"No!" he yelled. "And that's final. GET OUT OF HERE!"
But then the Voice started laughing. Crotchety, giggly laughter. Then it spoke again, with unholy cunning.
"Matter," it whispered mockingly, "you shall buy my product, to use your own lower-level method of communicating. For, matter, what are you going to do for green grass on this spaceship? For trees? For Sunday schools? For bones buried in soft loam to be dug up later? For big ice cream cones and long runs in the woods after rabbits? For the thrill of snow on your paws and football games and Boy Scout hikes and the sheer joy of howling at the Moon at night?"
"Huh?"
"Matter," said the Voice cunningly, "your mate is going to have pups!"
Bill darted an amazed glance at Molly. Molly's was looking back at him just as amazedly.
"I'm not, Bill," she said. "I know I'm not. He's crazy. He doesn't know what he's—"
Then she clapped a hand over her mouth, her eyes wide with sudden hysterical amusement. "Don't you get it, Bill," she choked. "He's mixed up. Is is going to have the pups!"
Bill got it. Suddenly everything clicked into place. The sheer insanity of it. The senility of it. And the utter beauty of it! He began to grin, the grin turned into a laugh, the laugh into something that was momentarily hysterical. Then he quieted.