"We'll see," he said tritely.
Silence fell, and then the voice again: "I'm approaching the thing. Y'know, it's fearfully quiet out here with the area evacuated and all machinery stopped. The wall shields make the landscape unreal, like the ghost-sequence in a horror movie. Terra was never intended to be seen under a greenish light. You know how people look under mercury vapor lights? That's how Terra looks, sort of."
"Jenna?"
"Yes Ralph."
"You're not ... you're not—?"
"What can I say?" she pleaded. "I'm only human."
He looked up bitterly. The question was in his eyes. He did not need to voice it. Jenna knew what he was thinking. And he knew that she understood, for the hurt was in her eyes.
"Hey!" came Grant's voice. "I've got us a mascot! C'mere, Ears. Nice fella. 'Tis a woebegone pup, spaniel. Lonely and aching for someone to scratch his tummy. Up, Ears! You're my good luck! The mutt is sitting on the seat like he knew what it was all about. A sharp little rascal. I'll bring him home to you."
Jack drove on, one hand on the wheel and the right hand on the dog's head, stroking gently. Who, he wondered, would leave a pet in a contaminated area? Abandoned to something that no dog could possibly understand.