"She's here—here on the floor. She just—just crawled in through the door!"
"Don't kill her! Get a hypo or something—"
Michelson slowly stood up. "There's no danger," he finally said, still looking down at her. "She's wounded all right. She looks almost dead now."
"Don't let her die!" Engstrand's voice filled the room. "You've got to keep her alive!"
"All right, I'll do what I can," Michelson said. "You'd better come up now. Bring the medics. We may have to work on her fast."
"I will. I'm on my way!"
She wanted to say no. She wanted to scream out no and tell him it was all wrong. If the Martians had given her the ability to speak, she could have explained everything long before this, and they could have helped her, and none of this would have happened. She could explain how she was forced to kill and destroy.
Michelson backed away from her, haltingly, then ran into the lab. He came back out and knelt down. He had a long hypodermic needle. The needle came down. It looked bigger and bigger.
She had thought maybe he would understand. But he didn't. He couldn't. Nobody could.