The picture flickered and changed. Only a portion of the initial was now visible, but so greatly magnified that the enamel rubbed into the shallow grooves of the letter looked like broken paving blocks. A shadowy pointed cylinder, out of focus save at its very end, moved across the picture; a great oily globe formed on the end of it, detached itself and settled on the enamel. The "paving blocks" started to break up.
Montgomery Phipps climbed the ramp, saw Don and Isobel, and sat down on the edge beside them. He seemed to want to be friendly. "This will be something to tell your grandchildren about," he remarked. "Old Sir Ike at work. The best microtechnician in the system-can darn near pick out a single molecule, make it sit up and beg."
"It rather surprises me," Don admitted. "I hadn't known that Sir Isaac was a laboratory technician."
"He's more than that; he's a great physicist; hadn't the significance of his chosen name struck you?"
Don felt foolish He knew how dragons went about picking vocalized names, but he took such names for granted, just as he took his own Venerian name for granted. "His whole tribe tends to be scientific," Phipps went on. "There's a grandson who calls himself 'Galileo Galilei'; have you met him? And there's a `Doctor Einstein' and a `Madame Curie' and there's an integrating chemist who calls herself-Egg alone knows why!-'Little Buttercup.' But old Sir Ike is the boss man, the top brain-he made a trip to Earth to help with some of the work on this project. But you knew that, didn't you?"
Donald admitted that he had not known why Sir Isaac was on Earth. Isobel put in, "Mr. Phipps, if Sir Isaac was working on this on Earth, why doesn't he know what is in the ring before he opens it?"
"Well, he does and he doesn't. He worked on the theoretical end. But what we will find-unless we get a terrific disappointment-will be detailed engineering instructions worked out for man-type tools and techniques. Very different."
Don thought about it. "Engineering" and "science" were more or less lumped together in his mind; he lacked the training to appreciate the enormous. difference. He changed the subject. "You are a laboratory man yourself, Mr. Phipps?"
"Me? Heavens, no! My fingers are all thumbs. The dynamics of history is my game. Theoretical once-applied now. Well, that's a dry hole." His eyes were on the tank; the solvent, sluiced in by what seemed to be hogshead amounts, had washed the enamel out of the groove that defined that part of the initial "H"; the floor of the groove could be seen, bare, amber, and transparent.
Phipps stood up. "I can't sit still-I get nervous. Excuse me, please." .
"Surely."
A dragon was lumbering up the ramp. He stopped by them just as Phipps was turning away. "Howdy, Mr. Phipps. Mind if I park here?"
"Not at all. Know these people?"
"I've met the lady."
Don acknowledged the introduction, giving both his names and receiving those of the dragon in turn-Refreshing Rain and Josephus ("Just call me `Joe' "). Joe was the first dragon, other than Sir Isaac, whom Don had met there who was voder trained and equipped; Don looked at him with interest. One thing was certain: Joe had learned English from some master other than the nameless Cockney who had taught Sir Isaac... a Texan, Don felt quite sure.
"I am honored to be in your house," Don said to him.
The dragon settled himself comfortably, letting his chin come about to their shoulders. "Not my house. These snobs wouldn't have me around if there wasn't a job I can do a little better than the next hombre. I just work here."
"Oh." Don wanted to defend Sir Isaac against the charge of snobbery but taking sides between dragons seemed unwise. He looked back at the tank. The scan had shifted to the circle of enamel which framed the "H"; fifteen or twenty degrees of it appeared in the tank. The magnification started to swell enormously until one tiny sector filled the huge picture. Again the solvent floated into the enamel; again it washed away.
"Now we are getting someplace, maybe," commented Joe.
The enamel was dissolving like snow in spring rain, but, instead of washing down to a bare floor, something dark was revealed under the paint-a bundle of steel pipes, it seemed to be, nested in the shallow groove.
There was dead silence-then somebody cheered. Don found that he had been holding his breath. "What is it?" he asked Joe.
"Wire. What would you expect?"
Sir Isaac stepped up the magnification and shifted to another sector. Slowly, as carefully as a mother bathing her first born, he washed the covering off the upper layer of the coiled wire. Presently a microscopic claw reached in, felt around most delicately, and extracted one end.
Joe got to his feet. "Got to get to work," he keyed. "That's my cue." He ambled down the ramp. Don noticed that he was growing a new starboardmidships leg and the process was not quite complete; it gave him a lopsided, one-flatwheel gait.
Slowly, tenderly, the wire was cleaned and uncoiled. More than an hour later the tiny hands of the micromanipulator stretched out their prize-four feet of steel wire so gossamer fine that it could not be seen at all by naked eye, even by a dragon.
Sir Isaac backed his head out of the eyepiece rack. "Is Malath's wire ready?" he inquired.
"All set."
"Very well, my friends. Let us commence."
They were fed into two ordinary microwire speakers, rigged in parallel. Seated at a control panel for synchronizing the fragmented message latent in the two wires was a worried-looking man wearing earphones-Mr. Costello. The steel spider threads started very slowly through-and a highpitched gabbling came out of the horn. There were very rapid momentary interruptions, like high frequency code.
"Not in synch," announced Mr. Costello. "Rewind."
An operator sitting in front of him said, "I hate to rewind, Jim. These wires would snap if you breathed on them."
"So you break a wire-Sir Isaac will splice it. Rewind!"
"Maybe you've got one in backwards."
"Shut up and rewind."
Presently the gabbling resumed. To Don it sounded the same as before and utterly meaningless, but Mr. Costello nodded. "That's got it. Was it recorded from the beginning?"
Don heard Joe's Texas accents answering, "In the can!"
"Okay, keep it rolling and start playing back the recording. Try slowing the composite twenty to one." Costello threw a switch; the gabbling stopped completely although the machines continued to unreel the invisible threads. Shortly a human voice came out of the loudspeaker horn; it was deep, muffled, dragging, and almost unintelligible. Joe stopped it and made an adjustment, started over. When the voice resumed it was a clear, pleasant, most careful enunciated contralto.
"Title," the voice said, " `Some Notes on the Practical Applications of the Horst-Milne Equations. Table of Contents: Part One-On the Design of Generators to Accomplish Strain-Free Molar Translation. Part Two-The Generation of SpaceTime Discontinuities, Closed, Open, and Folded. Part Three -On the Generation of Temporary Pseudo-Acceleration Loci. Part One, Chapter One-Design Criteria for a Simple Generator and Control System. Referring to equation seventeen in Appendix A, it will be seen that--' "
The voice flowed on and on,, apparently tireless. Don was interested, intensely so, but he did not understand it. He found himself growing sleepy when the voice suddenly rapped out: "Facsimile! Facsimile! Facsimile!"