Speaker to Animals

I'm a pretty simple fellow. Plain. I don't like to draw a lot of attention to myself, or put on fancy pretenses. My girlfriend, Ida Mae, says I'm about as interesting to be around as watching paint dry on a fence. But I guess I do have one skill (if you can call it that) that sets me apart from the average person. It's why that psychologist guy from the university sought me out.

I was in the tractor bailin' hay in the back twenty last week when Ida called me on the CB.

"Jess, get your behind back here! There's a Professor Watkins here in the kitchen to see you. Over."

I asked her, "Are you sure?"

"Wha'da'ya mean, Am I sure? Am I sure that he's a professor, or that his name is Watkins? Over."

Oh, that Ida Mae and her smart ass mouth! That's why I love her so.

"No, I mean, are you sure he wants to see me? Are you sure he ain't lost, and just lookin' for directions from the man of the house?"

After a brief burst of static, Ida Mae radioed back. "Nope, it's you. Says he's lookin' for the ‘Speaker to Animals.'"

* * *

As long as I've lived here in Essex Junction, the townsfolk have called me "Speaker to Animals" or "Mister Speaker" or other variations on the nickname. At an early age, I could understand the farm animals' thoughts -- and, to a limited extent, they could understand me. Mind you, they don't always want to do what I tell'em. But I usually convince the sheep to go to higher ground when it threatens to flood the lower pasture during a bad thunderstorm. Or, I can coax the horse to calm down when the doc needs to tend to a shattered hoof. I don't even have to come into physical contact with the critter. I just need to get close is all. At any rate, that's why the professor sought me out that afternoon. He explained to me that the government needed someone of my special talents. They needed me to try and communicate with the Armadillians.

Like just about everyone else on the planet, I heard about the Armadillian ship landing eight months earlier. They came down hard about a hundred miles to the west from us. It was front page news for months. But given the impenetrable dome they erected around their ship, along with their total disinterest in making contact with us, the whole affair was now -- as Ida Mae put it -- "yesterday's news." The military had established a perimeter around the ship but nowadays they weren't even stopping the tourists from walking right up to the edge of the dome to snap photos.

The Armadillians got their name because they look like giant armadillos. They have hard shells, a long rat-like tail, pointed snouts and big, beady eyes.

Kinda goofy lookin' if you ask me.

The government folks immediately set about to drillin' into the dome. But their sharpest diamond drill bits didn't even scratch the surface. They shined high powered laser beams at it -- nothing. They even talked about using one of those so-called bunker-busting bombs on it. I don't think the Governor was too keen on seein' half of Decatur County blowed up unless the Armadillians did something hostile, though. Thank goodness, reason prevailed. Decatur County is still intact -- so far.

The Armadillians definitely got a few peoples' noses out of joint for failing to want to communicate with us. They ignore our radio communications, pulses of light, semaphore flags, even printed dots and dashes in Morse code. They don't look at us. They don't raise an eyebrow. Or swish an armored rattail.

Nada. Nada damn thing.

The government folks even tried that old trick from "Close Encounters of the Third Kind" where they played musical notes and light patterns from a big electronic organ and billboard. But the critters couldn't care less about out lights and sounds.

To be fair to the Armadillians, it's not entirely clear if our sound waves, or even our air, is getting through the dome. Heck, we don't even know if they can see like us. They ignore us, and simply go on about their business. Now, what that business is doesn't seem clear to the government and it's the subject of much speculation. If you ask me, it looks like they've stripped down their engine, laid it all out on the ground, and are trying to rebuild it.

"Over here, Jesse."

The professor leads me to the gate where an MP checks his credentials. The MP smartly salutes the professor (turns out, the professor is a Lt. Colonel in the National Guard) and then he waves the professor and me through the gate. Another MP offers to drive us to the dome's edge.

"Professor, if you don't mind, I'd like to walk a piece. You go on ahead. I'll be there in five minutes."

He nods, and climbs into the jeep. It speeds away.

The morning is bright and clear. I spot a few tourists with their cameras nearby. A Japanese family hurries by me. They're all clutching their fancy camera-phones, excited for an opportunity to pose near the dome with an Armadillian in the background -- working away on their mechanical contraption.

As I get closer to the dome, I'm gettin' this funny feelin'. Like, maybe I'm not alone. Like, an Armadillian is inside my head.

Slow down! You're goin' too fast for me, big guy!

Now I'm within spittin' distance of the dome. I spy the professor and some other military guys standing nearby. One of the Armadillians has stopped his work on the mechanics; he's turned to face the dome, and me. There are gasps from everyone in the vicinity. It's the first time any of the Armadillians have shown the slightest recognition of a human presence. While this is happening, I hear whirling noises from video cameras, as the media focus on me and the historic event that's unfolding.

Ahh . . . hold on . . . still goin' too fast. Wa -- wa -- wait! Hold on . . .

This creature is zapping me with all sorts of geometric shapes and formulas. I guess he got my message, because they seem to be getting slower and simpler. I see a circle. Wait, it's actually a "Zero," followed by a "One." Then, a "One Zero" followed by "One One."

I get it! They're counting up in base two, like a computer. Now we're getting somewhere!

I'm thinkin' back the numbers zero through nine, then double-digit numbers, ten through 25. Then I switch to letters of the alphabet. Later, simple words like "dog" and "cat." I flash them the letters "T-R-E-E" followed by the image of tree. All the while, the fat armadillo fixes his gaze at me. He doesn't appear to be particularly excited by this breakthrough. Even so, I'm excited! I think he's grokkin' me.

One of the military guys starts to approach me to say somethin' but the professor grabs his arm and cautions him to remain silent. I continue to focus on the communication. One thing's for sure: this critter is smart. He's a heck of a lot smarter than I am -- maybe even than the professor is.

I have no sense of how much time has passed. All I know is, the sun is beginning to set. We've been at it for hours. The Armadillian (actually, they call themselves "Tzphzusans") must have sensed my fatigue. He drops the link and our communicating ceases. But I now know a few basic things about their race and the world they come from. Also, why they're here.

"Jesse! Are you okay? What happened? What'd he say? Can you tell us?" The professor peppers me with questions. He wears a look of concern. A soldier shoves a ham-and-cheese sandwich in my hands.

"I -- I think so, Professor."

"Tell us! Please! Why are they here? And what do they want?"

An official has a video camera pointed at me. They're all waiting with bated breath for my response.

I grin stupidly at the camera.

"Howdy. I'm Jesse Reese. R-E-E-S-E. Speaker to Animals. I own a farm over in Essex Junction."

At this point, it would be swell to say something profound like, "That's one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind," but that line's already been taken.

"They had an engine malfunction and had to drop out of hyperspace to make repairs. I'm afraid to disappoint y'all but they didn't seek us out. And now that they've found us, they don't consider us an 'intelligent' species."

"Do they want anything from us?" asked the professor.

"No," I replied. "The big guy I was talkin' to there, he's 'Axtrophof' or somethin' like that -- he said, well . . ."

"What?!"

"Sorry, Professor. He said, basically, ‘We want to rebuild our engine and get off this fecal ball as soon as possible. Your planet smells very bad to us.'"

THE END

Bio: Phil Temples lives in Watertown, Massachusetts, and works as a computer systems administrator at a university. He's had over 120 short fiction stories published in print and online journals. His full-length murder-mystery novel, “The Winship Affair" is available from Blue Mustang Press, as well as a short story anthology, "Machine Feelings" from Big Table Publishing.

E-mail: Phil Temples

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