"N-no," said the Speaker, puzzled.
"The theory is that they are incapable of dishonesty, and therefore they do not believe it exists. Of course, it's only a theory, and nobody believes it, but why couldn't we try it out?"
The Speaker was startled. "You mean we should give them our word, and then back out on it?"
"Yes," the Japanese sucked in his breath. He saw the hesitation on the Speaker's face, and said with icy, mocking disdain, "Are you going to give water to a race whose sole purpose will be to increase their population so they can conquer Earth? Think, fool! Do you want to hold that sphere of water in your hands forever?" He smirked. "In the interval of peace, we can go to the Maracot Deep, lift that sunken ship out without having to worry about a surface film. We can take it to dry land, and with a little work, cut the ship open, destroy the mechanism. With that destroyed—"
His contempt, and his reference to the maddening sphere of water the Speaker held, wilted the Speaker.
"We'll do it," he said slowly, casting an uneasy look at the sprawled Martian.
Thirty minutes later, the three men watched the sphere of water in the Speaker's hands. A radiogram had been sent across 126,000,000 miles to Mars. Mars' answer, if it was affirmative and entirely trusting, would come not in the form of a radiogram but in the immediate return of Earth to its natural fluid state.
They watched the rigid sphere in fascination. Even now, the radio signal that would cause the mechanism to cease might be winging its way across space between two planets.
When the sphere broke, if it did, three billion thirsty human beings would drink with the maddening impatience of Tantalus himself, released from his eternal doom.