"What the hell kind of a language is it that only two dozen people could read?"
"It isn't a language, really. It's mathematics."
"Oh, arithmetic."
"No," Stutsman said. "Mathematics. You see? You don't even know the difference between the two, so what good would the papers do you?"
Scorio nodded. "Yeah, you're right."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Paris-Berlin express thundered through the night, a gigantic ship that rode high above the Earth. Far below one could see the dim lights of eastern Europe.
Harry Wilson pressed his face against the window, staring down. There was nothing to see but the tiny lights. They were alone, he and the other occupants of the ship ... alone in the dark world that surrounded them.