"Well, I have gone out there and moved it every night," George protested, trying to reason with her without success.
"Yes, and every morning he puts it back. George, so long as that trap is outside of our front door, I can never have a moment's peace, worrying about the children. I won't go on like this! You must go out and talk some sense into him about removing it at once."
"I don't know," George said weakly. "They might not be happy to find out about us."
"Well, our being here is their own fault, remember that," Clara snorted. "They deliverately exposed your great-great grandfather Michael to hard radiations. George," she continued fervidly, "all you have to do is to go out and ask him. I'm sure he'll agree, and then we'll have this menace removed from our lives. I simply can not go on like this another minute!"
That, George knew, was a misstatement. She could go on like this for hours. He stared at her unhappily.
"Yes, dear," he mumbled finally. "Well, maybe tomorrow."
"No, George," she said firmly. "Now! This morning. The very moment he comes in."
He looked at her silently, feeling harried and unsure of himself. After living here so long, they'd observed and learned human customs and speech—they'd even adopted human names.
"George," she pleaded, "just ask him. Reason with him. Point out to him that he's just wasting his time." She paused, added, "You're intelligent—you can think of the right things to say."
"Oh, all right," he said wearily. But once he had said it, he felt better. At least, he would get it over with, one way or another.