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By this time, fwoonk and pwink and tweelt and kroosh had become swear words among the joint Space Navy-Colonial Office contact team. "Well, if I hear the two sounds alike, why doesn't the analyzer hear them alike?" Karl Dorver demanded. "It has better ears than you do, Karl. Look how many different frequencies there are in that word, all crowding up behind each other," Lillian said.
"I wish I could design a sound-detector one-tenth as good as this must be." Yes. The way the Lord Mayor said fwoonk and the way Paul Meillard said it sounded entirely different to them. Of course, fwoonk and pwink and tweelt and kroosh sounded alike to them, but let's don't be too picky about things.
There was a difference between event-level sound, which was a series of waves of alternately crowded and rarefied molecules of air, and object-level sound, which was an auditory sensation inside the nervous system, she admitted. That, Fayon crowed, was what he'd been saying all along; their auditory system was probably such that fwoonk and pwink and tweelt and kroosh all sounded alike to them.
His three companions agreed that that was the word for self, but that was as far as the agreement went. They rendered it, respectively, as "Pwink," "Tweelt" and "Kroosh." Gofredo gave a barking laugh. He was right; anything that could go wrong would go wrong. Lillian used a word; it was not a ladylike word at all. The Svants looked at them as though wondering what could possibly be the matter.
A punch in the nose feels the same to anybody. They thought they were giving us bodily feelings. They didn't know we were insensible to them." "But they do ... they do have a language," Lillian faltered. "They talk." "Not the way we understand it. If they want to say, 'Me, it's tickle-pinch-rub, even if it sounds like fwoonk to us, when it doesn't sound like pwink or tweelt or kroosh.
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