“Don’t be too premature about it, Anna. I think that’s more or less what you have, here.”
Everybody looked at him, surprised. His subject was comparative technology. The bio- and psycho-sciences were completely outside his field.
“A lot of things have been bothering me, ever since the first contact. I’m beginning to think I’m on the edge of understanding them, now. Bennet, the higher life-forms here—the people, and that domsee, and Charley’s svant-bat—are structurally identical with us. I don’t mean gross structure, like ears and combs. I mean molecular and cellular and tissue structure. Is that right?”
Fayon nodded. “Biology on this planet is exactly Terra type. Yes. With adequate safeguards, I’d even say you could make a viable tissue-graft from a Svant to a Terran, or vice versa.”
“Ayesha, would the sound waves from that pistol-shot in any conceivable way have the sort of physical effect we’re considering?”
“Absolutely not,” she said, and Luis Gofredo said: “I’ve been shot at and missed with pistols at closer range than that.”
“Then it was the effect on the animal’s nervous system.”
Anna shrugged. “It’s still Bennet’s baby. I’m a psychologist, not a neurologist.”
“What I’ve been saying, all along,” Fayon reiterated complacently. “Their hearing is different from ours. This proves it.
“It proves that they don’t hear at all.”
He had expected an explosion; he wasn’t disappointed. They all contradicted him, many derisively. Signal reactions. Only Paul Meillard made the semantically appropriate response:
“What do you mean, Mark?”
“They don’t hear sound; they feel it. You all saw what they have inside their combs. Those things don’t transmit sound like the ears of any sound-sensitive life-form we’ve ever seen. They transform sound waves into tactile sensations.”
Fayon cursed, slowly and luridly. Anna de Jong looked at him wide-eyed. He finished his cocktail and poured another. In the snooper screen, what looked like an indignation meeting was making uproar in the village plaza. Gofredo cut the volume of the speaker even lower.
“That would explain a lot of things,” Meillard said slowly. “How hard it was for them to realize that we didn’t understand when they talked to us. A punch in the nose feels the same to anybody. They thought they were giving us bodily feelings. They didn’t know we were insensible to them.”
“But they do … they do have a language,” Lillian faltered. “They talk.”
“Not the way we understand it. If they want to say, ‘Me,’ it’s tickle-pinch-rub
, even if it sounds like fwoonk to us, when it doesn’t sound like pwink or tweelt or kroosh. The tactile sensations, to a Svant, feel no more different than a massage by four different hands. Analogous to a word pronounced by four different voices, to us. They’ll have a code for expressing meanings in tactile sensation, just as we have a code for expressing meanings in audible sound.”
“Except that when a Svant tells another, ‘I am happy,’ or ‘I have a stomachache,’ he makes the other one feel that way too,” Anna said. “That would carry an awful lot more conviction. I don’t imagine symptom-swapping is popular among Svants. Karl! You were nearly right, at that. This isn’t telepathy, but it’s a lot like it.”
“So it is,” Dorver, who had been mourning his departed telepathy theory, said brightly. “And look how it explains their society. Peaceful, everybody in quick agreement—” He looked at the screen and gulped. The Lord Mayor and his party had formed one clump, and the opposition was grouped at the other side of the plaza; they were screaming in unison at each other. “They make their decisions by endurance; the party that can resist the feelings of the other longest converts their opponents.”
“Pure democracy,” Gofredo declared. “Rule by the party that can make the most noise.”
“And I’ll bet that when they’re sick, they go around chanting, ‘I am well; I feel just fine!’ ” Anna said. “Autosuggestion would really work, here. Think of the feedback, too. One Svant has a feeling. He verbalizes it, and the sound of his own voice reinforces it in him. It is induced in his hearers, and they verbalize it, reenforcing it in themselves and in him. This could go on and on.”
“Yes. It has. Look at their technology.” He felt more comfortable, now he was on home ground again. “A friend of mine, speaking about a mutual acquaintance, once said, ‘When they installed her circuits, they put in such big feeling circuits that there was no room left for any thinking circuits.’ I think that’s a perfect description of what I estimate Svant mentality to be. Take these bronze knives, and the musical instruments. Wonderful; the work of individuals trying to express feeling in metal or wood. But get an idea like the wheel, or even a pair of tongs? Poo! How would you state the First Law of Motion, or the Second Law of Thermodynamics, in tickle-pinch-rub terms? Sonny could grasp an idea like that. Sonny’s handicap, if you call it that, cuts him off from feel-thinking; he can think logically instead of sensually.”
He sipped his cocktail and continued: “I can understand why the village is mounded up, too. I realized that while I was watching Dave’s gang bury the pump house. I’d been bothered by that, and by the absence of granaries for all the grain they raise, and by the number of people for so few and such small houses. I think the village is mostly underground, and the houses are just entrances, soundproofed, to shelter them from uncomfortable natural noises—thunderstorms, for instance.”
The horn was braying in the snooper-screen speaker; somebody wondered what it was for. Gofredo laughed.
“I thought, at first, that it was a war-horn. It isn’t. It’s a peace-horn,” he said. “Public tranquilizer. The first day, they brought it out and blew it at us to make us peaceable.”
“Now I see why Sonny is rejected and persecuted,” Anna was saying. “He must make all sorts of horrible noises that he can’t hear … that’s not the
