scavenged seeds in the mammoths’ deep footprints.
Patrick’s ambling brought him alongside one mammoth, Glenn close behind him. The mammoth’s golden curtain of fiber swayed and gleamed in the sunlight. Glenn had to touch. She let the back of her hand brush the long silky strands.
“Oh!” she said quietly.
Patrick grinned, confirmed what she had just discovered. “They’re feathers.”
Glenn smiled, amazed, letting the silky feathers fall through her fingers. They flashed light and dark.
“The color’s not pigment,” Patrick said. “It’s structural. The feathers are refractive. That’s why they turn color in the sun. Like hummingbirds.”
“Big hummer,” said Glenn. The mammoth hadn’t minded—or perhaps not noticed—her touch.
“There’s probably a layer of down underneath her silk jammies but I’m afraid to grope her to find out.”
“Her?”
“This is a gal.”
The she-mammoth was tusked like the males.
Looking across the meadow, Glenn couldn’t tell the boys from the girls, except for the moms with their babies.
Glenn and Patrick agreed without speaking that it was best not to go near the babies.
The babies were classically cute, chubby, round, with big round heads and big round eyes, and downy feathers. They were clumsy. They tripped over their own trunks. The smallest baby was eight feet tall.
Patrick fished out his omni from one of his many pockets. He’d known what he was doing when they set out on this safari. He was recording. He checked the chart of extremely low frequency noises.
“Someone’s talking.” He pointed at a line moving on the graph of his handheld.
Patrick looked around. He pointed the omni toward a particularly mammoth mammoth. “The big guy there. Long John. He’s doing the talking.”
“What has a mammoth to say?” Glenn asked.
Patrick shrugged. “He might be telling another herd the grazing is good over here. Or he could be giving the saber tooth report.”
He pocketed the omni, moved up to walk next to their she-mammoth’s head. He fell into her slow rolling gait. Imitating her, he moved his arm like a trunk and plucked a handful of seed-topped grass.
Patrick Hamilton was socially inept among most humans, except other scientists. But he had a special connection with most aliens. Maybe because he took an interest in aliens. He was an intellectual snob and a pedant. He found most human conversation tedious, and it offended people when his eyes glazed over while they were talking. He liked the puzzle of deciphering alien thought and speech. He paid attention to what aliens said and made an effort to understand them. And aliens didn’t know how juvenile his conversation usually was.
“Hey, spicy hembra, is this where all the hot mammoths graze?”
The she-mammoth lifted her trunk to snuffle his head. Her large hairy nostril breathed him in. Then she curled her trunk around the grass he held in his hand. She took the grass from him and tucked it into her mouth. Chewed with broad flat teeth. Her stubby tusks moved with her chewing.
She exhaled sweet oaty breath.
“I hope this doesn’t mean we’re hooked,” said Patrick. “I’m happily married, you see.”
Glenn noted the “happily.” A significant word there.
The she-mammoth gave a little chirp.
Glenn smiled at the tiny sound. “Was that her? Did she do that?”
Patrick nodded. “That’s all we’ve got on record for mammoth vocalization. I knew they could do better than that. This.” He drew his omni from his pocket and showed her the chart of bellowing low-fi noises. “This. This is their language. Maybe.”
Glenn gave him a puzzled look. “Maybe?”
“The question is whether it can be called language,” he qualified.
“There’s a wide fuzzy gray line between language and animal communication. My mammoths fall solidly in the fuzzy zone. They don’t create. But they do communicate.”
“Your mammoths,” said Glenn. “I thought they were Dr. Szaszy’s
Patrick’s ambling brought him alongside one mammoth, Glenn close behind him. The mammoth’s golden curtain of fiber swayed and gleamed in the sunlight. Glenn had to touch. She let the back of her hand brush the long silky strands.
“Oh!” she said quietly.
Patrick grinned, confirmed what she had just discovered. “They’re feathers.”
Glenn smiled, amazed, letting the silky feathers fall through her fingers. They flashed light and dark.
“The color’s not pigment,” Patrick said. “It’s structural. The feathers are refractive. That’s why they turn color in the sun. Like hummingbirds.”
“Big hummer,” said Glenn. The mammoth hadn’t minded—or perhaps not noticed—her touch.
“There’s probably a layer of down underneath her silk jammies but I’m afraid to grope her to find out.”
“Her?”
“This is a gal.”
The she-mammoth was tusked like the males.
Looking across the meadow, Glenn couldn’t tell the boys from the girls, except for the moms with their babies.
Glenn and Patrick agreed without speaking that it was best not to go near the babies.
The babies were classically cute, chubby, round, with big round heads and big round eyes, and downy feathers. They were clumsy. They tripped over their own trunks. The smallest baby was eight feet tall.
Patrick fished out his omni from one of his many pockets. He’d known what he was doing when they set out on this safari. He was recording. He checked the chart of extremely low frequency noises.
“Someone’s talking.” He pointed at a line moving on the graph of his handheld.
Patrick looked around. He pointed the omni toward a particularly mammoth mammoth. “The big guy there. Long John. He’s doing the talking.”
“What has a mammoth to say?” Glenn asked.
Patrick shrugged. “He might be telling another herd the grazing is good over here. Or he could be giving the saber tooth report.”
He pocketed the omni, moved up to walk next to their she-mammoth’s head. He fell into her slow rolling gait. Imitating her, he moved his arm like a trunk and plucked a handful of seed-topped grass.
Patrick Hamilton was socially inept among most humans, except other scientists. But he had a special connection with most aliens. Maybe because he took an interest in aliens. He was an intellectual snob and a pedant. He found most human conversation tedious, and it offended people when his eyes glazed over while they were talking. He liked the puzzle of deciphering alien thought and speech. He paid attention to what aliens said and made an effort to understand them. And aliens didn’t know how juvenile his conversation usually was.
“Hey, spicy hembra, is this where all the hot mammoths graze?”
The she-mammoth lifted her trunk to snuffle his head. Her large hairy nostril breathed him in. Then she curled her trunk around the grass he held in his hand. She took the grass from him and tucked it into her mouth. Chewed with broad flat teeth. Her stubby tusks moved with her chewing.
She exhaled sweet oaty breath.
“I hope this doesn’t mean we’re hooked,” said Patrick. “I’m happily married, you see.”
Glenn noted the “happily.” A significant word there.
The she-mammoth gave a little chirp.
Glenn smiled at the tiny sound. “Was that her? Did she do that?”
Patrick nodded. “That’s all we’ve got on record for mammoth vocalization. I knew they could do better than that. This.” He drew his omni from his pocket and showed her the chart of bellowing low-fi noises. “This. This is their language. Maybe.”
Glenn gave him a puzzled look. “Maybe?”
“The question is whether it can be called language,” he qualified.
“There’s a wide fuzzy gray line between language and animal communication. My mammoths fall solidly in the fuzzy zone. They don’t create. But they do communicate.”
“Your mammoths,” said Glenn. “I thought they were Dr. Szaszy’s
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