“Is it well known?” Joe asked.
Ignoring his question, Gauk read from the slip of paper.
‘The Lattice-work Gun-stinging Insect.’
“Gun-slinging?” Joe asked.
“No. Gun-stinging.”
“’Lattice-work,’” Joe said, pondering. “Network. ‘Stinging Insect.’ Wasp?” He scratched with his pen, stumped. “And you got this from the translation computer at Kobe? Bee,” he decided. “ ‘Gun,’ so Gun-bee. Heater-bee. Laserbee. Rod-bee. Gat.” He swiftly wrote that down. “Gat-wasp, gat-bee. Gatsby. ‘Lattice-work.’ That would be a grating. Grate.” He had it now. “_The Great Gatsby_, by F. Scott Fitzgerald.” He tossed down his pen in triumph.
“Ten points for you,” Gauk said. He made a tally. “That puts you even with Hirshmeyer in Berlin and slightly ahead of Smith in New York. You want to try another?”
Joe said, “I have one.” From his pocket he got out a folded sheet; spreading it out on his desk he read from it, “ ‘The Male Offspring in Addition Gets Out of Bed.’ “ He eyed Gauk then, feeling the warmth of knowledge that he had gotten a good one—this, from the larger language-translating computer in downtown Tokyo.
“A phononym,” Gauk said effortlessly. “Son, sun. The Sun Also Rises. Ten points for me.” He made a note of that.
Angrily, Joe said, “Those for Which the Male Homosexual Exacts Transit Tax.”
“Another by Serious Constricting-path,” Gauk said, with a wide smile. “_For Whom the Bell Tolls_.”
“’Serious Constricting-path’?” Joe echoed wonderingly.
“Ernest Hemingway.”
“I give up,” Joe said. He felt weary; Gauk, as usual, was far ahead of him in their mutual game of retranslating computer translations back into the original tongue.
“Want to try another?” Gauk asked silkily, his face bland.
“One more,” Joe decided.
“Quickly Shattered at the Quarreling Posterior.”
“Jesus,” Joe said, with deep and timid bewilderment. It rang no bell, no bell at all. “ ‘Quickly shattered.’ Broken, maybe. Broke, break. _Quick_–that would be fast. Breakfast. But ‘Quarreling Posterior’?” He cogitated quickly, in the Roman sense. “Fighting. Arguing. Spat.” In his mind no solution appeared. “ ‘Posterior.’ Rear end. Ass. Butt.” For a time he meditated in silence, in the Yoga fashion. “No,” he said finally. “I can’t make it out. I give up.”
“So soon?” Gauk inquired, raising an eyebrow.
“Well, there’s no use sitting here the rest of the day working that one over.”
“Fanny,” Gauk said.
Joe groaned.
“You groan?” Gauk said. “At one you missed that you should have got? Are you tired, Fernwright? Does it wear you out to sit there in your cubbyhole, doing nothing hour after hour, like the rest of us? You’d rather sit alone in silence and not talk to us? Not try anymore?” Gauk sounded seriously upset; his face had become dark.
“It’s just that it was an easy one,” Joe said lamely. But he could see that his colleague in Moscow was not convinced. “Okay,” he continued. “I’m depressed. I can’t stand this much longer. Do you know what I mean? You do know.” He waited. A faceless moment poured past in which neither of them spoke. “I’m ringing off,” Joe said, and began to hang up.
“Wait,” Gauk said rapidly. “One more.”
Joe said, “No.” He hung up, sat emptily staring. On his unfolded sheet of paper he had several more, but—
It’s gone, he said to himself, bitterly. The energy, the capacity to fiddle away a lifetime without dignified work, and, in its place, the performance of the trivial, even the voluntarily trivial, as we have constructed here in The Game. Contact with others, he thought; through The Game our isolation is lanced and its body broken. We peep out, but what do we see, really? Mirror reflections of our own selves, our bloodless, feeble countenances, devoted to nothing in particular, insofar as I can fathom it. Death is very close, he thought. When you think in this manner. I can feel it, he decided. How near I am. Nothing is killing me; I have no enemy, no antagonist; I am merely expiring, like a magazine subscription: month by month. Because, he thought, I am too hollowed out to participate any longer. Even if they—the others who play The Game—need me, need my corny contribution.
And yet, as he gazed sightlessly down at his piece of paper, he felt dim action occurring within him, a kind of photosynthesis. A gathering of remaining powers, on an instinctive basis. Left alone, functioning in its sightless way, the biological effort of his body asserted itself physically; he began to jot a further title.
