“Quack-quack, quack-quack, quack-quack.”
“Peep-peep-peep-peep-peep-peep.”
“Oink, oink, oink, oink, oink.”
“Whoo-oo. Who-oo. Who-oo.”
The sounds were unvarying, repetitious, with far less expression than two chickens clucking in a henyard. Unless the part that counted was up above the human range of hearing, no one in his right senses could think of it as “conversation.” Dumbfounded, Doyle took off the earphones. Now it was obvious that the Marcats were talking. He put the earphones on. Now it was obvious that they weren’t talking.
Doyle took the phones off, and looked around.
Down in the natural amphitheater, there came a sudden silence. The Marcats rose, stretched, some leaning forward, tails in the air and claws bunched in the turf, others erect, with big furry forepaws flexed and showing muscles. Then the creatures turned to each other, like theatergoers during an intermission, and began to talk, forearms across each other’s shoulders, gesturing occasionally, grinning, prodding each other in the ribs, and waving to mutual acquaintances. The babble was terrific, deafening. But to Doyle’s newly-educated ear, it had a monotonous, meaningless sound.
He stepped forward, to listen to an animated group in front of him. Their voices came across clearly.
“Erkbat. Erkbat. Erkbat. Erkbat.”
“Cluck-cluck. Cluck-cluck. Cluck-cluck. Cluck-cluck . . .”
“Boomity-boomity-boomity-boomity. Boomity—”
Doyle stepped back. No wonder Lindell hadn’t wanted to hand over the records of the language analysis. It wasn’t that they were too technical to understand. It was that they were so obvious no one could help but understand.
Just now, not far away to Doyle’s right, the impressive glittering bulk of the LC-10,000 made it to the brow of the hill, and its multitude of outthrust horns at once swung around and aimed in various directions into and around the amphitheater. Beside it, Lindell was speaking earnestly to the tall lab-coated official who accompanied the computer.
“Is this,” Lindell was saying anxiously, “a sufficient sample?”
“Amply sufficient.”
“Ah . . . there’s no chance of the computer . . . ah . . . making a mistaken—”
“The LC-10,000 does not make mistakes.”
“But if there are very high-pitched sounds—”
“They would be detected.”
“There may be signals of some kind—”
“The LC-10,000 is designed to detect sonic signals of whatever character.”
“I see. Well then, it ought to be all right.”
“The LC-10,000,” said the lab-coated figure severely, “is a computer designed by computers for six generations back.”
Lindell looked awed. “I hadn’t realized that.”
Time passed. The horns swung around to new positions.
Finally the technician glanced around. “The ready-light flashed. The analysis is complete.”
There was a sound of tearing paper.
“The LC-10,000 finds that there is no language here, at whatever frequency or on whatever level. The LC-10,000 has analyzed the totality of vocal sounds, and these are ‘simple repetitive syllables.’ That is all.”
“But—Good God, man!” cried Lindell. “Look at them yourself!”
“That is a purely subjective attitude. I certainly will not take part in any display of childish anthropomorphism.”
The impressive bulk of the LC-10,000 turned ponderously to aim itself down the hill.
Lindell said, “If you’ll just try again—”
The LC-10,000 specialist spoke pityingly. “Try to compose yourself, Dr. Lindell. Really, your attitude is irrational. The LC-10,000 is the ultimate authority on language. You have put the question, and the LC-10,000 has answered it. Now let’s try to be scientific about this. Total vocal analysis reveals no meaningful patterns capable of conveying intelligence, except . . . let’s see here . . . this means—Each of these creatures, during the test period, made its own specific sound. Conceivably, if the creatures couldn’t recognize each other by sight, this could convey the identity of the individual speaking. But believe me, it conveys nothing else. Now then, if there were the slightest indication of really meaningful vocal exchange, I would be only too glad to track it down for you. But there is none whatever. If you are so firmly convinced that these creatures have a language, let me suggest that you look for it in the area of visual or tactile signals—”
“We’ve already tried that,” said Lindell moodily.
“Then I’m sorry. Our schedule is crowded. Good day.”
