Colonel John Vanderlash brought along a portable version of the Intelligence Detector, for it seemed possible that the inhabitants of this planet had concealed themselves in underground cities.
The portable intelligence beam projector was mounted on an eight-wheeled vehicle capable of going almost anywhere. A signal was soon picked up. Vanderlash, a small man with big shoulders and a pockmarked face, directed his driver to follow it. The crew of the eight-wheeler stood to their guns, since intelligent beings were known to be dangerous. The were ready to retaliate at the first sign of hostile intent, or even sooner.
They followed the beam signal into an enormous cave. As they moved deeper into it, the signal grew stronger, until it approximated Intelligence Level 5.3, the equivalent of a man thinking about doing the New York Times crossword puzzle. The driver of the foremost assault vehicle shifted to a lower gear. The vehicle crept forward slowly, Colonel Vanderlash standing in the prow. He figured the intelligent beings had to be around here somewhere, probably just around the corner ...
Then the operator announced that the signal was fading.
“Stop!” Vanderlash said. “We’ve lost them! Back up!”
The vehicle backed. The signal came back to strength.
“Stop here!” Vanderlash said, and the eight-wheeler skidded to a stop. They were in the middle of the signal’s field of maximum strength.
The men stared around them, fingers on triggers, breaths bated.
“Doesn’t anyone see anything?” Vanderlash asked.
There was a low mutter of denial among the men. One of them said, “Ain’t nothin’ here but them moths, sir.”
“Moths?” Vanderlash said. “Moths? Where!”
“Right ahead of us, sir,” the driver said.
Vanderlash looked at the moths dancing in the vehicle’s yellow headlight beam. There were a lot of them. They darted and flashed and turned and cavorted and twirled and sashayed and dodged and danced and fluttered and crepusculated and do-si-doed.
There was a pattern to their movements. As Vanderlash watched, a thought came to him.
“Point the intelligence beam at them,” he said.
“At the moths, sir?” the intelligence beam operator asked incredulously.
“You heard me, trooper. Do what you’re told.”
The operator did as he was told. The dial on the intelligence machine immediately swung to 7.9, the equivalent of a man trying to remember what a binomial equation was.
“Either some wise guy aliens are playing tricks on us,” Vanderlash said, “or ... or ...”
He turned to his second in command, Major Lash LeRue, who was in the habit of filling in his superior officer’s thoughts for him when Colonel Vanderlash didn’t have time to think them himself.
“Or,” Major LaRue said, “the moths on this planet have developed a group intelligence.”
It took the Communications Team less than a week to crack the communications code which the moth entity employed. They would have solved it quicker if any of them had thought to compare the moths’ dot and dash pattern with that of Morse Code.
“Are you trying to tell me,” Vargas said, “that these alien moths are communicating by Morse Code?”
“I’m afraid so, sir,” the communications officer said. “But it’s not my fault, sir. Furthermore, these moths are acting like a single entity.”
“What did the moth entity say to you?”
“It said, ‘Take your leader to me.’”
Vargas nodded. That made sense. Aliens were always saying things like that.
“What did you tell it?” Vargas asked.
“I said we’d get back to him.”
“You did good,” Vargas said. “General Gatt will want to hear about this.”
“Hot damn,” Gatt said. “Moths, huh? Not exactly what we were looking for, but definitely a beginning. Let’s get down there and talk with this—you couldn’t call him a guy, could you?”
Down in the cave, Gatt and Vargas were able to communicate with the moth entity with the assistance of the Chief Signalman. It was an eerie moment. The Earth-men’s great battle lanterns cast lurid shadows across the rocky floor. In the cave opening, flickering in a ghostly fashion, the moths spun and fluttered, darted and dived, all cooperating to produce Morse signals.
“Hello,” Gatt said. “We’re from Earth.”
“Yes, I know,” the Moth entity said.
“How’d you know that?”
“The other creature told me.”
“What other creature?”
“I believe he is referring to me,” a voice said from deep in the cave.
It startled the Earthmen. Every gun trained on the cave entrance. The soldiers watched, some breathing shallowly and others with bated breath. And then, through the swirling mists and the multi-colored brilliance of the searchlights, a figure like that of a small, oddly-shaped man stepped into the light.
The alien was small and skinny and entirely bald. His ears were pointed and he had small antennae growing out of his forehead. Everybody knew at once that he was an alien. If there was any doubt of that, it was soon expunged when the alien opened his mouth. For out of that rosebud-shaped orifice came words in recognizably colloquial English, the very best kind.
Gatt directed the Telegrapher to ask, “First of all, Alien, how come you speak our language?”
The alien replied, “We have long been in contact with your race, for we are those you refer to as Flying Saucer people. When we first established a presence on your world of Earth, a foolish clerical error led us to believe that Morse was your universal language. By the time we discovered our error, Morse was firmly established in our language schools.”
“Oh. That accounts for it, then,” Gatt said. “It would have been too much of a coincidence for you people to have developed the English language on your own.”
“I quite agree,” the alien replied.
“At least we have the language problem out of the way,” Gatt said. “We can’t go on referring to you as ‘The Alien.’ What shall we call you?”
“My people are called Magellenics in your language,” the Alien said. “And we all have the same last name. So you could either call me Magellenic, which is also the name of my planet, or Hurtevert, which is my first name.”
“Hurtevurt Magellenic,” Gatt said. “Quite a mouthful. I suppose there’s an explanation for why you’re called ‘Magellenic’ I mean we have a word like that in our own language.”
“We borrowed the word from your language,” Hurtevert said. “We liked the sound of it better than our previous name for the planet, Hzuuutz-kril.”
“Ah. Makes sense. Now, is this planet your home world? If so, where’s everybody else?”
“It is not my home world,” Hurtevert said. “This is a world populated solely by intelligent moths. It is far from my home world.”
“Whatcha doing here? Exploring or something?”
“No, General. I was sent here as a Watcher by the members of my underground. I was watching for your great ship.”
“How’d you know we’d be coming?”
“We didn’t. We just sent out Watchers in case somebody does came along. You see, my people, the Magellenics, are in a whole lot of trouble.”
Gatt turned to Vargas and remarked, “You know, it isn’t enough we are the first Earthmen in history to contact aliens, these have to be aliens with problems, yet.”
“I don’t think that possibility was ever forecast,” Vargas said.
“Well,” Gatt said, “we may as well hear this creature’s problems in comfort. This cave is decidedly chilly, and I don’t believe we brought along any refreshment.” He turned to the alien, and, speaking through his Telegrapher, said, “How about coming aboard my ship and we’ll talk it over? I presume you breathe oxygen and drink liquids and all that.”