadn't thought of the possibility, and it meant an end to stalling, long before he could be ready. But there was nothing he could do about it. He picked up the notes, and began pointing out the few phrases he had learned, together with the only clear memory he seemed to have of his time with Hardwick. "The last page covers the final test," he told her. "Hardwick had some cockroaches and mosquitoes left over from an experiment with various vermin, and he put them in a glass case. I stood at one side with the screen he'd made on me, and he stood on the other. Apparently he figured the things could sense the human aura, and the roaches should move toward my absence of one, the mosquitoes toward him for food. But there was no statistical evidence of its success." She began feeding information to the machine, and reeling out the results, checking with him. At first, he begrudged the work, but then he found his interest quickening in the puzzle and its untangling. She was good at the work, though she found it hard to believe that the cult-inspired nonsense could be a correct translation. He began trying to anticipate the problems of her programming, and to scan the results, cross-checking to reduce errors from his own confusion. Finally she nodded. "That's it, Bill. The computer can cross-check the rest itself. All I've got to do is cut the notes on a tape, and feed them in. Why don't you go to lunch while I'm doing it? Dad has you scheduled for his table, down in the GHQ basement cafeteria." "What about you?" he asked. She shook her head. "I want to finish this. Go on, don't keep Dad waiting." Norden found most of the seats filled, but Miles saw him and waved him over. There was a round of introductions to names that were famous in their fields--famous enough for even Norden to recognize, though he'd stuck pretty closely to his own specialty. "How's it shaping up?" Miles wanted to know. "We should have the notes decoded tonight," Norden told him. "After that, it's a matter of how useful they'll be." Miles grunted unhappily. "They'd better offer a more promising lead than the others we've had. And soon! At this rate, in two more weeks at most, the Aliens will be taking over the Moon--and if that happens, we may as well stay here waiting for them." He turned to the head psychologist, while Norden was still hunting for the meaning of the implied threat he thought he could reed into the words. "Jim, what about Enfield?" "No dice," the psychologist answered. "He's obsessed with xenophobia--he hates the Aliens for breakfast, lunch and between meals. I can't treat him here. Of course, after what happened to his wife...."