Classic Fiction

by Hal Clement

  Kirk saw the start, though he misinterpreted it. The motion that caught his attention was the sudden stiffening of the antennae as he spoke, the two plumelike organs expanding sideways and pointing diagonally forward, as though to bring his head between their tips. For almost a minute the two creatures remained absolutely motionless, Talker hoping for and expecting further speech, and Allen Kirk watching for some understandable signal. Then the antennae relaxed, and Talker considered the possible meaning of the images he had received.

  His own race had a written language—or rather, a means for permanently recording events and ideas; since they had no vocal speech, their “writing” must have been utterly different in basis from that of any Earthly people, for the vast majority of terrestrial written languages are basically phonetic. At any rate, it is certain that Talker had severe difficulty in connecting with any, to him, normal means of communicating the symbols he learned from Kirk, for a time, at least; he did not realize that they were arbitrary line arrangements.

  Kirk watched the nearly motionless insect for several minutes, without any idea of the true nature of the difficulty. Then, since speech had produced some effect the first time, he tried it again. The result caused him to doubt his own sanity.

  Talker knew that he needed further data; in an attempt to obtain it he simply reached forward to a bare spot of earth and scratched with his odd “hand” the line pattern he had last seen in the human mind. Like Kirk’s speaking, it was purely an experiment.

  To the man, it was a miracle. He spoke; and the grotesque thing before him wrote—crudely and clumsily, to be sure, for Talker’s interpretation was still imperfect, and he was, to put it mildly, unpracticed in the art of penmanship—the last few words that the man had uttered. Kirk was momentarily dumfounded, unable for an instant to think coherently; then he jumped to a natural, but erroneous, conclusion. The stranger, he decided, must lack vocal cords, but had learned written English from someone else. That implied previous friendly relationships with a human being, and for the first time Kirk felt fully at ease in the presence of the strange creatures.

  He drew his knife, and with the tip scratched, “Who are you?” on the ground beside Talker’s line. The meaning of the question lay in his mind; but it was couched in terms far too abstract for Talker to connect directly with the marks. A problem roughly similar would be faced by a three-year-old child, not yet literate, presented with a brick covered with cuneiform writing and told that it meant something. Talker saw the same letters in the man’s brain, but they were as utterly meaningless there as on the ground. The conference seemed to have reached an impasse.

  In spite of his relatively deepset eyes, which should, in Talker’s opinion, have limited his range of vision to what lay before him, Kirk was the first to see Boss move. He turned his head to see more clearly, and Talker followed his gaze with one eye. Boss had awakened, and was standing as high as his legs would lift him in an effort to see the marks on the ground—the top of the bank was about on the same level as the air-lock floor. He saw the attention of the other two directed his way, and spoke to Talker.

  “What is that? Have you got in touch with him? I can’t see what you have on the ground there.”

  Talker turned his antennae toward the air lock, not that it was necessary, but to assure the human being that Boss was being included in the conversation. “Come on over,” he said resignedly, “though it won’t do you much good to see. Don’t fly too close to the native, and don’t get nearer to him than I do at any time.”

  Kirk watched Boss spread his wings and launch himself toward Talker. The pinions moved too fast to be visible; it occurred to Kirk that these creatures were heavier than any Earthly bird, except for flightless forms like the ostrich, yet their wings spanned less than eight feet.

  Boss took a single glance at the letters on the ground, and turned his attention to the Earthman. This was the first time he had seen him in full daylight, and he made the most of the opportunity, mercifully remaining silent the while. Talker promptly forgot him, as nearly as such an individual can be forgotten, and brought himself back to the matter in hand.

  The “natural” method of learning a language consists of pointing out objects and having their names repeated until one can remember them. This is the first method that suggests itself to a human being, if no printed grammar is available. Talker hit upon it only after long and profound cogitation, when he suddenly realized that he had learned to interpret the human visual impressions in just that fashion—placing the subject in contact with simple objects, and examining the resulting mental radiations. He tried it.

  Normally, the teacher of a language, whatever method he uses, knows what is being done. Kirk did not, for some time. Talker pointed at the ship with one of his hands, watching the man’s mind intently for a series of marks such as had accompanied the sounds from his mouth. Kirk looked in the indicated direction, and then back at Talker. The latter pointed again; and a distinct picture, such as he had been seeking, appeared for an instant in the man’s mind, to be replaced almost at once by an indecipherable complex of abstract thoughts.

  Talker scratched the first impression on the ground—a perfectly recognizable word, “Ship,” and looked up again. The man had disappeared. For an instant Talker was confused; then he heard various sounds from the gully, and crawled to the edge to look over. Kirk was below, raising his pole, which had been lying where he had left it, to the sill of the air lock. Still believing that Talker was able to write English, he had completely misinterpreted the gestures and writing, and supposed he was being requested to enter the craft.

  Talker had a feeling of helplessness, in the face of his troubles; then he pulled himself together, forcing himself to remember that his life, and the other lives on the ship, depended on his efforts. At least, he now knew that the marks had a definite meaning, and he had learned the symbol for “ship.” It was, he tried to convince himself, a fair beginning.

