French nodded. "Try to hit the brain. It's no good for eating. Don't hit the chest. If the rib cage shatters, we'll have to pick bones out."
"Listen," Peterson said, licking his lips. "Has it done anything? What harm has it done? I'm asking you. And anyhow, it's still mine. You have no right to shoot it. It doesn't belong to you."
Franco raised his gun.
"I'm going out," Jones said, his face white and sick. "I don't want to see it."
"Me, too," French said. The men straggled out, murmuring. Peterson lingered at the door.
"It was talking to me about myths," he said. "It wouldn't hurt anyone."
He went outside.
Franco walked toward the wub. The wub looked up slowly. It swallowed.
"A very foolish thing," it said. "I am sorry that you want to do it. There was a parable that your Saviour related—"
It stopped, staring at the gun.