"I made it drop you," he sobbed over the body, "I made it drop you. My God!—you look half-digested!" He felt Archie Simms' body. "Your arm's broke!"
Archie's lips moved feverishly. "Got to—got to help it—or kill it," he groaned.
"Come on," said Ed. He lifted the wounded man to his shoulders. "You're okay now. Don't talk. I'll get you aboard."
"It saved us—got to help it—or kill it."
"I'll make hash of it," said Ed, placing Archie on his bunk. He procured a hypodermic needle from a wall cabinet. "Sorry, Arch, I'm putting you under till we get back. I can't help you. See you in a month." He plunged the needle into Archie's arm.
"Got to—help it ... or kill it," sobbed Archie weakly. "Got to ... help ... it...." He slept.
Ed slipped behind the controls of the rocket. He pressed a button and the little boat whirled up into the sky. It vanished rapidly into the empty distances.
On a distant hilltop sat the purple sphere. He followed the path of the retreating rocket with sad eyes. He waited for many hours. The sun set and he glowed dimly against the stars. He watched the stars sadly. Then he cried.
He cried for seven days and seven nights.