Dialing his phone, he obtained a satellite relay to Japan; he raised Tokyo and gave the digits for the Tokyo translating computer. With the skill of long habit he obtained a direct line to the great, clanking, booming construct; he bypassed its host of attendants.
“Oral transmission,” he informed it.
The hulking GX9 computer clicked over to oral, rather than visual, reception.
“_The Corn Is Green_,” Joe said. He turned on the recording unit of his phone.
At once the computer answered, giving the Japanese equivalent.
“Thank you and out,” Joe said, and rang off. He then dialed the translating computer at Washington, D.C. Rewinding the tape of his phone recorder he fed the Japanese words—again in oral form—to the computer segment which would translate the Japanese utterance into English.
The computer said, “The cliché is inexperienced.”
“Pardon?” Joe said, and laughed. “Repeat, please.”
“The cliché is inexperienced,” the computer said with godlike nobility and patience.
“That’s an exact translation?” Joe inquired.
“The cliché is—“
“Okay,” Joe said. “Sign off.” He hung up and sat grinning; his energy, aroused by human amusement, surged up and invigorated him.
For a moment he sat hesitating, deciding, and then he dialed good ol’ Smith in New York.
“Office of Procurement and Supply, Wing Seven,” Smith said; his beaglelike face, haunted by ennui, manifested itself on the little gray screen. “Oh, hey there, Fernwright. Got something for me?”
“An easy one,” Joe said. “ ‘The Cliché Is—‘”
“Wait’ll you hear mine,” Smith interrupted. “Me first; come on, Joe—this is a great one. You’ll never get it. Listen.” He read swiftly, stammering over the words. “Bogish Persistentisms. By Shaft Tackapple.”
“No,” Joe said.
“No what?” Smith glanced up, frowning. “You haven’t tried; you just sit there. I’ll give you time. The rules say five minutes; you’ve got five minutes.”
Joe said, “I’m quitting.”
“Quitting what? The Game? But you’re way up there!”
“I’m quitting my profession,” Joe said. “I’m going to give up this work area and I’m going to cancel on my phone. I won’t be here; I won’t be able to play.” He took a plunging breath, then spoke on. “I’ve saved up sixty-five quarters. Prewar. It took me two years.”
“_Coins?_” Smith gaped at him. “_Metal_ money?”
“It’s in an asbestos sack under the radiator in my housing room,” Joe said. I’ll consult it today, he said to himself.
“There’s a booth down the street from my room, at the intersection,” he said to Smith. I wonder, he thought, if in the final analysis I have enough coins. They say Mr. Job gives so little; or, put another way, costs so much. But sixty-five quarters, he thought; that’s plenty. That’s equal to—he had to calculate it on his note pad. “Ten million dollars in trading stamps,” he told Smith. “As per the exchange rate of today, as posted in the morning newspaper. . . which is official.”
After a grinding pause, Smith said slowly, “I see. Well, I wish you luck. You’ll get twenty words from it, for what you’ve saved up. Maybe two sentences. ‘Go to Boston. Ask for—‘ and then it clicks off; then it’ll cap the lid. The coinbox will rattle; your quarters will be down there in that maze of viaducts, rolling under hydraulic pressure to the central Mr. Job in Oslo.” He rubbed beneath his nose, as if wiping away moisture, like a schoolboy heavy with rote-labor. “I envy you, Fernwright. Maybe two sentences from it will be enough. I consulted it, once. I handed fifty quarters over to it. ‘Go to Boston,’ it said. ‘Ask for—‘ and then it shut off, and I felt as if it enjoyed it. That it liked to shut off, as if my quarters had stirred it to pleasure, the kind of pleasure a pseudolife-form would relish. But go ahead.”
“Okay,” Joe said stoically.
“When it’s used up your quarters—“ Smith continued, but Joe broke in, his voice blistered with harshness.
“I get your point,” Joe said.
Smith said, “No prayers—“
“Okay,” Joe said.
There was a pause as the two of them faced each other.
“No prayers,” Smith said at last, “no nothing, will get that godbedamned machine to spit out one additional word.”
“Hmm,” Joe said. He tried to sound casual, but Smith’s words had had their effect; he felt himself cool off. He experienced the winds, the howling gales, of fright. Anticipation, he thought, of winding up with nothing. A truncated partial statement from Mr. Job, and then, as Smith says—blam. Mr. Job, turning itself off, is the ultimate visage of black iron, old iron from antediluvian times. The ultimate rebuff. If there is a supernatural deafness, he thought, it is that: when the coins you are putting into Mr. Job run out.