  The man was crouching in the lock entrance—it was not high enough for him to stand—watching expectantly. Talker beckoned him back. If the man misunderstood his first attempt, now was the time to straighten it out. Kirk looked annoyed, though the aliens could not interpret the expression, slid down the pole, and scrambled back up the bank.

  Talker tried again, pointing this time to the early afternoon Sun, and writing the word when it formed in Kirk’s mind. The Earthman looked down at the result.

  “If that job were necessary, it would be hopeless, friend,” he said, “but it isn’t necessary. I can speak English, and read it, and write it, thank you. If you can’t talk, why don’t you just write out what you want me to know?”

  Not a word of this was understandable to Talker; in a rather hopeless fashion, he wrote the word or two which had been pictured clearly enough for him to catch, and succeeded in exasperating Kirk still further.

  The man certainly could not be accused of stupidity; it was not his fault that he failed to experience a flash of insight that would give the clue to the alien’s meaning. The great majority of people would have done no better, except, perhaps, for some lucky chance. Human experience of thought transference is limited to the claims of “psychics” and to fantastic literature, except for a few scientific experiments of doubtful value; Kirk was not addicted to the reading of any of these products of mental aberration, and made no claim to be any sort of scientist. He had begun by jumping to a conclusion, and for some time it simply did not occur to him that the conclusion might be erroneous—the evidence had been quite convincing, to him, that Talker was acquainted with the English language. It followed that the mothlike one’s intentions, motivating all this gesticulation and writing, were to teach Kirk the same tongue: an idea so exactly opposite the true state of affairs as to be almost comical.

  Twice more Talker repeated his forlorn attempt to get his idea across to the other; twice Kirk repeated his expostulation, once going so far as to write it out on the ground, when it occurred to him that Talker migh
t be deaf. The third time, the Earthling’s temper broke free of its moorings—almost. He was not accustomed to using profanity; his family, whose elder members had carefully controlled his upbringing, was almost Puritanical in that respect, and habit got control of his reactions in time to prevent his speaking aloud the words in his mind. His reaction may be imagined when, without Kirk’s having uttered a sound, except for a strangled snort, Talker extended a forelimb and scratched a perfectly legible “Damn” on the bare patch of ground.

  The word “insight” provides a psychologist with material for hours of talk. Its precise meaning cannot be given without tacit assumption of understanding of its nature; neither Kirk nor the narrator possesses that understanding. It is assumed that the readers have had experience of insight, and can understand the habit of cartoonists of symbolizing its presence by an incandescent bulb—whether this habit antedates or succeeds the coining of the phrase “to see light” is a purely academic question. All that matters to us is the fact that Kirk abruptly saw the light—dimly at first, and then, though it strained his credulity to the breaking point, with something like comprehension. Why that particular incident should have served to unlock the door we cannot say: certainly Talker’s knowledge of a bit of English profanity could have had many other explanations. Insight, as we have intimated, is a rather obscure process.

  For almost a full minute, Earthling and alien stared at each other, the former struggling with his own prejudices and the latter wondering what had happened—even he, unused to interpreting human attitudes, could perceive that Kirk was disturbed, Then the Earthman, with the seeds of truth rapidly maturing in his mind, deliberately visualized a simple design—a circle inscribed in a square. Talker promptly and accurately reproduced it on his improvised blackboard. Kirk tried various letters of the English and Greek alphabets, and finally satisfied himself that Talker was actually obtaining the impressions directly from the thoughts. Talker, for his part, discovered that the visual impressions were almost as clear to him now as those of Boss, who had lost his patience and temper long before the Earthman, and had withdrawn by request. He was now sulking, once more squatting in the air lock.

  The auditory impressions and abstract thoughts were still a hopeless confusion, so far as Talker was concerned; he never did make a serious attempt to unravel them. Both he and Kirk were satisfied to have found a common ground for expression, and completely ignored lesser matters. Kirk seated himself on the ground beside Talker, and an intensive course in English was rapidly embarked upon.

  Not until the Sun was low did Kirk abandon the task, and then it was only because of hunger. Talker had already learned enough to understand the man’s declaration that he would return in the morning; and Kirk went back to his camp in the gathering dusk, to prepare a meal and obtain a few hours’ sleep—very few, as may well be imagined. He spent a good deal of the night awake in his blankets, staring up at the clear sky and wondering, at times aloud, from which of the thousands of points of light his new acquaintance had come. He was sufficiently adventurous by nature not to ask himself why they had come.

  Talker watched the man disappear into the woods, and turned wearily toward the ship. He was overtired; the effects of the earlier dose of accelerine were beginning to abate, and he had a well-founded objection to taking more of the stuff than was necessary to keep him alive. With an effort, he flew the few yards between the bank and the air lock, settling heavily beside Boss. The sound of his wings woke the commander, who eagerly demanded a report on progress in communication. Talker obliged, somewhat shortly; his fatigue had brought him unusually close to anger.

