'I wonder how much our little friend had to do with it,' he speculated.
'You're crazier than a space-bug,' Gilmer snapped. 'What m blue hell could he have had to do with it? He's just an animal and probably of a pretty low order of intelligence. The way things are on Mars he'd be kept too damn busy just keeping alive to build much brain. Of course, I haven't had much chance to study it yet. Dr. Winters, of Washington, and Dr. Lathrop, of London, will be here next week. We'll try to find out something then.'
Woods walked to the window in the laboratory and looked out.
The building stood on top of a hill, with a green lawn sweeping down to a park-like area with fenced off paddock, moat-protected cliff-cages and monkey-islands — the Metropolitan Zoo.
Gilmer took a fresh and fearsome grip on his cigar.
'It proves there's life on Mars,' he contradicted. 'It doesn't prove a damn thing else.'
'You should use a little imagination,' chided Woods.
'If I did,' snarled Gilmer, 'I'd be a newspaperman. I wouldn't be fit for any other job.'
Along toward noon, down in the zoo, Pop Anderson, head-keeper of the lionhouse, shook his head dolefully and scratched his chin.
'Them cats have been actin' mighty uneasy,' he declared. 'Like there was something on their minds. They don't hardly sleep at all. Just prowl around.'