“Please put them in your ears and turn them on,” he said.  “Thank you.”

Baby Fuzzy tried to get Jack’s.  He put the plug in his ear and switched on the power.  Instantly he began hearing a number of small sounds he had never heard before, and Baby was saying to him:  “He-inta sa-wa’aka; igga sa geeda?”

“Muhgawd, Gus, he’s talking!”

“Yes, I hear him; what do you suppose—?”

“Ultrasonic; God, why didn’t we think of that long ago?”

He snapped off the hearing aid.  Baby Fuzzy was saying, “Yeeek.”  When he turned it on again, Baby was saying, “Kukk-ina za zeeva.”

“No, Baby, Pappy Jack doesn’t understand.  We’ll have to be awfully patient, and learn each other’s language.”

“Pa-pee Jaaak!” Baby cried. “Ba-bee za-hinga; Pa-pee Jaak za zag ga he-izza!”

“That yeeking is just the audible edge of their speech; bet we have a lot of transsonic tones in our voices, too.”

“Well, he can hear what we say; he’s picked up his name and yours.”

“Mr. Brannhard, Mr. Holloway,” Judge Pendarvis was saying, “may we please have your attention?  Now, have you all your earplugs in and turned on?  Very well; carry on, Captain.”

This time, an ensign went out and came back with a crowd of enlisted men, who had six Fuzzies with them.  They set them down in the open space between the bench and the arc of tables and backed away.  The Fuzzies drew together into a clump and stared around them, and he stared, unbelievingly, at them.  They couldn’t be; they didn’t exist any more.  But they were—­Little Fuzzy and Mamma Fuzzy and Mike and Mitzi and Ko-Ko and Cinderella.  Baby whooped something and leaped from the table, and Mamma came stumbling to meet him, clasping him in her arms.  Then they all saw him and began clamoring:  “Pa-pee Jaaak!  Pa-pee Jaaak!”

He wasn’t aware of rising and leaving the table; the next thing he realized, he was sitting on the floor, his family mobbing him and hugging him, gabbling with joy.  Dimly he heard the gavel hammering, and the voice of Chief Justice Pendarvis:  “Court is recessed for ten minutes!” By that time, Gus was with him; gathering the family up, they carried them over to their table.

They stumbled and staggered when they moved, and that frightened him for a moment.  Then he realized that they weren’t sick or drugged.  They’d just been in low-G for a while and hadn’t become reaccustomed to normal weight.  Now he knew why he hadn’t been able to find any trace of them.  He noticed that each of them was wearing a little shoulder bag—­a Marine Corps first-aid pouch—­slung from a webbing strap.  Why the devil hadn’t he thought of making them something like that?  He touched one and commented, trying to pitch his voice as nearly like theirs as he could.  They all babbled in reply and began opening the little bags and showing him what they had in them—­little knives and miniature tools and bits of bright or colored junk they had picked up.  Little Fuzzy produced a tiny pipe with a hardwood bowl, and a little pouch of tobacco from which he filled it.  Finally, he got out a small lighter.