  “I have made a beginning, in spite of your aid. How long it will take to set up working communication, I don’t know; but I will try to direct the conversations so that the ideas we need to impart are used. He will be back when the Sun rises again; in the meantime, I need sleep. Don’t disturb me until the native returns.”

  Boss was too elated at Talker’s news to take offense at his manner. He allowed the herald to depart to his own quarters, and went off himself to spread the news, after closing the outer airlock door. The second in command received the information with glee, and in short order the crew was in better spirits than it had enjoyed since landing on this unhealthy and uncomfortable planet. Even the inhabitants of the sick bay, now three in number since the decoy who had gone after Kirk had returned with a complete set of pulled wing ligaments, began to feel that they were suffering in a good cause, and ceased thinking uncomplimentary thoughts about their officers. The doctor, too, usually by far the most pessimistic member of the ship’s personnel, ceased making pointed remarks about “wasted effort” as he worked over his patients. Not one of them appreciated the very real difficulties that still lay ahead, before Talker would have any chance of making the human being understand their needs. None thought that anything more than the transmission of that knowledge would be necessary; and all, except Talker, regarded that matter as practically solved.

  The herald had a better appreciation of what lay before him, and was far from sure of his course of action. He had promised Boss to arrange matters so that their needs would be among the first things to be transmitted to the Earthling; but he could not see how he was to fulfill the promise. Had it been merely a matter of keeping his word to the commander, Talker would not have been bothered in the least; he considered anything said to Boss was justified if it succeeded in bothering him. Unfortunately, Talker’s own future existence depended on his ability to carry out the terms of that promise. Even with his lack of experience in learning, or teaching, languages, it occurred to him that making advanced chemistry the subject of the lessons was bound to be rather awkward. One cannot point out atoms and molecules individually; it would be pure chance if the man recognized either diagrams or samples, since the latter would be of value only to a chemist with a laboratory, and the former might not—probably would not—conform to human theories of atomic formation. It did not occur to Talker that the ship’s pharmacist might be of help; he had been out of contact with his own class for so long that an unfortunate, but almost inevitable, sense of his own superiority had grown up within him. The rest of the crew, to him, were mere laborers; he had never talked with any of them as friend to friend; he had solved all his own problems since joining the crew, and would undoubtedly continue to do so unless and until something drastic forced him out of his rut. But it said for him that he was not conceited in the ordinary sense of the word; the feeling of superiority was the result of class training; and the ignoring of others’ abilities was completely unconscious.

  At the moment, Talker was not worrying about his course of action. He was sound asleep, crouched on the padding of the floor of his quarters. Boss, having made sure that his own contributions toward the present state of near-success were not being minimized in the rapidly spreading news, also retired. The second officer made sure that both air locks were fast, and made his way to the long wardroom in the lower part of the ship. Most of the soldiers and several engineers were gathered there, discussing the day’s events and the chances of reaching their original planetary system—they no longer had “homes” since Boss had broken allegiance with his overlord. The officer’s presence did not interrupt the conversation; the Second was a member of the soldier class, and entered the discussion on an equal plane with the others.

  It is exceedingly doubtful if any of the crew had ever objected to Boss’ dereliction; the act had made little or no change in the course of their existence, and they cared little for whom they worked and fought. If anything, they preferred the new state of affairs, for the constant internecine warfare between the rulers of their home world resembled organized piracy more than anything else, and there was now no need to turn over most of the loot to their own overlord. Boss, of course, had acted almost on impulse, giving little or no thought to such matters as the problem of replenishing exhausted food and ammunition—he expected to supply those wants from his victims. Unfortunately, an unexpected en
counter with a full-armed ship belonging to his erstwhile ruler had left him in no condition to fight anybody; after three or four attempts to bluff supplies from isolated stations in his own system, he had made matters a little too hot for himself and fled in the handiest direction, which happened to be straight away from the four pursuing warships. Near the speed of light, his vessel became indetectable; and once out of his own system, he had not dared to stop until Sol was bright on his navigation plates. His reasons for landing on Earth have already been made clear. He had food in plenty, and his ship drew its power from stellar radiations; but, not a locker on his ship contained a round of ammunition.

  If the discomfort of their environment had turned any of Boss’ crew against him, Talker’s recent efforts had brought them back. The second officer found himself in complete agreement with the crew—it was good to have a commander like Boss, to keep things under control! There passed a peaceful and happy evening on Boss’ vessel.

  Boss had found it almost impossible to set regular watches. No matter how often he relieved his men, the inactivity of the job promptly put the relief to sleep. The bodies of the crew, exhausted by the constant battle against Earth’s savage gravity, would give up and drop the individuals into a coma before they realized that the stimulant accelerine had worn off. The sleep was short, but apparently unavoidable; Talker, alone, had been able to force himself to more or less regular waking and sleeping hours, simply because he did practically no manual labor. For this reason, as soon as he was convinced that there was nothing in the neighborhood that constituted a menace to the ship itself, Boss ceased setting watches and merely closed the ports at night. There were enough differences in physique among the crew members to make it practically certain that someone would always be awake, day or night. The whole thing was horribly unmilitary by any standards, but it was typical of Boss’ line-of-least-resistance nature.