Robert Sheckley - Restricted Area

The bird was coloured silver and gold.

'Don't you see anything wrong yet?' Simmons asked impatiently.

'Only the colour scheme,' Kilpepper said. 'Is there something else?'

'Look at the trees.'

The boughs were laden with fruit. It hung in clumps, all on the lower branches, of a bewildering variety of colours, sizes, and shapes. There were things that looked like grapes, and things that looked like bananas, and things that looked like watermelons, and—

'Lots of different species, I guess,' Kilpepper hazarded, not sure what Simmons wanted him to see.

'Different species! Look, man. There are as many as ten different kinds of fruit growing on one branch!'

Examining closer, Kilpepper saw it was true. Each tree had an amazing multiplicity of fruit.

'And that's just impossible,' Simmons said. 'It's not my field, of course, but I can state with fair certainty that each fruit is a separate and distinct entity. They're not stages of each other.'

'How do you account for it?' Kilpepper asked.

'I don't have to,' the biologist grinned. 'But some poor botanist is going to have his hands full.'

They turned and started to walk back. 'What were you here for?' Kilpepper asked.

'Me? I was doing a little anthropological work on the side. Wanted to find out where our friends lived. No luck. There are no paths, implements, clearings, anything. Not even caves.'

Kilpepper didn't think it unusual that a biologist should be making a quick anthropological survey. It was impossible to represent all the sciences on an expedition of this sort. Survival was the first consideration - biology and bacteriology. Then language. After that, any botanical, ecological, psychological, sociological, or any other knowledge was appreciated.

Eight or nine birds had joined the animals - or natives -around the ship when they got back. The birds were brilliantly coloured also: polka dots, stripes, piebalds. There wasn't a dun or grey in the lot.

Mate Morena and Crewman Flynn trudged through an outcropping of the forest. They stopped at the foot of a little hill.

'Do we have to climb it?' Flynn asked, sighing. The large camera on his back was weighing him down.

'The little hand says we gotta.' Morena pointed to his dial. The indicator showed the presence of metallic mass just over the rise.

'Spaceships ought to carry cars,' Flynn said, leaning forward to balance himself against the gentle slope of the hill.

'Yeh, or camels.'

Above them red and gold birds dipped and sailed, cheeping merrily. The breeze fanned the tall grass and hummed melodiously through the leaves and branches of the nearby forest. Behind them, two of the natives followed. They were horse-shaped, except for their hides of green and white dots.

'Like a bloody circus,' Flynn observed as one of the horses capered a circle around him.

'Yeh,' Morena said. They reached the top of the hill and started down. Then Flynn stopped.

'Look at that!'

At the base of the hill, rising slim and erect, was a metal pillar. They followed it up with their eyes. It climbed and climbed - and its top was lost in the clouds.

They hurried down and examined it. Closer, the pillar was more massy than they had thought. Almost twenty feet through, Morena estimated. At a guess he placed the metal as an alloy of steel, by its grey-blue colour. But what steel, he asked himself, could support a shaft that size?

'How high would you say those clouds are?' Morena asked.

Flynn craned back his neck. 'Lord, they must be half a mile up. Maybe a mile.' The pillar had been hidden from the ship by the clouds, and by its grey-blue colour, which blended into the background.

'I don't believe it,' Morena said. 'I wonder what the compression strain on this thing is.' They stared in awe at the tremendous shaft.

'Well,' Flyn said, 'I'd better get some pictures.' He unloaded his camera and snapped three shots of the shaft from twenty feet, then a shot with Morena for size comparison. For the next three pictures he sighted up the shaft.

'What do you figure it is?' Morena asked.

'Let the big brains figure it out,' Flynn said. 'It ought to drive them nuts.' He strapped the camera back together. 'Now I suppose we have to walk all the way back.' He looked at the green and white horses. 'Wondet if I could hitch a ride.'

'Go ahead and break your stupid neck,' Morena said.

'Here, boy, come on here,' Flynn called. One of the horses came over and knelt beside him. Flynn climbed on his back gingerly. Once he was astride, he grinned at Morena.

'Just don't smash that camera,' Morena said. 'It's Government property.'

'Nice boy,' Flynn said to the horse. 'Good fellow.' The horse got to his feet - and smiled.

'See you back in camp,' Flynn said, guiding the horse towards the hill.

'Hold it a second,' Morena said. He looked glumly at Flynn, then beckoned to the other horse. 'Come on, boy.' The horse knelt and he climbed on.

They rode in circles for a few moments, experimenting. The horses could be guided by a touch. Their broad backs were amazingly comfortable. One of the red and gold birds came down and perched on Flynn's shoulder.

'Hey, hey, this is the life,' Flynn said, patting the glossy hide of his mount. 'Race you back to camp, Mate.'

'You're on,' Morena said. But their horses would move no faster than a slow walk, in spite of all their urging.

At the ship, Kilpepper was squatting in the grass, watching Aramic at work. The linguist was a patient man. His sisters had always remarked on his patience. His colleagues had praised him for it, and his students, during his years of teaching, had appreciated it. Now, the backlog of sixteen years of self-containment was being called to the front.

'We'll try it again,' Aramic said in his calmest voice. He flipped through the pages of Language Approach for Alien Grade-Two Intelligences - a text written by himself - and found the diagram he wanted. He opened to the page and pointed.

The animal beside him looked like an inconceivable cross between a chipmunk and a giant panda. It cocked one eye at the diagram, the other eye wandering ludicrously around its socket.

'Planet,' Aramic said, pointing. 'Planet.'

'Excuse me, Skipper,' Simmons said. 'I'd like to set up this X-ray gadget here.'

'Certainly,' Kilpepper said, moving to let the biologist drag the machine into place.

'Planet,' Aramic said again.

'Elam vessel holam cram,' the chipmunk-panda said pleasantly.

Damn it, they had a language. The sounds they made were certainly representational. It was just a question of finding a common meeting ground. Had they mastered simple abstractions? Aramic put down his book and pointed to the chipmunk-panda.

'Animal,' he said, and waited.

'Get him to hold still,' Simmons said, focusing the X-ray. 'That's good. Now a few more.'

'Animal,' Aramic repeated hopefully.

'Eejul beeful box,' the animal said. 'Hoful toful lox, ramadan, Samduran, eeful beeful box.'

Patience, Aramic reminded himself. Positive attitude. Be cheerful. Faint heart never.

He picked up another of his manuals. This one was called Language Approach to Alien Grade-One Intelligences.

He found what he wanted and put it down again. Smiling, he held up a finger.

'One,' he said.

The animal leaned forward and sniffed his finger.

Smiling grimly, Aramic held up another finger. 'Two.' A third. 'Three.'

'Hoogelex,' the animal said suddenly.

A diphthong? Their word for 'one'? 'One,' he said again, waving the same finger.

'Vereserevef,' the animal replied, beaming.

Could that be an alternate 'one'? 'One,' he said again.

The animal burst into song.

'Sevef hevef ulud cram, aragan, biligan, homus dram—'