"Oh. Well, are both of you named Pisces? Oh, I see. That is your species. I am called Man; you are called Pisces."
"Of course not," they said, "You were right the first time. Pisces is our name. You can say, 'Pisces, get me that ship.' And we would do so."
"How can both of you have the same name? Are you actually one intelligence? And see that you keep your hands ... I mean, see that you leave my ship alone."
One said, "We wouldn't think of touching your ship." The other said, "No, we are two separate entities."
Ingomar passed a hand over his face, thinking. The two very Earth-looking birds stood quietly before him, their feet buried in the sand so that it looked like their legs were two stilts shoved into the ground. At last he said, "Well, I know what we'll do. I will call you Pisces I," he pointed to the bird on his left, "and your companion Pisces II."
The identical birds glanced at each other, then leapt into the air. They circled high above his head. They swooped low. They engaged in marvelous aerial gymnastics wonderful to see. Ingomar made notes in his book concerning their agility. Finally they came to rest before him again, so suddenly that he stepped backward quickly, frightened.
"Now," they said, "which one of us is Pisces I and which is Pisces II?"
Puzzled, Ingomar studied them carefully. The one with the quick temper might show this characteristic in some way. He pointed to the bird on his right. "You," he said, "are Pisces I."
They laughed. It was a verbal sound only. No expression showed in their eyes.