'It's intelligent,' said Woods. 'Intelligent to a point where you can hardly think of it as an animal.'
Gilmer nodded.
'You're right,' he said. 'Maybe it is just as human as we are. Maybe it represents the degeneration of a great race that once ruled Mars…'
He jerked the cigar out of his mouth and flung it savagely on the floor.
'Hell,' he said, 'what's the use of speculation? Probably you and I will never know. Probably the human race will never know.'
He reached out and grasped the tank of carbon monoxide, started to wheel it toward the glass cage.
'Do you have to kill it, Doc?' Woods whispered. 'Do you really have to kill it?'
Gilmer wheeled on him savagely.
'Of course I have to kill it,' he roared. 'What if the story ever got out that Fur-Ball killed the boys in the ship and all those animals today? What if he drove others insane? There'd be no more trips to Mars for years to come. Public opinion would make that impossible. And when another one does go out they'll have instructions not to bring back any Fur-Balls — and they'll have to be prepared for the effects of ultrasonics.'
He turned back to the tank and then wheeled back again.