Hal Clement - Iceworld

“To make a long story short, we got a response after the fourth increase of power. We thought it was a distorted echo at first, but it got louder while our power remained constant, and finally we could tell that the sounds were different. They formed a tremendously complex noise pattern, and every one of us who heard them was sure from the beginning that they represented intelligent speech.

“Eventually we began to hear more footstep-sounds between the bursts of alien language, and we cut off our own broadcast. It became evident that the creature was close enough to detect the torpedo by other means than hearing, for the footsteps continued to approach. At first they were interrupted every few seconds by a loud call; but presently the thing must have actually reached the machine, for the sounds suggested that it was walking around at a nearly constant distance, and the calls were replaced by much less powerful but longer and more complex speech-noises. Probably the creatures can see much as we do, though the light is so much weaker on that planet.

“Presently the photocell inside the cargo compartment indicated that something had cut off much of the light One of the operators moved to close the door, and the boss knocked him clean out of the control room. He took the torpedo controls himself, and began attempting to imitate the voice sounds of the creature we couldn’t see. That produced results, all right! If noise means anything, the native got wildly excited for a minute or two; then he buckled down to producing apparently as wide a variety of sounds as his vocal apparatus would permit. Certainly we couldn’t imitate them all.

“That lasted for some time, with nobody making any real progress. Nobody had any way of telling what any of the other fellow’s noises meant, of course. It began to look as though we’d gone as far as we could, in learning about the planet, and that the knowledge was not going to do anyone any good.

“Then someone remembered the old swap-boxes. I don’t know whether you’ve heard of them; they were used, I guess, before our race ever left the home planet, when people who didn’t speak each other’s language wanted to trade. They are simply two trays, hinged together, each divided into a number of small compartments. One side is empty, while the compartments of the other are filled with various articles that are for sale. A glass lid covers each of the full compartments, and cannot be removed until something has been placed in the corresponding compartment of the other tray. It takes a pretty stupid savage not to get the idea in fairly short order.

“We didn’t have any such gadget, of course, but it was not difficult to rig one up. The trouble was that we could not tell what had been put in the empty tray until the box came back to us. Since we were more interested in talking than trading, that didn’t matter too much at the time. We sent the box down in another torpedo, homing it on the location signal of the first and hoping the flat-land people wouldn’t detect it, opened the thing up, and waited.

“The native promptly investigated; he was apparently intelligent enough to put curiosity ahead of fear, even though he must have seen the second torpedo in flight. He behaved exactly as expected with the box, though of course we couldn’t watch him — he put something in every compartment of the empty section, and presumably cleaned out the other; but he put most of the stuff back. One of the things he gave us proved useful — the stuff we still trade for — so we sent the box back with only the compartment corresponding to the one he had put that stuff in full. He got the idea, and we’ve been on fine terms ever since.”

“But about the language?”

“Well, we know his words for ‘yes’ and ‘no,’ his names for a few metals, and his name for the stuff he sells us. I can give you either a tape of his pronunciation or a written record, if you want to talk to him.”

“Thanks a lot. That makes the whole situation a good deal clearer. I take it you have had no more trouble from these flatlanders?”

“None. We have carefully avoided contacting any other part of the planet. As I said, our interests are now commercial rather than scientific. Still, if you want to send down machines on your own, I suppose we shouldn’t interfere with you. Please be careful, though; we’d hate to have contact cut off before we were in a position to do our own producing.”

Ken gave the equivalent of a grin. “I notice you are still carefully refraining from telling me what the stuff is. Well, I won’t butt in. That’s none of my business, and I don’t see how knowing it could help me out. Right now, I guess, it would be best for you to give me all the physical data you have on the planet. Then I can make a guess at its atmosphere, and send a torpedo down with equipment to confirm or deny the guess. That will be easier than trying to bring back samples for analysis, I imagine.” Drai pulled himself together from the rack on which he was sprawled, and gave the equivalent of an affirmative nod. “I’m not saying you shouldn’t know what we get from the planet,” he said. “But I shall most certainly make a hammock from the skin of the first member of this organization who lets you find out!” The technician, who had been listening in the background, turned back to the mechanism of another torpedo, and spoke for the first time without looking up.

“That won’t be difficult; there’s little to tell. The planet is about three-tenths larger than ours in diameter, making its volume rather over twice as great as that of Sarr. Its mass is also over twice ours, though its average density is a shade less. Surface gravity is one and a quarter Sarr normal. Mean temperature is a little below the freezing point of potassium. Atmospheric pressure uncertain, composition unknown. Period of rotation, one point eight four Sarr days.”

“I see. You could duplicate temperature readily enough on this planet, by choosing a point far enough around toward the dark side; and if necessary, there wouldn’t be too much trouble in reproducing the periodicity of night and day. Your problem is atmosphere. I’ll spend some time thinking out ways and means of getting that, then.” Sallman Ken moved slowly away in the direction of his assigned quarters. His thoughts were not exclusively occupied with the problem of atmosphere analysis; he was thinking more of a mysterious race inhabiting the flat, bleak plains of Planet Three and the possibility of cutting off trade with the planet — always, of course, assuming that its mysterious product was what he feared.

He was also wondering if he had overdone his disclaimer of interest in the planet’s chief export.

A circle of three-mile radius has an area of slightly over twenty-eight square miles, or roughly eighteen thousand acres. It follows that the map prepared by Roger and Edith Wing was not as detailed as it might have been. On the other hand, as their father was forced to admit, a tree-covered mountain side does not offer too many details to put on a map; and the effort the children turned in did show every creek and trail of which Mr. Wing had knowledge. Still more to the point, it showed clearly that they had actually travelled over the area in question. This was the defect in the girl’s experience which he had wanted corrected before she was released from the “stick-to-the-trail” rule.

He looked up presently from the tattered notebook. The family was gathered around the fireplace again, and the two cartographers were ensconced on either arm of his chair. Don was on the floor between the seats with Billy draped across his neck; Marjorie was in her mother’s lap. All were listening for the verdict.

“You seem to have done a pretty good job here,” Mr. Wing said at last. “Certainly anyone could find his way around the area with the aid of this map. Edie, how do you think you could do without it?”