Zebatinsky thought: What do I say anyway? That I’m thirty-four and without a future?

He said, “I want success. I want recognition.”

“A better job?”

“A different job. A different kind of job. Right now, I’m part of a team, working under orders. Teams! That’s all government research is. You’re a violinist lost in a symphony orchestra.”

“And you want to solo.”

“I want to get out of a team and into—into me.” Zebatinsky felt carried away, almost lightheaded, just putting this into words to someone other than his wife. He said, “Twenty-five years ago, with my kind of training and my kind of ability, I would have gotten to work on the first nuclear power plants. Today I’d be running one of them or I’d be head of a pure research group at a university. But with my start these days where will I be twenty-five years from now? Nowhere. Still on the team. Still carrying my 2 per cent of the ball. I’m drowning in an anonymous crowd of nuclear physicists, and what I want is room on dry land, if you see what I mean.”

The numerologist nodded slowly. “You realize, Dr. Zebatinsky, that I don’t guarantee success.”

Zebatinsky, for all his lack of faith, felt a sharp bite of disappointment. “You don’t? Then what the devil do you guarantee?”

“An improvement in the probabilities. My work is statistical in nature. Since you deal with atoms, I think you understand the laws of statistics.”

“Do you?” asked the physicist sourly.

“I do, as a matter of fact. I am a mathematician and I work mathematically. I don’t tell you this in order to raise my fee. That is standard. Fifty dollars. But since you are a scientist, you can appreciate the nature of my work better than my other clients. It is even a pleasure to be able to explain to you.”

Zebatinsky said, “I’d rather you wouldn’t, if you don’t mind. It’s no use telling me about the numerical values of letters, their mystic significance and that kind of thing. I don’t consider that mathematics. Let’s get to the point—”