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doomed. I agree that we’re uncomfortably close to damnation, but I don’t think we’ll appease any great powers by throwing our gears and gimmicks over the cliffs as a sacrifice, a propitiation. Science didn’t get us into this mess; we
used
science to get us in.
    â€œSo I’m just a guy who’s convinced we can use science to get us out. In other words, I’m not for hanging the gunsmith every time someone gets shot. Take off your shirt.”
    â€œWhat?” said Joe, back from a thousand miles. “Oh.” Bemused, he took off his jacket and shirt and stood shyly clutching his thin ribs.
    Zeitgeist picked up his project from the bench and put it over Joe’s head. A flat band of spring steel passed over each shoulder, snugly. The four long flat casings, each filled with components, rested against his collarbones, pressing upward in the small hollow just below the bones, and against his shoulder blades. Zeitgeist bent and manipulated the bands until they were tight but comfortable. Then he hooked the back pieces to the front pieces with soft strong elastic bands passed under Joe’s arms. “O.K.? O.K. Now—say something.”
    â€œSay what?” said Joe stupidly, and immediately clapped his hand to his chest.
“Uh!”
    â€œWhat happened?”
    â€œIt … I mean, it buzzed.”
    Zeitgeist laughed. “Let me tell you what you’ve got there. In front, two little speakers, an amplifier to drive them, and a contact microphone that picks up your chest tones. In back, on this side, a band-pass arrangement that suppresses all those dominating high-frequency whimperings of yours and feeds the rest, the stuff you’re weak in, up front to be amplified. And over here, in back—that’s where the power supply goes. Go over there where you were and record something. And remember what I told you—you have to help this thing. Talk a little slower and you won’t have to say ‘I mean’ while you think of what comes next. You
know
what comes next, anyway. You don’t have to be afraid to say it.”
    Dazed, Joe stepped back to where he had been when the first recording was made, glanced for help up at the green line of the oscilloscope, closed his eyes and said, falteringly at first, then stronger and steadier, “ ‘Four score and seven years ago, our fathers brought forth upon this contin—’ ”
    â€œCut!” cried Zeitgeist. “Joe, see that tone-generator over there? It’s big as a spinet piano. I can do a lot but believe me, you haven’t got one of those strapped on you. Your amplifier can only blow up what it gets. You don’t have much, but for Pete’s sake give it what you have. Try talking with your lungs full instead of empty. Push your voice a little, don’t just let it fall out of you.”
    â€œNothing happens, though. I sound the same to myself. Is it working? Maybe it doesn’t work.”
    â€œLike I told you before,” said Zeitgeist with exaggerated patience, “people who are talking aren’t listening. It’s working all right. Don’t go looking for failures, Joe. Plenty’ll come along that you didn’t ask for. Now go ahead and do as I said.”
    Joe wet his lips, took a deep breath. Zeitgeist barked, “Now slowly!” and he began: “ ‘Four score and seven years—’ ” The sonorous words rolled out, his chest vibrated from the buzzing, synchronized to his syllables. And though he was almost totally immersedin his performance, a part of him leaped excitedly, realizing that never in his whole life before had he listened, really listened to that majestic language. When he was finished he opened his eyes and found Zeitgeist standing very near him, his eyes alight.
    â€œGood,” the man breathed. “Ah, but … good.”
    â€œWas it? Was it really?”
    In answer, Zeitgeist