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 bzzzzzz 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!