'Hurry up,' Woods said bitterly. 'Hurry up, will you. Don't let Fur-Ball suffer any longer. You heard him. Man got him into this — there's only one way man can get him out of it. He'd thank you for death if he only knew.'
Gilmer laid hands on the tank again.
Woods reached for a telephone. He dialed the Express number.
In his mind he could hear that puppyish whimper, that terrible, soundless cry of loneliness, that home-sick wail of misery. A poor huddled little animal snatched fifty million miles from home, among strangers, a hurt little animal crying for attention that no one could offer.
'Daily Express,' said the voice of Bill Carson, night editor. 'This is Jack,' the reporter said. 'Thought maybe you'd want something for the morning edition. Fur-Ball just died — yeah, Fur-Ball, the animal the Hello Mars IV brought in — Sure, the little rascal couldn't take it.'
Behind him he heard the hiss of gas as Gilmer opened the valve.
'Bill,' he said, 'I just thought of an angle. You might say the little cuss died of loneliness… yeah, that's the idea, grieving for Mars… Sure, it ought to give the boys a real sob story to write…'