"Molly," he said, "put Was down."
Molly dropped the dog. Was departed the room in a flash.
"The Intelligence can't hear us now," Bill explained.
Then he stood over Molly, gently clasping her shoulders in his big hands, and shaking her a little, with affection.
"Sweet Molly," he said wryly. "You really want the world back, don't you? But Molly, it's no good, it's no good the way it was. We can't have it that way again.
"But we can have a different order of things. And I'll stake my life that it'll be a better way.
"The Intelligence tipped us off, of course, when he said you were going to have the pups. But, actually, the Intelligence isn't talking to us!"
Molly nodded gravely. "I know, Bill. That's the way it seems, doesn't it? Our thoughts are going through the dogs' heads."
"Yeah." Bill was almost musing to himself. "He's talking to the dogs—and thinks the dogs are talking back to him. He's old, Molly. He's crotchety and self-centered and probably senile. I doubt if he can really see us—only sense us—"
From somewhere the Voice was coming in, querulous, demanding communication, but with fright dominant in its thought-tones. Molly and Bill paid no attention.