But--

Margery tiptoed into the study with a tray.

"But Psych," he continued aloud to her, "Psych says it _must_ be a

language because, they say, Easton is _not_ insane!"

"Oh, dear," sighed Margery, blinking her pale blue eyes. "That again?"

She set his coffee on the desk in front of him. "Poor Jonathan. Why

doesn't the Institute give up?"

"Because they can't." He reached for the cup and sat glaring at the

steaming coffee.

"Well," said his wife, settling into the leather chair beside him,

"_I_ certainly would. My goodness, it's been over a month now since he

came back, and you haven't learned a thing from him!"

"Oh, we've learned some. And this morning, for the first time, Easton

himself began to seem puzzled by a few of the things he was saying.

He's beginning to use terms we can understand. He's coming around. And

if I could only find some clue--some sort of--"

Margery snorted. "It's just plain foolish! I knew the Institute was

asking for trouble when they sent the _Rhinestead_ off. How do they

know Easton ever got to Mars, anyway? Maybe he did away with those

other men, cruised around, and then came back to Earth with this

made-up story just so he could seem to be a hero and--"

"That's nonsense!"

"Why?" she demanded stubbornly. "Why is it?"

"Because the _Rhinestead_ was tracked, for one thing, on both flights,

to and from Mars. Moonbase has an indisputable record of it. And

besides, the instruments on the ship itself show--" He found the

report he had been searching for. "Oh, never mind."

"All right," she said defiantly. "Maybe he did get to Mars. Maybe he

did away with the crew after he got there. He knew the ship was built

so that one man could handle it in an emergency. Maybe he--"

"Look," said Jonathan patiently. "He didn't do anything of the sort.

Easton has been checked so thoroughly that it's impossible to assume

anything except, (a) he is sane, (b) he reached Mars and made contact

with the Martians, (c) this linguistic barrier is a result of that

contact."

* * * * *

Margery shook her head, sucking in her breath. "When I think of all

those fine young men," she murmured. "Heaven only knows what happened

to them!"

"You," Jonathan accused, "have been reading that

columnist--what's-his-name? The one that's been writing such claptrap

ever since Easton brought the _Rhinestead_ back alone."

"Cuddlehorn," said his wife. "Roger Cuddlehorn, and it's not

claptrap."

"The other members of the crew are all alive, all--"

"I suppose Easton told you that?" she interrupted.

"Yes, he did."

"Using double-talk, of course," said his wife triumphantly. At the

look on Jonathan's face, she stood up in guilty haste. "All right,

I'll go!" She blew him a kiss from the door. "Richie and I are having

lunch at one. Okay? Or would you rather have a tray in here?"

"Tray," he said, turning back to his desk and his coffee. "No, on

second thought, call me when lunch is ready. I'll need a break."

He was barely conscious of the closing of the door as Margery left the

room. Naturally he didn't take her remarks seriously, but--

He opened the folder of pictures and studied them again, along with

the interpretations by Psych, Stoughton, Ramirez and himself.

Easton had drawn the little stick figures on the first day of his

return. The interpretations all checked--and they had been done

independently, too. There it is, thought Jonathan. Easton lands the

_Rhinestead_. He and the others meet the Martians. They are impressed

by the Martians. The others stay on Mars. Easton returns to Earth,

bearing a message.

Question: What is the message?

Teeth set, Jonathan put away the pictures and went back to the tape on

the recorder. "Yes," said his own voice, in answer to Easton's

outburst. "I do--er--blikkel English. But tell me, Mr. Easton, do you

understand me?"

"Under-stand?" The man seemed to have difficulty forming the word.

"You mean--" Pause. "Dr. Blair, I murv you. Is that it?"

"Murv," repeated Jonathan. "All right, you murv me. Do you murv this?

I do not always murv what you say."

A laugh. "Of course not. How could you?" Suppressed groan. "Carooms,"

Easton had murmured, almost inaudibly. "Just when I almost murv, the

kwakut goes freeble."

Jonathan flipped the switch on the machine. "Murv" he wrote on his

pad of paper. He added "Blikkel," "Carooms" and "Freeble." He stared

at the list. He should understand, he thought. At times it seemed as

if he did and then, in the next instant, he was lost again, and Easton

was angry, and they had to start all over again.

* * * * *

Sighing, he took out more papers, notes from previous sessions, both

with himself and with other linguists. The difficulty of reaching

Easton was unlike anything he had ever before tackled. The six months

of Navajo had been rough going, but he had done it, and done it well

enough to earn the praise of Old Comas, his informant. Surely, he

thought, after mastering a language like that, one in which the

student must not only learn to imitate difficult sounds, but also

learn a whole new pattern of thought--

Pattern of thought. Jonathan sat very still, as though movement would

send the fleeting clue back into the corner from which his mind had

glimpsed it.

A whole new frame of reference. Suppose, he toyed with the thought,

suppose the Martian language, whatever it was, was structured along

the lines of Navajo, involving clearly defined categories which did

not exist in English.

"Murv," he said aloud. "I murv a lesson, but I blikkel a language."

Eagerly, Jonathan reached again for the switch. Categories clearly

defined, yes! But the categories of the Martian language were not

those of the concrete or the particular, like the Navajo. They were of

the abstract. Where one word "understand" would do in English, the

Martian used two--