‘He woke up sometime yesterday, but it seemed to take some time for him to get fully awake. I detected slight vibrations from him all day yesterday. This morning the vibrations became stronger. I had put several different assortments of food in the cage, hoping he would choose one or more to eat, give me some clue to his diet. But he didn’t do any eating, although he moved around a little bit. Pretty slow, although I imagine it was fast for him. The vibrations kept getting stronger. That was when the real hell broke out in the zoo. He seems to be dozing off again now and things have quieted down.’
Gilmer picked up a box-like instrument to which was attached a set of headphones.
‘Borrowed these from Appleman down in the sound laboratory,’ he said. ‘The vibrations had me stumped at first. Couldn’t determine their nature. Then I hit on sound. These things are a toy of Appleman’s. Only half-developed yet. They let you ‘hear’ ultrasonics. Not actual hearing, of course, but an impression of tonal quality, a sort of psychological study of ultrasonics, translation of ultrasonics into what they would be like if you could hear them.’
He handed the head-set to Woods and carried the box to the glass cage. He set it on the cage and moved it slowly back and forth, trying to intercept the ultrasonics emanating from the little Martian animal.
Woods slipped on the phones, sat waiting breathlessly.
He had expected to hear a high, thin sound, but no sound came. Instead a dreadful sense of loneliness crept over him, a sense of bafflement, lack of understanding, frustration. Steadily the feeling mounted in his brain, a voiceless wail of terrible loneliness and misery – a heart-wrenching cry of home-sickness.
He knew he was listening to the wailing of the little Martian animal, was ‘hearing’ its cries, like the whimperings of a lost puppy on a storm-swept street.
His hands went up and swept the phones from his head.
He stared at Gilmer, half in horror.
‘It’s lonesome,’ he said. ‘Crying for Mars. Like a lost baby.’
Gilmer nodded.
‘It’s not trying to talk to anyone now,’ he said. ‘Just lying there, crying its heart out. Not dangerous now. Never intentionally dangerous, but dangerous just the same.’
‘But,’ cried Woods, ‘you were here all afternoon. It didn’t bother you. You didn’t go insane.’
Gilmer shook his head.
‘No,’ he said, ‘I didn’t go insane. Just the animals. And they would become immune after a while with this one certain animal. Because Fur-Ball is intelligent. His frantic attempts to communicate with some living things touched my brain time and time again… but it didn’t stay. It swept on. It ignored me.
‘You see, back in the ship it found that the human brain couldn’t communicate with it. It recognized it as an alien being. So it didn’t waste any more time with the human brain. But it tried the brains of monkeys and elephants and lions, hoping madly that it would find some intelligence to which it could talk, some intelligence that could explain what had happened, tell it where it was, reassure it that it wasn’t marooned from Mars forever.
‘I am convinced it has no visual sense, very little else except this ultrasonic voice to acquaint itself with its surroundings and its conditions. Maybe back on Mars it could talk to its own kind and to other things as well. It didn’t move around much. It probably didn’t have many enemies. It didn’t need so many senses.’
‘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.
‘Woods,’ he said, ‘you and I have been friends for a long time. We’ve had many a beer together. You aren’t going to publish this, are you, Jack?’
He spread his feet.
‘I’d kill you if you did,’ he roared.
‘No,’ said Jack, ‘just a simple little story. Fur-Ball is dead. Couldn’t take it, here on Earth.’
‘There’s another thing,’ said Gilmcr. ‘You know and I know that ultrasonics of the thirty million order can turn men into insane beasts. We know it can be controlled in atmosphere, probably over long distances. Think of what the war-makers of the world could do with that weapon! Probably they’ll find out in time – but not from us!’
‘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…’