"What do I do now?" Gordy asked de Terry over his shoulder.
De Terry laughed—or gasped. Gordy wasn't sure. "Talk to them," he said. "What else is there to do?"
Gordy swallowed. He resolutely did not attempt to speak in English to these creatures, knowing as surely as he knew his name that English—and probably any other language involving sound—would be incomprehensible to them. But he found himself smiling pacifically to them, and that was of course as bad ... the things had no expressions of their own, that he could see, and certainly they would have no precedent to help interpret a human smile.
Gordy raised his hand in the semantically sound gesture of peace, and waited to see what the insects would do.
They did nothing.
Gordy bit his lip and, feeling idiotic, bowed stiffly to the ants.
The ants did nothing. De Terry said from behind, "Try talking to them, Dr. Gordy."
"That's silly," Gordy said. "They can't hear." But it was no sillier than anything else. Irritably, but making the words very clear, he said, "We ... are ... friends."
The ants did nothing. They just stood there, with the unwinking pupiled eyes fixed on Gordy. They didn't shift from foot to foot as a human might, or scratch themselves, or even show the small movement of human breathing. They just stood there.