“They aren’t sending words or pictures,” said Hemdon uneasily. “The beam is wobbly and we don’t know what to make of it. It’s a signal, all right, and on the regular frequency. But there are all sorts of stray noises, and still in the midst of it there’s some sort of signal we can’t make out. It’s like a whine, only it stutters. It’s a broken-up sound of one pitch.”
Massy rubbed his chin reflectively. He remembered a course in information theory just before he’d graduated. from the Service Academy. Signals made by pulses, and pitch-changes and frequency-variations. Information was what couldn’t be predicted without information. And he remembered with gratitude a seminar on the history of communication, just before he’d gone out on. his first field job as a Survey Candidate.
“Hm-m-m,” he said with a trace of self-consciousness. “Those noises—the stuttering ones. Would they be, on the whole, of no more than two different durations? Like—hm-m-m—bzz bzz hzzzzzz bzz?”
He felt that he lost dignity by making such ribald sounds. But Herndon’s face brightened.
“That’s it!” he said relievedly. “That’s it! Only they’re high-pitched like—” His voice went falsetto. “Bzz bzz bzz bzzzzz bzz bzz!”
It occurred to Massy that they sounded like two idiots. He said with dignity: “Record everything you get, and I’ll try to decode it.” He added: “Before there was voice communication there were signals by light and sounds in groups of long and short units. They came in groups, to stand for letters, and things were spelled out. Of course there were larger groups, which were words. Very crude system, but it worked when there was great interference, as in the early days. If there’s some emergency, your home world might try to get through the sun’s scrambler-field that way.”
“Undoubtedly!” said Herndon, with even greater relief. “No question, that’s it!” He regarded Massy with great respect as he clicked off. His image faded. The plate was clear.
He thinks I’m wonderful, thought Massy wryly. Because I’m Colonial Survey. But all I know is what’s been taught me. It’s bound to show up sooner or later. Damn!
He dressed. From time to time he looked out the port again. The intolerable cold of Lani III had intensified, lately. There was some idea that sunspots were somehow the cause. He couldn’t make out sunspots with the naked eye, but the sun did look pale, with its accompanying sundogs. Massy was annoyed by them. They were the result of microscopic ice-crystals suspended in the air. There was no dust on this planet, but there was plenty of ice! It was in the air and on the ground and even under it. To be sure, the drills for the foundation of the great landing-grid had brought up cores of frozen humus along with frozen clay, so there must have been a time when this world had known clouds and seas and vegetation. But it was millions, maybe hundreds of millions of years ago. Right now, though, it was only warm enough to have an atmosphere and very slight and partial thawings in direct sunlight, in sheltered spots, at midday. It couldn’t support life, because life is always dependent on other life, and there is a temperature below which a neutral ecological system can’t maintain itself. The past few weeks, the climate had been such that even human-supplied life looked dubious.
Massy slipped on his Colonial Survey uniform with its palm-tree insignia. Nothing could be much more inappropriate than palm-tree symbols on a planet with sixty feet of permafrost. Massy, reflected wryly, The construction gang calls it a blast, instead of a tree, because we blow up when they try to dodge specifications. But specifications have to be met! You can’t bet the lives of a colony or even a ship’s crew on half-built facilities!
He marched down the corridor from his sleeping room, with the dignity he painstakingly tried to maintain for the sake of the Colonial Survey. It was a pretty lonely business, being dignified all the time. If Herndon didn’t look so respectful, it would have been pleasant to be more friendly. But Herndon revered him. Even his sister Riki—
But Massy put her firmly out of his mind. He was on Lani III to check and approve the colony installations. There was the giant landing-grid for spaceships, which took power from the ionosphere to bring heavily loaded space-vessels gently to the ground, and in between times took power from the same source to supply the colony’s needs. It also lifted visiting spacecraft the necessary five planetary diameters out when they took off again. There was power-storage in the remote event of disaster to that giant device. There was a food-reserve and the necessary resources for its indefinite stretching in case of need. That usually meant hydroponic installations. There was a reason for the colony, which would make it self-supporting—here a mine. All these things had had to be finished and operable and inspected by a duly qualified Colonial Survey officer before the colony could be licensed for unlimited use. It was all very normal and official, but Massy was the newest Senior Survey Officer on the list, and this was the first of his independent operations. He felt inadequate, sometimes.
He passed through the vestibule between this drone-hull and the next. He went directly to Herndon’s office. Herndon, like himself, was newly endowed with authority. He was actually a mining-and-minerals man and a youthful prodigy in that field, but when the director of the colony was taken ill while a supply ship was aground, he went back to the home planet and command devolved on Herndon. I wonder, thought Massy, if he feels as shaky as I do?
When he entered the office, Herndon sat listening to a literal hash of noises coming out of a speaker on his desk. The cryptic signal had been relayed to him, and a recorder stored it as it came. There were cracklings and squeals and moaning sounds, and sputters and rumbles and growls. But behind the facade of confusion there was a tiny, interrupted, high-pitched noise. It was a monotone whining not to be confused with the random sounds accompanying it. Sometimes it faded almost to inaudibility, and sometimes it was sharp and clear. But it was a distinctive sound in itself, and it was made up of short whines and longer ones of two durations only.
“I’ve put Riki at making a transcription of what we’ve got,” said Herndon with relief as he saw Massy. “She’ll make short marks for the short sounds, and long ones for the long. I’ve told her to try to separate the groups. We’ve got a full half hour of it, already.”
Massy made an inspired guess.
“I would expect it to be the same message repeated over and over,” he said. He added, “And I think it would be decoded by guessing at the letters in two-letter and three-letter words, as clues to longer ones. That’s quicker than statistical analysis of frequency.”
Herndon instantly pressed buttons under his phone-plate. He relayed the information to Riki, his sister, as if it were gospel. Massy remembered guiltily that it wasn’t gospel. It was simply a trick recalled from his boyhood, when he was passionately interested in secret languages. His interest had faded when he realized he had no secrets to record or transmit.
Hemdon turned from the phone-plate.
“Riki says she’s already learned to recognize some groups,” he reported, “but thanks for the advice. Now what?”