"This," Hobart Zircon boomed, "is a phenomenon that will rock the science of zoology to its very depths! We will examine this creature and determine his genus and species, and we will name him after you two. Octopus waili branti-scotti. Or perhaps Octopus screami would be better."
"Of course we're not certain that it was a wail," Rick said soberly. "He might have been singing. He might even have been telling us to go catch him a fish."
Tony Briotti observed, "This may not be an isolated phenomenon. Who knows? A search may disclose screaming squid, or simpering sharks, or burbling barracuda."
"Seriously," Zircon asked, "have either of you a theory to account for this? Or do you really believe that the octopus wailed?"
"We'd be in a better position to answer that if we'd had a chance to explore the cave," Scotty replied. "How can we tell? Maybe the octopus really did wail, and we were the lucky ones who heard the sound for the first time." He grinned. "We should have wailed back and tried to strike up a conversation."
Rick agreed. "I'm with Scotty. We just don't know. I agree that a wailing octopus is a new kind of beast, but that's not entirely impossible, is it?"
"Perhaps not." Tony stared at the sunset. "I'm trying to recall the physiology of Octopus vulgaris, as the garden variety of octopus is called, but my memory isn't working. It isn't beyond reason. After all, some fish make sounds. I've caught croakers myself that were pretty noisy. But I've never heard of octopus sounds until now."
Scotty chuckled. "Haven't I read that octopuses have some intelligence? We might teach him to sing. He'd be a natural for television."
"You say that the sound was loud?" Tony asked.
"Very loud. My head hurt. Did yours, Scotty?"