Lights blinked on the radio panel. Michelson slowly raised his head and twisted a dial. "Yes," he said. She could hardly hear him. He seemed very tired, more tired than she had ever seen him. And much older too. Old and thin and tired.
"Mike—"
"Hello, Engstrand."
"I've got Guards on the way up there, Mike! Has that damn thing showed up yet?"
"No—not yet."
"I don't know why I never figured it would try to get back there. But that's where it's heading, we're sure of it now. Listen, Mike—if it does get up there before my men do, remember, don't kill it! Do anything you can think of, but keep it there and don't kill it! Apparently it's wounded anyway!"
"Yes, yes," Michelson said. He brushed at his eyes.
Mary lay there, half inside the open cabin door, imprisoned by her inability to speak. She stared into the laboratory, then at Michelson.
"We're set back at least five years, Mike! It's a hellish thing! But who could have anticipated a thing like that?"
"I guess nobody could."