The LC-10,000 moved off down the hill, and Lindell turned dazedly to look at the Marcats. Not twenty feet from where Lindell stood, one Marcat banged another on the back as both grinned. The lips of a third Marcat moved, and the other two at once turned to him, then looked simultaneously across the amphitheater at something on the other side. Their lips moved briefly, and all three started off together.
Doyle watched the scene in exasperation. Obviously the Marcats were talking. But every time the matter came down to factual details, they weren’t talking.
To Doyle’s left, an exasperated voice said, “How about it? We’re going to flatten this place now or the end of the week, one or the other.” The way he said it, Doyle got a clear mental picture of the amphitheater converted into a smooth flat mass of fresh dirt.
For a moment, there was a peculiar sense of strain in the air, as if the fabric of things momentarily threatened to come apart.
Doyle glanced along the top of the slope, and there, some eighty feet away, the Marcats who’d been watching the earth-moving machines were now looking at him intently. Doyle looked absently back, asking himself how these creatures conveyed information, and why on earth they should make the simple repetitive noise the LC-10,000 referred to. Why should they want to identify themselves, unless they had something to say?
Suddenly Doyle caught his breath. He walked toward the Marcats, who watched him come with what obviously were puzzled frowns, looks of faint uneasiness, and hints and suggestions of belligerent self-assertion and even menace. Doyle picked the most dominant-appearing Marcat and looked him in the eye. The Marcat seemed surprised, but looked back steadily.
Doyle cleared his throat, forced down his feeling of foolishness, and spoke in a monotonous repetitive tone. “Doyle, Doyle, Doyle, Doyle, Doyle, Doyle, Doyle, Doyle . . .”
The Marcat blinked. “Akran, akran, akran, akran, akran, akran, akran, akran . . .”
Lindell walked over to speak to Doyle, then glanced from Doyle to the Marcat in astonishment.
Doyle formed a clear mental picture of the creature in front of him extending his right paw, and holding this picture in mind, Doyle went on, “Doyle, Doyle, Doyle, Doyle, Doyle. . . .”
For a long moment, nothing happened, then the Marcat slowly stretched out his right paw. And Doyle had a fuzzy mental picture of a human being stretching his arms overhead.
Doyle stretched his arms overhead.
The Marcat beamed in delight, and immediately reached out as if to bang Doyle on the back. Doyle moved fast to stay out of the hospital. Quickly, Doyle formed a mental picture of an inert uniformed figure being helped away by other humans.
The Marcat winced, and Doyle had a mental picture of a dejected tigerlike figure with its head in its paws.
Doyle now created a mental picture of the huge tyrannosaurus-like creature he had seen in the visual records. Next he pictured a Marcat. Straining his powers of visualization to the limit, he pictured the Marcat looking up at the tyrannosaur, which suddenly dropped. Doyle repeated this over and over again.
The group of Marcats watched with interest as the one directly in front of Doyle ran his paw along the back of his neck, eyed the sky, looked down the hill, and spotted a rabbit-like creature, that suddenly dropped flat and lay motionless. In Doyle’s mind, there formed a picture of the animal’s head, then of a brain, then of a net of interconnected nerve cells that changed color and texture. At the same time, he had a mental picture of a tree limb with, at first, one bird sitting on, then two birds, then a flock of birds sitting on it. At the same moment that he saw the nerve cells change color and texture, he also saw the tree limb break. The mental picture faded out, and the reiterated murmur of “Akran, akran” stopped a moment later.
Doyle nodded. The Marcat seemed to understand this gesture. Then his face took on an angry look, and as he began to speak, Doyle got a clear mental picture of the Marcats’ amphitheater flattened into a mass of compacted dirt. The Marcat waited with an angry questioning look.
Doyle shook his head, and painstakingly pictured the earth-moving machinery going off the planet. He concentrated so hard on this that he forgot for a moment to repeat his name, but this didn’t seem to trouble the Marcat. It beamed, turned to the others, and there was one chaotic moment of babble, then the lot of them were banging each other on the back.
Lindell, watching with a look of desperation, burst out, “Doyle, what in space is going on here? I can see you talking to them. But all you say is ‘Doyle, Doyle, Doyle, Doyle.’ What is this, anyway?”