| HN Mirror

It's Galactic Pot-Healer:

https://everything2.com/title/machine+translation

https://scifi.stackexchange.com/questions/240589/need-author...

Here's an excerpt:

“Do you have a title for me?” Joe asked; he held his pen ready.

“The Tokyo translating computer has been tied up all morning,” Gauk answered. “So I put it through the smaller one at Kobe. In some respects Kobe is more—how shall I put it?—quaint than Tokyo.” He paused, consulting a slip of paper; his office, like Joe’s, consisted of a cubicle, containing only a desk, a phone, a straight-backed chair made of plastic and a note pad. “Ready?”

“Ready.” Joe made a random scratch-mark with his pen.

Gauk cleared his throat and read from his slip of paper, a taut grin on his face; it was a sleek expression, as if he were certain of himself on this one. “This originated in your language,” Gauk explained, honoring one of the rules which all of them together had made up, the bunch of them scattered here and there across the map of Earth, in little offices, in puny positions, with nothing to do, no tasks or sorrows or difficult problems. Nothing but the harsh vacuity of their collective society, which each in his own way objected to, which all of them, in collaboration, circumvented by means of The Game. “Book title,” Gauk continued. “That’s the only clue I’ll give you.”

“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. Laser-bee. 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?”

[...]

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.”